CHAPTER XVI.

“Nos gaillards pélerins

Par monts, par vaux, et par chemins,

À la fin arrivèrent.”—LA FONTAINE.

The Shrines of the Shias—Bedouin honesty—Legend of the Tower of

Babel—Bagdad—Our party breaks up.

MESHHED ALI (the shrine of Ali), or Nejef as it is more correctly called,

is an ideal Eastern City, standing as it does in an absolute desert and

bare of all surroundings but its tombs. It is nearly square, and the

circuit of its walls is broken by only one gate. These walls are of

kiln-burnt brick, and date from the time of the Caliphs, and are still in

excellent preservation. They are strengthened at intervals by round

towers, all very massive and stately. So high are they, that they

completely hide every building inside them, with the single exception of

the great Mosque of Ali, whose glittering dome of gold shows like a

rising sun above them.

Inside, the houses are closely packed; but there is more symmetry in

their arrangement than in most Asiatic towns, as the bazaar leads in a

straight line from the gate to the Mosque, which stands in the centre of

the town. The shops are good, or appeared so to our eyes unused to the

things of cities. I did not myself venture far inside, as the streets

were very crowded, and we did not wish to attract unnecessary notice just

then at the time of the pilgrimage; but Wilfrid describes the façade of

the Mosque as the richest he has seen, a mass of gold and mosaic work

like some highly chased reliquary. He would not go inside for fear of

offending our pilgrim friends, and left it to the rest of our party to

recount the splendours of the tomb.

This tomb of Ali is held by the Shias as at least as holy as the Caaba at

Mecca, and it is an article of pious belief with them that any Moslem

buried within sight of the dome is certain of salvation. The consequence

is that pilgrims from all parts of the Shia world, and especially from

Persia, come to Nejef to die, and that immense numbers of corpses are

sent there for interment. Burial fees in fact constitute the chief

revenue of the place.

This city and Kerbela, where there is the sister shrine of Huseyn, are

inhabited by a number of Mahometan subjects of Her Majesty, from India,

who have settled in them from religious motives, but remain under the

protection of the British Resident at Bagdad. They live on good terms

with the Arabs, but do not mix much or intermarry with them, and retain

their own language. As is natural in cities of pilgrimage, all classes

are ostentatiously religious, and we were amused at listening to the

devout exclamations of the blacksmith who came to shoe our horses. “Ya

Ali, ya Huseyn, ya Ali, ya Mohammed,” at every stroke of the hammer.

They are all, moreover, bitterly hostile to Turkish rule, having the

double motive of national and religious antipathy to support them. Both

Meshhed Ali and Kerbela are kept strongly garrisoned, but in spite of

everything have constantly revolted within the last forty years. When we

were at Meshhed, the Turkish Caimakam had four companies of infantry

under his orders; and the garrison of Kerbela, the head quarters of the

district, was far larger.

Kerbela, which lies fifty miles north of Meshhed Ali, is physically quite

unlike its rival. It is unfortified, and instead of standing in the

desert, is surrounded by palm gardens, like the towns of Nejd. It is a

richer and more populous city than Meshhed, but to a traveller it is less

interesting as having nothing distinctive in its appearance. The Hiudieh

canal, which supplies it with water from the Euphrates, makes it the

centre of the most considerable agricultural district of the Bagdad

pashalik. Meshhed, on the other hand, has little besides its shrine to

depend on.

We were now very nearly at the end of our resources, both of money, and

strength, and patience; and, without more delay than was absolutely

necessary to refit our caravan, we set out for Bagdad. On the evening

preceding our departure, a curious incident occurred.

A young Bedouin came to our tent and introduced himself as a Shammar from

the Jezireh, one of Faris’s men whom we had met the year before on the

Khabur. He hailed the “Beg” at once as brother to his master, and

mentioned the incident of the loan of ten pounds made by us to Faris.

This sum he offered on his own responsibility to repay us now, and,

seeing that we were rather out at elbows, he pulled out the money from

his sleeve, and almost forced it upon us. He had been sent by Faris to

buy a mare from the Montefyk, and had the purchase money with him,—he

knew Faris would wish him to repay the debt. Though we would not take

the money, the honesty and good feeling shown greatly pleased us, and we

were glad of an opportunity to send messages to Faris, Tellál, and Rashid

ibn Ali, who it appeared was still with the northern Shammar.

This same night, too, Muttlak left us. It was a grief to us to say

good-bye, and he, more visibly touched even than we were, shed tears. He

had found, he said, men of the Amarrat at Meshhed, who had promised to

arrange his business with the Sebaa for him, and so he would go home. He

had come quite two hundred miles with us, and we could not ask him to do

more. He had, however, something behind the reasons which he gave us for

his going; Mohammed, his cousin, had grown jealous of his position with

us, and, we have reason to suspect, made things uncomfortable for the old

Sheykh when we were not present, in a way we could not prevent. Besides

this, there was a story of a blood-feud between the Ketherin and the

Maadan, a tribe which lives between Nejef and Kerbela; this may have

helped to deter Muttlak from going on with us, for he is essentially a

man of peace, but there could have been no danger for him in our company.

Be it as it may, he came that night to dine with us for the last time,

and could eat nothing, and when we asked him why, he said it was from

sorrow, and that he must say good-bye. It was evident that he spoke the

truth, and I am sure that no word of the blessings which he heaped upon

our heads, and of his promises to keep our memory green in his heart, was

more than what he felt. Muttlak is not a man of words. Wilfrid kissed

the old Sheykh, and his servant kissed our hands, and they got on their

old black delúl, and rode quietly away the way they came, and we saw them

no more.

Three days of easy travelling brought us to Kerbela, for we did not care

to push on fast, and four days more to Bagdad. One incident only of our

route need be mentioned. As we were passing the neighbourhood of Birs

Nemrud, the reputed tower of Babel, we stopped for the night at some

tents belonging to the Messaoud, a half felláhin tribe of the left bank

of the Euphrates, where they were growing barley on some irrigated land.

The Sheykh, Hajji et-Teyma was away, but his son Fuaz entertained us, and

after dinner related the history of Nimrod, the founder of the tower.

Nimrod, he said, was an impious man, and thought that the sun was God.

And in order to make war on him he built this tower, but finding that he

could not reach him thus, he had a platform constructed with a pole in

the middle, and to each corner of the platform he chained an eagle, and

on the pole he hung a sheep, and the eagles wishing to reach the sheep,

flew up with the platform and Nimrod who was standing on it. And when

Nimrod thought himself near enough, he shot an arrow at the sun. And God

to punish him destroyed the tower. The Yezidis worship Nimrod and

Shaytan there to this day.

Beyond Kerbela our road lay through cultivated land till we reached the

Euphrates, which we crossed by the bridge of boats at Musseyib. Then we

found ourselves among Babylonian mounds, canals, and abandoned fields,

the unvarying features of Irak. These brought us at last to Bagdad,

where by a strange fatality we arrived once more in floods of rain, and

where, again, we were welcomed in the hospitable four walls of the

Residency. On the 6th of March we slept once more in beds, having been

without that luxury for almost three months.

Here, therefore, ends our pilgrimage to Nejd, which, in spite of some

difficulties and some hardships, was accomplished successfully without

any really disagreeable incident, and here, if we had been wise, our

winter’s adventures would have ended too. We had been lucky beyond our

expectations in seeing and doing all we had proposed as the objects of

our journey, and hardly a day of the eighty-four we had spent in Arabia

had been uninteresting or unromantic. What followed was neither

profitable nor agreeable, and might well have been left undone.

At Bagdad our party necessarily broke up. Among the letters awaiting us

at the Consulate, was one for Mohammed ibn Arûk which obliged his instant

return to Tudmur. Great events had occurred there in his absence, and

for a moment we felt a pang of regret at having kept him so long away

from his duties and his interests at home. The politics of Tudmur are a

little complicated. Mohammed’s father, Abdallah, is not the legitimate

Sheykh of the town, the true head of the Ibn Arûk family there being his

cousin Faris. Abdallah, however, has for some years past enjoyed

Government support, and is the Turkish nominee. The town has

consequently been divided into two factions, {107} headed respectively by

Faris and Mohammed, the latter representing his father, who is too old

for such quarrels, and as long as the Turks were supreme at Tudmur,

Mohammed’s party had it all their own way. Not, however, that either

faction wished any good to the Sultan, for during the Russian war

Mohammed was one of the foremost in refusing the contingent demanded of

the Tudmuri for the Turkish army, but family quarrels are fierce among

the Arabs, and they take advantage of all the help they can get alike

from friend or enemy. So Mohammed supported Turkish policy in his native

town, and was in turn supported by the Turks. But after the surrender of

Plevna, and the destruction of the Sultan’s army in the Balkans, Tudmur

was abandoned to its own devices, and Faris once more asserted his right

to the sheykhat, though parties were so evenly balanced that nothing

serious for some time occurred, and only on one occasion Faris and

Mohammed exchanged shots, without serious result. It was in defiance of

remonstrances on the part of his father and all his friends that Mohammed

had come with us, and the moment he was gone war had broken out. A

messenger, it appears, had arrived to recall him not a week after he

started with us from Damascus, and now another letter announced that

blood had been shed. This was sufficient reason for our journey together

coming to an end, and Mohammed, though piously ready to accept

accomplished facts with an “Allah kerim,” was evidently in a hurry to be

off. Even if we had wished it, we could not ask him to go further with

us now. But we did not wish it. The episode of his foolish behaviour at

Haïl, forgive it as we would, had left a certain _gêne_ between us, which

he was conscious of as well as ourselves, and, though he had done much

since then to atone for it, we all felt that it was best to part. Still

there was something mournful in his leaving us on so forlorn an errand,

and he, as Arabs do, shed tears, owning that he had behaved in that

instance ungratefully to us, and protesting his devotion. We on our side

made him as comfortable as we could with letters of recommendation to

Valys and Consuls, whose protection he might have need of, and with what

arms and ammunition we could spare. And so he and Abdallah, and Awwad

the robber, went their way on four of our delúls, which we gave them for

the journey, and we saw them no more.

We had hoped to induce Hanna to go on with us, for he in all our

difficulties had never failed us, and with his cousin the Tawíl had

helped us loyally when others had been cross or unwilling—but Hanna was

home-sick, and the Tawíl would not desert him. So one day they joined a

caravan of muleteers on the point of starting for Mosul, and left us with

many tears and blessings; and the little army with which we had crossed

the desert was finally dispersed. {109}

[Picture: Meshhed Ali]

PART II.

OUR PERSIAN CAMPAIGN.

CHAPTER I.

“Duo illum sequor? In Persas.”—PLAUTUS.

“Halas! diséit-elle, faut-il que je périsse sous les pattes d’une

araignée, moi qui viens de me tirer des griffes d’un lion?”—FABLES

D’ÉSOPE.

New plans and new preparations—We leave Bagdad for Persia—Wild boar

hunting in the Wudian—A terrible accident—We travel with a holy man—Camps

of the Beni Laam—An alarm.

AMONGST the letters awaiting our arrival at Bagdad, we had found an

invitation from Lord and Lady Lytton to spend the summer, or part of it,

with them at Simla. It seemed that this would be an opportunity, which

might never again occur, of going on to India by land, a plan which might

be made to include a visit to the Bactiari mountains, where our

acquaintance of the pilgrimage, Ali Koli Khan, had his home. Ali had

often talked to us of his father, and of a wonderful stud of thoroughbred

Arabians possessed by his family, and the prospect of seeing these, and a

tribe reputed to be the most powerful in Persia, was an attraction that

could not be denied. He had indeed proposed to travel there with us, and

introduce us himself to his people, and if circumstances had been

propitious, no doubt we might have accomplished this part of our journey

comfortably enough. Unfortunately, when we took leave of the Haj at

Meshhed Ali, our friend was not there for us to concert arrangements with

him, nor even to wish him good-bye. He had been lost in the sandstorm,

already mentioned as having occurred on the last day but one of the

pilgrimage; and though before going on to Kerbela we had received news of

his safety, we had no opportunity of meeting him. The consequence was

that he neither came with us, nor gave us so much as a letter to his

father; and in the end we started alone, a mistake we had ample reason to

repent. The plan of travelling from Bagdad to India by land appeared to

me of doubtful wisdom under the circumstances; but Wilfrid’s thirst for

exploration was not yet slaked. He argued that spring was just

beginning, and a spring journey through Persia must of necessity be the

most delightful thing in the world, and that we could at any moment get

down to some port of the Persian Gulf, if the weather became too hot for

us. Our means of transport were ready. We should find some difficulty

in disposing of our camels at Bagdad, and had better make use of them;

and though we were now without servants, servants might easily be found.

Thus, in an evil day, and without due consideration of the difficulties

and dangers which were before us, we determined to go on. A final

circumstance decided the matter beyond recall. Captain Cameron, the

African traveller, arrived at Bagdad, with the object of surveying a line

for an Indo-Mediterranean railway from Tripoli to Bushire, and thence to

the Indus, having already made the first stages of his survey; and

Wilfrid now proposed to assist him in the more serious part of his

undertaking. It was agreed between them that they should take different

lines from Bagdad, and meet again either at Bushire or Bender Abbas, thus

comparing notes as to the most practicable railway line from the Tigris

to the Persian Gulf. Captain Cameron was to follow the left bank of the

river as far as Amara, and then to strike across the marshy plains to

Ahwas and Bender Dilam, while we should keep further east, skirting the

Hamrin and Bactiari hills. So presented, the project sounded useful, if

not agreeable, and acquired a definite object, which, if it ran us into

unnecessary dangers, served also to carry us through them afterwards.

The expedition was accordingly a settled thing.

Our preparations were made, unfortunately, with as little reflection as

the decision. On arriving at Bagdad, we had, as has been mentioned, said

goodbye to Mohammed and the camel-men, and had, moreover, allowed Hanna

and Ibrahim, who were homesick, or tired of travelling, to depart. The

difficulty now was how to replace them. It is always a dangerous

experiment to begin a serious journey with untried followers, and it was

our first misfortune that we were obliged to do this. Colonel Nixon, as

he had done last year, kindly lent us a cavass; but, alas! Ali, the

intelligent fat man who had been of such assistance to us in our

Mesopotamian tour, was not fit to leave Bagdad. He was lying ill of a

fever, and could not be disturbed. The cavass given us was consequently

a stranger, and might be good or bad, useful or useless, for anything we

knew. It was necessary, too, that somebody should know Persian, and we

engaged a Persian cook, Ramazan by name, highly recommended, but equally

untried. A young Bagdadi next volunteered as groom, and, lastly, the

Sheykh of the Agheyls, an old friend, sent two of his men as

camel-drivers.

None, however, of these attendants, the two last excepted, had seen each

other before, nor knew anything of our way of travelling or our way of

life. We did not even start together, as it would have been wise to do.

The country round Bagdad is bare of pasture for many miles, and we

thought to better matters for our camels by sending them on some marches

down the river, intending to join them later with our baggage by boat, a

most unfortunate arrangement, for the men being stupid timorous fellows,

seem, when left to themselves, to have lost their heads, and instead of

obeying their orders, which were to travel slowly, pasturing the animals

as they went, drove them without halting to the village we had named as a

meeting-place, and kept them there, half-starved in dirty stables, till

we came, a piece of negligence which cost us dear. When we joined them,

one, the black delúl was already missing, dead they informed us; and a

second, Shayl, a camel which, when we left Damascus, had been a model of

strength and good looks, was so reduced as to be unfit for further

travelling, while the remaining six were but a shadow of their former

selves. Only Hatheran, the giant leader, who had saved our fortunes in

the Nefûd, was still fit for a full load; and to him once more we had

mainly to trust during all that was to come.

It is difficult for those who have never owned camels to imagine how much

attached one becomes to these animals on a long journey, and what a

variety of character they possess. Each one of ours had its name, which

it knew well, and its special quality of courage, or caution, or

docility. Wilfrid’s white delúl, “Helweh” (sweetmeat), was gentle and

obedient; the Meccan, “Hamra,” thoughtless and vain; “Ghazal,”

affectionate, but rude and inclined to buck (poor thing, she was far from

bucking now); “Hatheran,” especially, was a camel of character. He was

evidently proud of his strength and his superior understanding, and

possessed a singular independence of opinion which compelled respect. It

was his pride to march ahead of the rest, who accepted him as guide, and

followed his lead on all doubtful occasions. He cared little for the

beaten track, choosing his ground as seemed best to him and always for

good reasons. He was never impatient or put out, and in difficulties

never lost his head. He could carry twice the load of the others, and

could walk faster, and go longer without water. At the same time, he

considered himself entitled to extra rations when we made up the evening

meal, and would leave us no peace till he was satisfied. I mention these

things now, for feeding and driving and tending these camels was to be

our chief occupation during the rest of our journey, and on them depended

the safety of our march, and, in great measure, of our lives. I say it

with no little vanity, that, starting under the unfavourable

circumstances we did, we nevertheless marched our camels without accident

five hundred miles over mountain and plain, through swamps and streams

never before traversed by camels, and across nine large rivers, one of

them bigger than the Rhine; and that we brought them in to their

journey’s end fat and well. I must not, however, forestall matters.

On the 20th of March, having thus sent on our camels with the Agheyls, we

embarked on board an English river steamer, with our servants, our

horses, our greyhounds, and Rasham, the falcon who had followed our march

from Haïl, and were taken down about eighty miles to a point of the river

below Kut, where several streams run into the Tigris from the east, thus

giving the district the name of Wudian (streams).

It was a cheerless start, for all down the river we steamed through

driving rain, till at last the steamer was brought to, amid the downpour,

in front of a bare round bank, and we were invited to descend. There was

nothing but mud and a few bushes to be seen for miles, and it seemed

impossible we should step out of the luxury of a civilised English cabin

into what seemed a mere slough, and that without means of transport

further than the bank, for of camels and men there was nothing at all to

be seen. But the die was cast; this was the place we had agreed on, and,

without more ado, we landed, first our horses and then our baggage, and

then ourselves. While this was in operation, some Arabs had appeared on

the scene, and to one of them, an old man in a green turban, Captain

Clements, before he said good-bye, confided us. Seyd Abbas, he told us,

was an old acquaintance, and an honest man; and though the rest, it was

easy to see, were of the lowest order of felláhin Arabs, we were fain to

be content with this assurance and make what friends we could, at least

with the old man. Sitting disconsolately on our camel bags in the rain,

we then made our last farewell to all on board, and having watched the

steamer till it steamed out of sight, set ourselves in earnest to the

work that was before us. {119} I resume my journal:

“The tent was soon rigged up on a piece of sounder ground than the rest,

and the horses fettered and turned out to graze. My new mare, Canora, so

called after the Canora or Nebbuk tree which grows in the Residency yard,

is certainly a great beauty, and attracts much, too much, attention, from

the rather thievish-looking people of this place. Wilfrid has been to

the encampment, which is about half a mile off, with Seyd Abbas, and has

made friends with their chief people, but he has no agreeable impression

of those he has seen. They appear to be, he says, a mixed collection of

felláhin from all the Iraki tribes, and can lay no claim at all to good

birth. Their Sheykh alone, for Seyd Abbas is not their Sheykh, claims

gentility as coming from the Beni Laam, but we do not like his looks.

The Beni Laam, Seyd Abbas tells us, are three days’ journey from here,

and there is war going on amongst them just now, owing to a quarrel

between their Sheykh, Mizban, and one of his brothers. He gives rather a

terrible picture of them, and has been trying to dissuade us from going

further; but we think that with the letters we have for Mizban, there can

be no difficulty. The Beni Laam are, at any rate, a true Bedouin tribe,

not felláhin, like the people here. Old Hajji Mohammed (the cavass)

stayed with me while Wilfrid was away. He was once in the army, and

insisted on standing sentry in the rain in spite of all I could do to

make him sit down under the flap of the tent. He has evidently small

confidence in the people here.

Some fowls have been brought from the camp, and there are sticks enough

to make a fire. Now we shall see what our Persian cook can do. If the

camels were here, our being detained would not so much matter. We heard

of them at Kut as we passed by in the steamer, but that is twenty-five

miles off; and with this rain it is impossible to say when they may

arrive.

_March_ 22.—The weather has cleared, and we can see the Hamrin hills to

the east, not so very far off. The country is less hideous than it

seemed yesterday in the rain. This place is a sort of peninsula or

island, formed by two rivers, which come from the Hamrin hills and fall

into the Tigris. These seemed to be joined higher up by a canal, so that

the space inside is cut off from the desert. It is partly a swamp,

partly a thicket of guttub bushes, with here and there patches of

cultivation made by felláhin. These call themselves Saadeh, but Seyd

Abbas says they come from all parts. He himself is brother to the Sheykh

of Ali Ghurbi, a village on the other side of the Tigris. There are no

villages at all on this side after Kut, and this island of Wudian is the

only inhabited spot. The felláhin are very poor, and complain bitterly

of the government, which ruins them. They are completely under the thumb

of the Turks, now that the government has steamers on the river, and the

tax-gatherers take (if we may believe them), about two-thirds of their

crops. They have also to pay ten beshliks (francs) for each tent, half a

beshlik for each sheep, two beshliks for each buffalo they keep, and a

capitation tax of two and a half beshliks besides. Moreover, they are

visited now and then by zaptiehs, who take their horses from them if they

do not manage to hide them away, on the pretence that they cannot afford

to keep them, while Mizban makes them pay tribute for protection too, or

rather for the right of being left alone. The government does absolutely

nothing in return for what it takes. They are indeed in a wretched

plight, and one wonders why they take all this trouble of cultivation for

so little, but perhaps it is a choice between that and starvation.

The great feature of Wudian is its wild-boars. These literally swarm in

the fields, trotting about in open day-light, and doing exactly as they

like. The people are afraid of them, and keep out of their way, and no

wonder, for they are gigantic beasts. A man who was at our tents to-day,

shewed us a terrible wound he had received from one which charged him

quite without provocation. The people have only their short spears to

protect themselves with. The beasts come almost inside the camp, and

Wilfrid found one this afternoon fast asleep under a bush, within ten

yards of the path which leads to the tents. The people passing along,

went a long way round so as not to disturb it, for it lay quite exposed

to view. Seyd Abbas begged him to destroy some of them, and Wilfrid has

ridden out on Ariel, and taken the Winchester rifle to see what he can

do. I have felt feverish, and have stayed at home drying the things

which had got wet.

The people here are all Shias, and very fanatical, and Seyd Abbas as a

descendant of the Prophet enjoys a high position among them. Among the

Ánazeh and Shammar, the Bedouins think nothing of saints and seyyids, but

here they have everybody at their feet. Bashaga, the Sheykh, though a

Beni Laam and, as such, a “gentleman,” is not nearly so important as the

old man in the green turban. The latter has been talking to me this

morning and promises to take us to Mizban’s camp, if we insist on going,

though he advises strongly not. He says that with him we shall be safe,

as they also have a great respect for Seyyids, and besides he has married

into Mizban’s family. Seyyid or not, he eats and drinks with us freely;

so we feel a certain amount of confidence in him.

Wilfrid has returned triumphant. He was not more than two hours and a

half away, and he has killed five boars and a sow. Ariel behaved

wonderfully, following the pigs without any need of urging, and without

flinching when they charged. It seems to have been splendid sport.

Amongst the victims was the old boar that had been seen asleep, and which

charged most viciously. It is lucky the dogs were not taken, as they

would certainly have got hurt. The Arabs are highly delighted at the

result, and we hope it may put us on better terms with them. They have

dragged one of the corpses, a disgusting object, to the bank of the

river, intending, they say, to send it to the British Resident at Bagdad

by the next steamer. No news, alas, of the camels.

_March_ 23.—A fearful storm in the night, and the whole place under

water. Wilfrid went out early to try and get news of the camels, riding

Job, the grey horse we bought of Col. Nixon. He did not get far, for the

streams are so swollen that they are impassable, at least for one who

does not know the fords; and Job is a rather timid horse to get into

difficulties with. He is young, and fairly bolted when a pig jumped up

from out of a bush near him. We are both going out now for some more

boar-hunting. I should enjoy it better if I was sure we should ever get

away from this swampy place.

* * * * *

We have had a great misfortune. Ariel is badly wounded. We went out

to-day, a large party, people on foot with spears and hoes, and one or

two on sorry little mares. It was a beautiful day after the rain, birds

singing in all the bushes, francolins calling, hoopoes flying about, and

woodcocks starting from guttub thickets. The island was half under

water, and droves of pigs, boars, sows and little ones, turned out of the

bushes, where they generally lie in the day-time, were grunting and

trotting and splashing about everywhere. We singled out a great red

boar, and all gave chase, but the ground was heavier than yesterday, and

we had a longish gallop to come up to him. It was difficult, too, to

keep to the boar we had chosen, where there were so many. At last he

charged, and was hit, but not enough to stop though it turned him, and

then we had another gallop, and another shot rolled him over. The people

on foot, who were following them, rushed in, but just as they got near

him up he jumped, and bolted towards some deep water, where there was a

high guttub bush. I was in front, and Wilfrid shouted to me to turn him,

which I would have done if I could, but instead, he turned me, coming at

me with a savage grunt and a toss of his head which I knew was dangerous.

Then he plunged into the deep water, but instead of going on, suddenly

changed his mind, and came back to where the bush was on the land, and

before we were aware, had charged right in among us. Wilfrid turned his

mare, but, alas, not fast enough, firing as he turned. To my horror, I

saw the hideous beast catch Ariel and give her a toss, such as I have

seen in the bull-ring given by a bull. He seemed to lift horse and rider

clean off the ground. Ariel staggered away, while the boar lay down, and

was soon after dispatched by the Arabs.

We meanwhile had torn off our kefiyehs and scarfs, and were trying to

staunch a ghastly wound in the poor mare’s leg. The leg was ripped up

inside from the hock to the stifle, and an artery had been cut. For a

long while it was all in vain. We could not stop the flow, and no words

can describe our misery as we watched the blood pouring fast upon the

ground. We were in despair, for besides the fact of her being thus

precious in race, we are much attached to the mare for her own sake, as

who would not be, for Ariel is the noblest and best and gentlest creature

that ever was. She has a pathetic look in her eyes, and is absolutely

patient under her suffering. We have now some hope of her recovery, but

Wilfrid fears she must be abandoned, for the sinew is cut bare, and she

cannot put her foot to the ground.

While we were engaged in tending her, suddenly the camels appeared. It

would have given us immense pleasure a few hours ago. Now all seemed

indifferent. Their presence, however, enabled us to bring our camp here,

where the mare is.

_March_ 24.—This certainly is an ill-starred journey. The stupid Agheyls

have so neglected our camels that Abdeh is dead, and Shayl unable to go

further. Nor are the rest in much better case. We had some discussion

this morning about giving up our present plan, and taking the next

steamer which passes by for Bussora where we could make a fresh start.

This would have been the best chance of saving the mare. But we decided

to push on, and accordingly we left Wudian this morning, fording the

canal, which is about four feet deep, fortunately without accident, and

marching slowly in a south-east direction across a perfectly level plain.

Ours is a melancholy caravan, for poor Ariel walks with great difficulty,

her leg being terribly swollen; but she has such courage that we hope she

may yet pull through. It was a choice of evils, bringing or leaving her;

for leaving her would mean that we should never see her again. Bashaga

could not be trusted with her, nor any of the Arabs of Wudian except Seyd

Abbas, and he has come with us. Seyd Abbas is mounted on a sorry little

white kadish, and his son Hassan, who has come too, marches on foot.

Wilfrid is mounted now on Job, and Hajji Mohammed on the hamra. Thus we

have travelled about ten miles. The plain is here for the most part

absolutely bare alluvial soil, like that of Irak, but mixed with

saltpetre, and so producing nothing. Here and there, however, there is a

swamp, with a little show of verdure, and we have encamped in the middle

of a patch of thistles, the first bit of pasture we have come to. We

have met no one, but there are some tents now at a distance, with camels

feeding, supposed to belong to the Beni Laam. Hajji Mohammed has been to

the tents, but he does not seem to know how to manage among the Bedouins,

and has come back empty-handed, declaring that the owners were rude to

him. We ought, I suppose, to have gone ourselves, but we are in such

distress about the mare that we do not like to leave her. We have been

dressing her wounds with Holloway’s ointment, as she lies on her side at

our tent door. The thistles are of the spotted sort, and all the

animals, including Ariel, seem to enjoy them.

_March_ 25.—We hoped that Ariel was better, she had eaten well

over-night, and though very stiff this morning, was able to start with

us; but after travelling a couple of miles, she staggered and fell down,

and though she got up again, she again fell. The third time she refused

to move, the pain being too great, and there she lay on her side as if

dead. It was useless to try to bring her further, and as we happened to

be passing within half a mile of the tents we had seen yesterday, it was

agreed that Hassan, Seyd Abbas’ son, should stop with her and get her

gradually to them, and so back to Wudian. We have promised him a

handsome reward if he succeeds in recovering her and sending her back to

Bagdad, and he has protested he will do everything he can. All the same,

I do not doubt that we have bid good-bye to Ariel for ever. She lifted

up her beautiful head as we took leave of her, and seemed to understand

what was happening, for Arab horses understand things as people do.

Wilfrid brought her a bucket of water, which she drank, and then she laid

her head upon the ground again, and we went away. {128}

Travelling without her to-day has seemed unnatural. It is impossible to

enjoy looking at the sunshine or the Hamrin hills, though these have been

very beautiful. We are again encamped in the open plain not ten miles

from these hills, and three or four perhaps from the river, which we have

been marching almost parallel with.

A new complication has arisen in the behaviour of Ramazan, the cook, who

has proved so insubordinate that he is to be sent about his business.

Seyd Abbas is to go to-morrow to Ali Ghurbi on the river, to make

purchases of rice and dates for us, and he will take Ramazan with him, as

also the groom, who declares he has got fever, caught in the Wudian

swamps, and will go no further. Thus our party is melting away at the

outset; but we are in the meanwhile to go on, with a young man Seyd Abbas

brought with him from last night’s tents, to a large camp of the Beni

Laam, which is said to be just under the hills, and wait there till the

Seyyid joins us.

_March_ 26.—Four hours’ march has brought us to the hills. As we got

near them, we found the usual signs of a Bedouin encampment, distant

flocks of sheep and then shepherds, all moving with that exaggerated,

mysterious appearance of speed the mirage gives. We galloped on to

reconnoitre from a tall tell in front of us, and soon made out the camp.

There was a stream of water just below, and the tell and the plain near

it were covered with something like turf, while the hill sides were

visibly green with grass. A shepherd told us that the camp was Musa’s,

the sheykh we were in search of; and, waiting till the camels came up

with us, we went on there.

Musa ibn Sollal was absent, and we were directed to his brother Akul’s

tent. We found him fast asleep in a corner of the tent, but he woke up

when we entered, and received us politely. He told us that the Sheykh

had gone to Amara, at a summons from the mutesserif of that town, to meet

his brother Mizban, and have their quarrel made up. It seems that Musa,

Akul and Homeydi, all sons of one mother, are making war against their

half-brother, Mizban, who is head of the Ibn Sollal family, as well as

principal Sheykh of all the Beni Laam; and the quarrel is now a serious

affair, for Mizban has killed one of Musa’s sons. There can be little

chance of its being patched up by Turkish intervention, for the present

mutesserif is weak “like a lady,” they say, and not at all the man to

deal with a blood-feud.

Akul is an elderly man, with a grey beard, and devoted to children. He

has been doing his best to entertain us, as well as to amuse a little

group of small children who came clustering around him when he awoke.

His tent is a poor one, small and hot like a stewpan; and we escaped from

it the moment we could with propriety go to our own, pitched only a few

yards off—too few, alas! for comfort, for the people here, though

well-behaved, cannot resist their curiosity to “farraj.”

These Beni Laam must be counted as true Bedouins, as none of them are

felláhin, or would lift a finger to till the ground, for which purpose

they employ such low tribes as our friends the Saadeh and the Abiad. But

they are quite different from any other true Bedouins I have visited, not

only in manners but in looks; and there seems to be among them a great

mixture of races. Seyd Abbas has told us that they intermarry with

Persian and Kurdish tribes, and that they also receive and adopt into

their own tribe vagabonds from no one knows where; and this account is

fully borne out by their appearance. Mixed descent may be read in their

faces. Neither do they, as far as I can make out, lay much claim to good

breeding, except in the ruling family, Ibn Sollal, which is proud of its

ancestry in the male line. Akul and his brother Homeydi, who visited us

in the evening, talked a great deal about their Nejdean descent.

According to their own account they (the Ibn Sollal) came from Nejd

twelve generations ago and I do not doubt the correctness of the

tradition; but their Arabian blood has since become so much diluted with

foreign additions, that in Nejd itself they would not be accepted as

nobly born. They do not deny their marriages with the daughters of the

neighbouring lands, but seem to think it a matter of no consequence.

They will even marry with townspeople and Bagdadis; and we heard on board

the steamer of a relative of Mizban’s married to a certain Jazin Sabunji,

a tradesman in Bagdad. His brother, Ahmet Sabunji, had, on the strength

of the connection, given us a letter to add to our packet of

introductions to Mizban.

The horses here seem to be of small account. Fifteen or twenty mare’s,

wearing the usual iron shackles, are grazing about a mile off, some with

foals by their sides, all standing in water above their fetlocks. We

walked round to examine them, and saw one good-looking white mare that

may be thoroughbred, and also a bay somewhat better than the rest, but

they are inferior animals. A foal was born last night, and was being

removed with its mother, a wretched little creature, to the dry ground at

the camp. There were no camels to be seen. They and the sheep are at

pasture at a considerable distance.

A couple of Bagdad sheep-dealers have come by with a large flock just

purchased from Mizban’s people. Their description is glowing of the

wealth and grandeur, and excellent reception to be met with at the great

Sheykh’s tents. They are travelling quietly, and apparently without

precaution or fear of being attacked by the ghazús, so much talked about.

But I suppose they know what they are doing.

Several women came to see me, accompanied by some children, two or three

of whom were really beautiful, one little boy especially. Their visit

soon attracted a crowd, for everybody who passed stopped to join the

circle in front of our tent. They were good-humoured and rather

encroaching and forward, but kept in check by a middle-aged man with a

big stick, who undertook the office of master of the ceremonies. His

method was rough and ready; every now and then to effect a complete

dispersion of the party by rushing into the midst of them and dealing out

blows on every side without distinction of age or sex. The visitors then

ran away in all directions laughing, and almost immediately returned more

gay and merry than before. One young lady, Basha by name, proposed to

accompany us on our journey, and my answer, “Marhaba, fetch your mare and

come,” brought down on her endless chaff.

A few small presents have made Musa very amiable, and he has sent us a

guard for our tents. There is, it would seem, some apprehension of

attack on the part of the hostile section of the tribe who are not far

off, and a ghazú from Mizban is much talked of. So the conference of the

two brothers at Amara does not prevent their followers from carrying on

the war.

_March_ 27.—Nothing worse happened during the night than a thunderstorm.

Wilfrid started early on Job to try and find old Seyd Abbas, of whom

nothing was heard yesterday. He went alone, and cantered for about ten

miles in the direction of the river, but finding a large marsh between

him and it, and, moreover, that Ali Ghurbi was beyond the river, he

returned. He met, he tells me, a number of Arabs whom he believes to

have been Mizban’s people. They made some show of trying to circumvent

him, but were too ill-mounted to be dangerous. At midday the Seyyid

arrived with two donkey loads of provisions from the village. We had all

but given him up for lost, and in our dearth of friends, we now begin to

feel something like affection for him, seeing him return.

We have made so little progress this week that we could not consent to

stay another night with Musa, and have come on, in spite of tempestuous

skies and alarming rumours of a ghazú, which is said to be on the march

from Mizban’s. We have, however, hitherto, escaped all these dangers.

The thunderstorms, though rattling like artillery, right, left, in front,

and behind us, spared us overhead; and we have seen no living soul all

the afternoon. It is a wild, strange piece of country, but covered in

places with excellent pasture, so that we have the satisfaction of seeing

our dear camels growing fat beneath our eyes. We have stopped for the

night at the edge of an enormous red morass, the haunt of innumerable

birds. There are two little tells close by, and a pool of rain water

good to drink. We have now left the neighbourhood of the Tigris for

good, so that these swamps have nothing to do with it. They seem to be

caused by small streams running from the Hamrin Hills, and caught in this

great flat plain. The railway, in Wilfrid’s opinion, if it is ever made,

ought to run along the foot of the hills where the ground is sounder. It

is difficult, however, to imagine the use of a railway in such an

uninhabited country.

The tells where we are, are called Doheyleh; but there is nothing in the

shape of a village anywhere this side the Tigris, nor are there any

Bedouins except these Beni Laam.

_March_ 28.—A good morning’s march has brought us safely to Mizban’s. It

seems that after all we ran some danger last night, for a ghazú was

really out between the two Beni Laam camps, and we find Mizban’s people

in commotion. A few miles from the camp we were met by a body of

horsemen advancing in open order, who, as soon as they saw us, galloped

at full speed towards us, and seemed as if intending to attack. But Seyd

Abbas rode forward to meet them on his old grey kadish and waved his

cloak and shouted to them to stop. “It is I,” he called, “Seyd Abbas.”

Whereupon the horsemen pulled up, and dismounting, kissed the old man’s

hand. They were a ghazú, they told us, from Lazim, Mizban’s eldest son,

and they were following on the track of some robbers from Musa’s, who had

carried off seventeen camels in the night. They cross-questioned Seyd

Abbas as to Musa’s whereabouts, but the old man would not let out the

secret. It would have been a breach of the hospitality he had just

received from Musa. They did not stop long, however, to talk, but went

on their way, leaving a couple of the party only to show us to Mizban’s

tent.

The tents of the Beni Laam are peculiar. Instead of being, like every

other Arab tent we have seen, set on a number of poles each of different

height, these are shaped like regular pent-houses, with gable roof and

walls. Such, at least, is Mizban’s _mudíf_, a construction corresponding

with the _kahwah_ of a town house, and used only for reception. The

living tents are smaller, and the word _beyt_ house here applies only to

the harim. The mudíf is a fine airy room, very pleasant in the hot

weather we are beginning to have. It is pitched close to the river Tibb

in the middle of a very large camp, several hundred tents, and looks

imposing enough. The country all round is very bare and trodden down,

having been exposed last night to a fearful hail storm, which has wrecked

all the vegetation. The hailstones, they say, were as big as dates.

The Tibb is much swollen, and flowing through a deep cutting, looks

anything but easy to cross,—a turbid yellow river cutting its way through

the alluvial plain without valley of any sort, so that you do not know it

is there until you come close to it. It is about fifty yards wide.

At the door of the mudíf we alighted, and presently made the acquaintance

of our host—not Mizban, for he, as we heard before, is away at Amara, but

his son Beneyeh—a rather handsome but not quite agreeable looking youth,

whose forward, almost rude manners show him to be, what he no doubt is, a

spoilt child. We have been rather reserved with him in consequence, and

have left to Hajji Mohammed the task of explaining our name and quality,

and delivering the letters which we have with us for his father. Beneyeh

is not the eldest son, and I do not quite understand why he does the

honours of his father’s tent instead of Lazim. It is difficult to know

exactly how to treat him; but we think it better to be on the side of

politeness, so we have sent him the cloak intended for the Sheykh, and

have added to it a revolver, with which he seems pleased. We are so

completely in his hands for our further progress, that we must do what we

can to secure his good will. I have paid a visit to the harim, and have

been well received by Beneyeh’s mother, Yeddi, a fat jovial person,

young-looking for her age. She is very proud of her son, and the evident

cause of his spoiling. Her stepdaughter Hukma, and daughter-in-law Rasi,

are both rather pretty; though the latter, like the mother-in-law, shows

signs of foreign blood, being inclined to fat, and being red-haired and

fair complexioned. The occasion of my visit to them was a distressing

one. We had hardly retired to our own tent when a loud explosion was

heard, and immediately afterwards a man came running to us to beg us to

come, for an accident had happened. In the storm last night some

gunpowder belonging to Beneyeh had got wet, and a slave had been set to

dry it at the fire in the women’s tent, with the result of a blow up and

fearful burning of the unfortunate creature. They wanted us, of course,

to cure him; and we gave what advice we could, but with little chance of

success. The poor slave lay groaning there behind a matting all the time

I was in the tent, but Yeddi and the rest chattered, and laughed, and

screamed, regardless as children. Sick people get little peace in the

Desert.

* * * * *

Wilfrid believes he has arranged matters with Beneyeh, who came to dine

with us this evening, and talked matters over afterwards with Seyd Abbas.

He declared at first that a journey across the frontier into Persia was

out of the question, that nobody had ever been that way, that the Beni

Laam were at war with the Ajjem (Persians) and could not venture into the

neighbourhood of Dizful, or any town of Persia, and that his father was

away, and he had no men to spare as escort. After much talking, however,

and persuasion on the Seyyid’s part, he has agreed to start with us

to-morrow with thirty horsemen and see us safely to the camp of one Kerim

Khan, chief of a Kurdish tribe, which lives on the river Karkeria, beyond

which Persia proper begins, and that he will take £10 for his trouble.

The sum is hardly excessive if he fulfils his part of the bargain, for

the country between Turkey and Persia has the reputation of being quite

impracticable, not only from the robber bands which inhabit it, but from

the rivers which must be crossed. Hajji Mohammed is very gloomy about

the whole matter.

In the middle of our conversation a fearful hubbub arose in the camp

round, followed by some shots and the galloping of horses, and Beneyeh

exclaiming, “A ghazú, a ghazú!” jumped up and rushed out of the tent.

Our first thought was to put out the candle, and our second to stand to

our arms and look outside. In the dim starlight we could see what seemed

to be a fight going on inside and round the mudíf; and though night

attacks are very unusual in the desert, we were convinced an enemy was

sacking the camp. Though the quarrel was no affair of ours, and we

should probably be in little danger had it been daylight, now in the

darkness we could not help feeling alarmed. Wilfrid served out

cartridges, and gave the order that all should kneel down so as to be

prepared for action if the tide of battle should come our way, an

arrangement which resulted only in Hajji Mohammed’s letting off his gun

by accident, and very nearly shooting one of the Agheyls. The mares had

their iron fetters on, and with the keys in our pockets we knew they

could not be lost. Still it was an anxious moment. At the end of a

quarter of an hour, however, Beneyeh came back in great excitement to say

that a ghazú had come from Musa’s, and that some camels had been driven

away; that the hubbub in the tent was not fighting, but preparation to

fight; and that he was come to borrow a rifle as he and his friends were

starting in pursuit. Wilfrid gave him one of the guns and offered to

ride with him on his expedition, but Seyd Abbas, who had all the time

been cheering us with an assurance that “it was not our affair,” would

not hear of this; and, after a long discussion, it was decided that we

should all stay together, as indeed is only prudent. I do not believe

the ghazú has been anything very serious; for, though Beneyeh and some of

his men have galloped off in the supposed direction of the enemy, by far

the greater number have remained, preferring shouting and singing to

actual fighting. They are now chaunting in chorus “Aduan—Mizban

(enemies—Mizban)—Aduan—Mizban,” and striking their spears on the ground

to beat time. A great fire has been lit and is blazing in the mudíf, and

the dark figures passing and repassing in front of it make the whole

thing wild and savage in the extreme.

[Picture: Ariel, an Ánazeh Mare]

CHAPTER II.

_Gloucester_. “’Tis true that we are in great danger,

The greater therefore should our courage be.”

SHAKESPEARE.

“La plus mauvaise rencontre dans le désert est celle de l’homme.”

GUARMANI.

We are betrayed into the hands of robbers—Ghafil and Saadun—We

diplomatise—A march across “No-man’s-land”—Night terrors—We claim

protection of a Persian prince.

_March_ 29.—The event of last night, though in truth it was less alarming

than it seemed, made us anxious not to remain longer at Mizban’s than

could be helped. Wilfrid accordingly no sooner saw Beneyeh this morning,

than he began to urge our departure on him, as it had been arranged

over-night. The young man was in a bad humour, his pursuit of the ghazú

having been either unsuccessful, or, as we suspect, never seriously made;

and at first he would hear of nothing but that we should go back to

Amara, instead of crossing the frontier, which he again declared to be

impracticable. He was put out, moreover, because we did not allow him to

keep the gun which he had borrowed in the night; and but for old Seyd

Abbas, whom he is bound to treat with respect, I doubt if he would have

kept to his bargain with us. I begin to regret now that he at last

allowed himself to be persuaded, for we seem to have got into a very

awkward pass.

Our troubles to-day began early. First of all we had to say farewell to

Seyd Abbas, our last connecting link with respectability. The old man

said he dared not go further; that in the country where we were going his

condition as a seyyid would not be respected, nor could he do more for us

than wish us well through it. He washed his hands, in fact, of the whole

proceeding, and protested that he had gone farther than he ought in

bringing us thus far. We could not indeed find fault with him for

wishing to return, and thanking him heartily for all, and so recommending

him once more to see to Ariel, we let him go. Since then all has gone

wrong. We had first the river to cross, a not very easy proceeding, for

the banks were of mud, and the water up to our horses’ shoulders. Still,

nothing untoward happened till we had all got over. Then the two

Agheyls, our camel-drivers, declared that they too would go no further.

The journey into Persia frightened them, they said, as well as Seyd

Abbas, and though they gave a variety of reasons besides, it always came

back to this, that they did not like to die in a foreign land. It was no

use arguing with them that they should not die, and that we would provide

handsomely for their return to Bagdad by sea; no offers could move them,

nor even the threat of their Sheykh’s displeasure, which we held _in

terrorem_ over them. It was impossible to be really angry, yet our case

is a forlorn one without them. To-day we and Hajji Mohammed have had to

load and drive the camels ourselves, for he is the only servant left us,

and Beneyeh and his Arabs would do nothing, contenting themselves with

galloping about and shouting out their unasked-for advice. It was very

annoying.

Beneyeh’s manner has changed alarmingly. Finding us practically in his

power, now we have crossed the Tibb and cannot retreat, he has become

most insolent, trying all day to pick a quarrel with us about the

revolver we gave him, and which he has put out of order by his

clumsiness, and asking for one thing and another belonging to us exactly

like a rude, ill-bred child. Wilfrid was obliged to speak sharply to him

and bid him be ashamed of himself, as his manners are those of an Iraki

fellah, not of a Sheykh’s son. Still he went on, now asking for

Wilfrid’s sword, now proposing to buy my mare, impertinences both, till,

on being told he was a fool, he rode on in a huff with his men. There

were nine of them, and one only remained with us, an older man who seemed

ashamed of his young chief, and with whom we got on more pleasantly.

Still it is a disagreeable prospect to have to travel with such rascals

all the way to Persia. The party are tolerably mounted, the Beni Laam

having a few asil mares, principally of the Wadnan breed, and at Mizban’s

camp there was a horse which they called a Nusban, a name new to us.

The country, after passing the Tibb, is a fine rolling down, with capital

pasture in the hollows, so that to our other difficulties we are

fortunately spared that of anxiety about our camels. It is worth

something to see them feeding on rich green grass as they go, making up

at last for their long winter’s fast.

At two o’clock we sighted some tents, where we found Beneyeh with his

men, waiting for a dinner of lamb which was being prepared. Hungry as we

were, we should have much preferred passing on unfeasted, for we are now

suspicious of our host, and feel anxious when away from our horses.

Still there was no refusing, or seeming to doubt or be afraid, and we

joined with as good a grace as we could in the rather rude entertainment.

The meal lasted upwards of an hour, and when we were ready to start there

were still delays, so that it was dark before we reached the camp which

was to be our resting-place for the night. The late rains have put much

of the low-lying country under water, and we are now in a broad valley,

formerly, one may guess, a rich agricultural district, but long deserted.

We passed about sunset the mounds of an ancient city, which are not

marked on any of our maps, and which the people here call Jeréysiat; and

near these we came upon the camp where we now are.

What its inhabitants are we do not yet know. Dakher, the chief man, is,

it would seem, a Beni Laam, but the rest have more the appearance of

outlaws than of respectable Bedouins. They have the most evil

countenances of any people we have met on any of our travels, and Hajji

Mohammed says roundly they are Kurdish robbers. Dakher and his brother

Ghafil look capable of any treachery. They have a soft manner, with

great flabby faces, and a black look in their eyes, which, with their

rows of glittering white teeth, give one a shudder. They received us at

first with some show of hospitality in their “mudíf,” which was a large

one; but though a fire of logs was blazing in the middle, and pots were

standing round, nobody gave us coffee, a very disagreeable omen; and when

I asked just now for water, they would not bring it me in one of their

own pans, but took ours. They are Shias, probably, and rude on

principle. We have pitched our tent the best way we could in the dark,

and piled up all our luggage inside, for every man here looks like a

thief—I might say like a murderer.

_March_ 30.—Last night, before we lay down to sleep, Beneyeh came to our

tent with Dakher, and began bullying again and begging, but Wilfrid would

give him nothing except the sum of £10 agreed on, for which he promised,

and Dakher promised, that thirty khayal should go on with us to Dizful, a

distance of about ninety miles. Beneyeh himself refused to go, saying

that Ajjem (Persia) was not his country, but Dakher should go for him, or

Ghafil. This was a distinct breach of agreement, but we were only too

pleased to get rid of him, and Wilfrid, after some show of expostulation,

accepted the substitute. Then Beneyeh made a pretence of writing letters

to certain khans or chiefs of the frontier tribes, but I suspect these

are not worth much, for having no seal of his own with him, the young

jackanapes signed the letters with a seal lent him by a bystander, an

irregular and rather suspicious proceeding, but we made no remark, being

thankful at any price to be freed from his company. With the grimace of

one who has played a successful trick he pocketed the money, and then,

without saying good-bye, mounted and rode off, our only friend, the

middle-aged man, to our sorrow following him.

We were now left alone with Dakher and his crew, who sat round us while

with infinite labour we loaded our camels. Poor old Hajji Mohammed in

his rusty uniform, with his sword dangling between his legs, was anything

but an efficient camel-man, and in spite of the best will in the world

things proceeded slowly. It was as much as we could get out of Dakher

that he should tell one of his sulky fellows to lend an occasional hand

to the work, and keep the rest from getting in our way. The help was

given grudgingly, and in obedience rather to Wilfrid’s command, for he

was now obliged to talk loud, than of good-will. Dakher, however, kept

up a semblance of politeness, being still our host, a position sacred

even in the eyes of the most abandoned, and when his brother Ghafil

appeared, announcing himself as our escort, we were suffered to depart.

Once on our horses, and with the camels driven in front of us, we felt

more at ease; yet all were not a little anxious. We should, I think,

have turned back now but for the recollection of Beneyeh and the river

Tibb behind us, evils we knew of while the unknown evils before us seemed

preferable. For a while, too, we flattered ourselves with the idea that

Ghafil was to be our only company, and for a mile or two the illusion

lasted, and we were reassured. There is something, besides, in a very

bright morning’s march through a beautiful country, for we were close to

the hills, which prevents one feeling anxious, and whatever its

inhabitants may be, this frontier-land of Persia looks like a Garden of

Eden, with its grass and flowers knee deep in every hollow.

Ghafil is another and a worse edition of Dakher, having, over and above

his brother’s vices of countenance, a most abominable squint. His face

looks always like a thunder-cloud, and the smiles on it, (for he smiles

sometimes, showing a wonderful set of white teeth from ear to ear) are

like the smiles of a wild beast. He has, too, a sort of cat’s manner,

soft and cowardly, but very offensive. At starting, and as long as he

was alone with us, he seemed amiable enough, but at the end of about an

hour we came up with the rest of the party in whose company we were to

travel, and then his demeanour changed. These were not horsemen, or an

escort at all, but a collection of the most extraordinary vagabonds we

have ever seen. There were about forty of them, with about twice as many

beasts, camels, and oxen, which they were driving before them loaded with

empty sacks. Amongst them were two women on foot, and there was a single

horseman heading the procession, mounted on a little white mare. We

asked them where they were going, and they answered, “To Dizful, to buy

corn,” and then in return plied us with a hundred questions. Many of

these were not a little impertinent, but by parrying some, and affecting

not to understand the rest, we managed to hold our own, even returning

some of their small wit with interest on themselves. Hajji Mohammed,

however, poor man, was soon singled out as a special butt for their

mirth. His old uniform coat they found supremely absurd, and he was as

mercilessly chaffed about his tailor as if he had been amongst a party of

roughs on the Epsom Downs, while he had not the sense always to keep his

temper. There was, besides, something more than mere high spirits in

their wit. He was a Suni, and they were Shias, and religious bitterness

made them bitter. From words at last they seemed rapidly coming to

blows, when Wilfrid interfered, making his horse curvet amongst them, and

dispersing them for a while. But they soon returned, and it was all we

could do to prevent the poor cavass from being maltreated. One called on

him to dismount and give him a ride, another to let him have a shot with

his gun, and a third to fill him a pipe of tobacco, to none of which

demands the unfortunate Hajji knew how to give the proper refusal. “Ya

Hajji,” “Ya Hajji,” was the perpetual cry all the morning long; “Where is

your pipe? where is your tobacco? Quick, I am thirsting for a smoke.”

Ghafil in the meanwhile would do nothing or could do nothing in the way

of control, sitting on his camel gloomily in silence, or talking in an

undertone with a great one-eyed rascal, more villainously hideous than

himself. The position was often almost unbearable, and only the doctrine

of patience which we had learned in Arabia, and a constant show of good

humour to the crowd, made it tolerable. In the course of the afternoon,

however, we managed to get upon some sort of friendly terms with two or

three of the rabble, so that by the evening, when we stopped, we had

established a little party among them in our favour. This, I believe,

was the means of preventing a worse disaster, for it is nearly certain

that Ghafil and the more serious of the party meant us deliberate

mischief.

About an hour before sunset we came to a broad river, broader and deeper

than the Tibb, and here Ghafil decreed a halt. If we had been a strong

enough party to shift for ourselves, and if we could have crossed the

river alone, we should now have gone on and left our persecutors behind;

but in our helpless state this was impossible, and we had no choice but

to dismount. It was an anxious moment, but I think we did what was

wisest in showing no sign of distrust; and we had no sooner stopped than

we gave one a horse to hold, and another a gun, while we called on others

to help us unload the camels, and get out coffee and provisions for a

general feast. This seemed to most of them too good an offer to be

declined, and we had already distributed a sack of flour and a sack of

rice amongst them, which the two women had promised to bake into loaves

for the whole party, when Ghafil and the one-eyed man, who had been down

to look for a ford, arrived upon the scene. They were both very angry

when they saw the turn things had taken, and were at first for forbidding

the people to eat with us, alleging that we were kaffirs (infidels), so

at least the people informed us later, but this was more than they could

insist on. They would not, however, themselves eat with us or taste our

coffee, and remained apart with those of the party which had not made

friends with us. The women were on our side, and the better sort of the

young men. Still it was a terribly anxious evening, for even our friends

were as capricious as the winds, and seemed always on the point of

picking an open quarrel. Later, they all went away and left us to our

own devices, sitting round a great bonfire of brushwood they had built

up, “to scare away lions,” they said. We managed to rig up our tent, and

make a barricade of the camel-bags in such a way that we could not be

surprised and taken at a disadvantage. I did not shut my eyes all night,

but lay watching the bonfire, win my hand on my gun. Hajji Mohammed once

in the darkness crept out and got near enough to overhear something of

their talk, and he assures us that there was a regular debate as to

whether and when and how we should be murdered, in which the principal

advocate of extreme measures was the one-eyed man, a great powerful

ruffian who carried a sort of club, which he told us he used to frighten

the lions, beating it on the ground. The noise, he declared, sounded

like a gun and drove them away. With this tale of horror Hajji Mohammed

returned to comfort us; nor was it wholly a delusion, for in the middle

of the night, Wilfrid being asleep, and Hajji Mohammed, whose watch it

was, having fallen into a doze, I distinctly saw Ghafil, who had

previously come under pretext of lions or robbers to reconnoitre, prowl

stealthily round, and seeing us all as he thought asleep, lift up the

flap of the tent and creep under on Wilfrid’s side. I had remained

motionless, and from where I lay I could see his figure plainly against

the sky. As he stooped I called out in a loud voice, “Who goes there?”

and at the sound he started back, and slunk away. This woke Hajji

Mohammed, and nobody slept again, but I could see Ghafil prowling like an

hyæna round us the best part of the night. {152}

Hajji Mohammed has behaved very well, though he owns himself much

frightened. So am I, only I conceal my alarm better than he does.

Indeed I am sure that putting on a bold face is our only chance of

safety, for nothing but cowardice now prevents Ghafil and his set from

attacking us. We are well armed, and he knows he could not do it with

impunity. As long as we are on horseback, I believe we run no great

risk, but the night is a disagreeable time. If we had only open desert

in front of us we could set them all at defiance.

_March_ 31.—The morning broke tempestuously, and we were afraid the river

might have risen in the night, a complication which would have probably

decided our fate; but though the clouds lay black and heavy on the hills

there was no flood. After trying several places, all of which proved too

deep, our akid, the man on the white mare, found a ford, if such it can

be called, for the water was over his mare’s back, and all the party

followed him. The robbers, for so I now call them, passed easily enough,

for their camels were unloaded, but ours barely managed it. The current

was very strong, and though Hatheran and the strongest of them came on

boldly, two of them stopped in the middle and seemed on the point of

turning down and being swept away, when Wilfrid rode back below them,

into the deep water, and drove them on. It was nervous work to watch

them, seeing nothing of rider and horse but their heads, but Job swam

very well, and the camels were saved and all got safely over. This

incident proved a fortunate one, for it impressed the better sort of the

robbers with an idea of our determination, and there was again a party in

our favour. It was fortunate that it was so, for we were no sooner

across than Ghafil and the one-eyed monster, Saadun, came forward with a

more menacing manner than they had yet dared to show, and said we should

proceed no further. It was plain enough what they meant, but we affected

not to understand them, and declaring in a cheerful tone that it was a

charming spot to stay in, with plenty of grass and water for the beasts,

at once consented to a halt. Wilfrid begged Ghafil to sit down and smoke

a pipe with him, and when the man sulkily demurred, insisted on it.

“Now, Ghafil,” he said, “here you are my guest, as we have been yours;

what can I do for you to make you happy?” “Wallah, ya Beg,” interposed

Saadun, “you have done nothing for him or any of us, and now you must.”

“Must? Indeed, I shall be too delighted. Tell me only in what I can

assist you—what it is that Ghafil wants.” Ghafil then began a long

history about his dignity as Sheykh of the expedition, and the disgrace

it was to him to have received no cloak of honour from the Beg, and the

insult that he had thus received from us—at all which Wilfrid expressed

the greatest possible pain and surprise. {154} “There has been some

mistake here,” he said; “I would not for the world that anyone should be

treated with less respect than was his due by me. The disgrace would be

mine;” and he made a show of taking off his own cloak to give him; still

Ghafil seemed dissatisfied. “No, no, it is not that,” said Saadun, in a

stage whisper, “what the Sheykh wants is money—money, do you see?—money

for all of us.” “And is it possible,” exclaimed Wilfrid, “that you have

all remained unpaid?—that Beneyeh gave you nothing of what he received

from me?—that you have been working for me, ‘balash,’ for nothing? This

is indeed a disgrace. Come, Saadun, let us talk this matter over and

repair the mistake.” He then took the one-eyed man by the arm and led

him aside for a private conference, while Ghafil sat on gloomily with me.

Wilfrid’s first care, when he got the Kurd alone, was to square him with

a present of ten krans (francs) for his own account, and a promise of

twenty more when we got to the Kerkha, judging rightly that this fellow

was in fact our most dangerous enemy. Then he intrusted him with

negotiating the rest of the blackmail with Ghafil. We were prepared now

for almost any demand, for we were completely in their power, and had a

sum of nearly £100 with us, besides property to the value of perhaps as

much more. We were consequently no little relieved when Saadun returned

with a demand of one hundred krans, and a silk abba, in return for

Ghafil’s protection. This, after much affected reluctance to part with

so enormous a sum, and a declaration at one moment that rather than pay

we would stay where we were for a month, we at last produced—giving the

robber the very silk abba which had been one of Ibn Rashid’s presents to

us in Nejd—a white silk one, embroidered with gold, but the only one we

had; which being done we were suffered to proceed. The truth of the

matter probably is that Ghafil dared not drive us to extremities, partly

from physical fear, for we soon had proof sufficient of his cowardice,

and partly because many of his men would not have joined him in a deed of

violence. Bloodshed is a thing no Arab willingly consents to, however

low his morality, especially where a guest, or one who has been a guest,

is in question; and though the mongrel Kurds and Persians, who made up

more than half the band, would have abetted him, the rest would not. One

of the women, too, was Ghafil’s wife, and the women were openly friends

with us. Another consideration may have been that we were entering now

upon an enemy’s country, for the Dueri is the limit of Beni Laam

authority, and our men were too miserable cowards not to count upon us

for something in case of attack. Part of our agreement with Ghafil was

that we were to fight for him in case of need against the Persians, a

promise we readily gave. The atmosphere now was somewhat cleared, and we

started afresh under rather better conditions. The teasing of Hajji

Mohammed continued, but we ourselves were treated with respect, and the

one-eyed Kurd even occasionally lent a hand in driving the camels, in

company with a youth clothed in green, who had hitherto been one of our

worst persecutors.

The whole party proceeded cautiously, avowing without the slightest shame

their immense fear of the Ajjem (the Persians), whom they expected to

meet at every turn of the road. Beyond the Dueri we found ourselves in a

beaten track, which winds up and down over an undulating bit of desert,

the last ripple of the Hamrin hills which are now behind us. The akid

usually rode on in front to spy out possible enemies, and all had orders

to keep together. Ours, however, was such a noisy party, that one would

have thought its passage could have been heard for miles round. The

bullocks were getting tired and required a great deal of driving, and the

shouting and screaming reminded one of an Irish fair. So we went on

without a halt till three o’clock, when a halt was ordered in a hollow,

where we were out of sight of enemies, and where there was a quantity of

wild celery, and another edible plant called “hakallah,” which we found

good, for we had eaten nothing all day. Not far off were some sand

mounds, with tufts of what looked very like ithel, but we dared not leave

our camels to inspect them. The halt was only for half-an-hour; then

with shouts of “Yalla yalla, erkob, erkob,” the mob went on.

We stopped again suddenly about an hour before sunset, and this time in

alarm. The akid, who had ridden to the top of a low hill, was seen

waving, as he came back, his abba, and instantly the cry arose, “El

Ajjem, el Ajjem.” In an instant everybody was huddled together in a

hollow place, like a covey of partridges when they see a hawk, and we

were entreated, commanded to dismount. A few hurried words with the akid

confirmed the terrible news of danger to the band, and all seemed at

their wits’ end with terror. “How many horsemen?—how many?” we inquired.

“Five,” was the answer, “but there are more behind; and then these are

the _Ajjem_!” “And if they _are_ the Ajjem, and only five of them, are

you not forty of you here and able to fight?” “No, no!” they screamed,

“you do not understand. These horsemen are Persians—Persians; every one

of them capable of killing five of us.” I did not think men could be so

craven-hearted. A few of the least cowardly now crept up to the hill-top

and one by one came back to report; the number of horsemen seen rose

rapidly from five to fifteen and eventually to fifty. When the last

number was reached, the coward Ghafil, who had kept well in the middle of

the mob, so as to be in the least possible danger, came to us with his

softest and most cringing manner, forgetful of all his bullying, and

begged us to be sure and do our best in the battle which was imminent.

“You should stand in front of the others,” he said, “and shoot as fast as

you can, and straight, so as to kill these Ajjem—dead you understand—it

is better to shoot them dead. You, khatún, know how to shoot, I am

sure—and you will not be afraid.” We could not help laughing at him,

which shocked him dreadfully. Presently a man came rushing up to say the

enemy was coming, and again there was unutterable confusion. The boy in

green had begged some percussion caps of Wilfrid for his gun, and had

been given fifty, and this now led to a wrangle, as he refused to share

his prize with the rest. Everybody was trying to borrow everybody else’s

gun or spear or bludgeon, for they were very rudely armed, and nobody

would stand in front, but everybody behind. The women alone seemed to

have got their heads, while Ghafil, white in the face, walked nervously

up and down. We and the cavass stood a little apart from the rest,

holding our horses, ready to fire and mount, and Wilfrid occupied the

interval of expectation with giving me instructions what to do if we got

separated in the fray. I was too well mounted to be overtaken, and was

to make for the Kerkha river, which we knew could not be far away to the

east, and put myself under the protection of the first Persian khan I

should meet there; if possible, Kerim Khan, to whom I had a letter in my

pocket, and who is a vakil of the Persian Government. We hoped, however,

that we might be able to keep together, and beat off the enemy. Wilfrid

called out to Ghafil, “You must tell me when to fire,” but Ghafil was too

frightened to reply. Several of the men, however, called out, “Shoot at

anybody you see—everybody here is an enemy.” The camels had been made to

kneel down, and the cattle had been huddled together; only a few of all

the mob looked as if they really meant to fight. They were silent enough

now, talking only in whispers. So we remained perhaps for half-an-hour;

then somebody ran up the hill again to look, and Wilfrid, tired of

waiting, proposed that we should eat our dinner, as we had had nothing

all day. I got some bread and a pomegranate out of the delúl bag, and we

were soon at work, much to the disgust of the rest, who were shocked at

our levity in such a moment. Presently there was another alarm and the

people called to me to come inside their square, meaning kindly I think,

but of course we would do no such thing, being really much safer where we

were with our mares. Still no enemy came, and when we had finished our

meal we tied our horses’ halters to our arms and lay down in our cloaks;

we were very tired and soon were sound asleep. Nothing more was heard of

the enemy that night.

But our troubles were not to end here. We were hardly comfortably

asleep, before a tremendous crash of thunder roused us and a downpour of

rain. On putting our heads out of our cloaks we saw our valiant escort

rigging up our servants’ tent for themselves. They were terribly afraid

of getting washed in the rain, and were shrieking to us to come inside

too, indignant at Wilfrid’s “ma yukhalif” (“never mind”), with which he

had already treated their remonstrances on other occasions. Indeed, “ma

yukhalif” had now become a sort of nickname with them, and no

dishonourable one, I think, for the person concerned. We neither of us

could think of joining them in the tent, but having managed to get a

couple of horse-rugs from the delúl bag, we covered ourselves over again

and went to sleep; Sayad and Shiekha creeping in under them to keep us

company. All of a sudden the rain stopped, and before we were well

aware, the mob was again on the march. It was pitch dark, and we were

within an ace of being left behind, a circumstance which perhaps we

should have hardly regretted. Still, now we felt that our position with

the robbers was such, that we ran less danger in their company than

alone; and we all hurried on together. Ghafil was polite again; and the

rest, feeling, I suppose, that the journey was nearly over, and their

power over us vanishing, even made us offers of assistance. A long,

weary night march we had, and at dawn found ourselves descending rapidly

into a broad plain, knee deep in pasture. This was the valley of the

Kerkha; and as it grew light we became aware of a long line of mounds,

with two kubbrs or shrines in front of us, which Ghafil told us were the

ruins of Eywan. At seven o’clock we saw tents within the circuit of the

ancient city, and some shepherds in conical felt caps, and sheepskin

dresses, the costume of the Bactiari and other tribes of Kurdish origin.

We were in Persia.

Ghafil now went forward to announce our arrival to Sirdal Khan, the

chieftain at whose tents we now are. But I must leave further details

for to-morrow.

[Picture: Canora]

CHAPTER III.

“Henceforth in safe assurance may ye rest,

Having both found a new friend you to aid,

And lost an old foe that did you molest,

Better new friend than an old foe is said.”

FAËRY QUEEN.

A prince in exile—Tea money—Rafts on the Kerkha—Last words with the Beni

Laam—Kerim Khan—Beautiful Persia—We arrive at Dizful.

SIRDAL KHAN is a Shahzade, or member of the Royal family of Persia, many

of whom are to be found living in official, and even private capacities

in different parts of the kingdom. He himself had fallen into disgrace

with the Court many years ago, and had been exiled from Persia proper, a

misfortune which led to his taking up his residence with a section of the

semi-dependent Seguand tribe of Lurs, where he became Khan or Chieftain.

Both in looks and in manner, he stands in striking contrast with the

people round him, having the handsome, regular features, long nose and

melancholy, almond-shaped eyes of the family of the Shah, which, I

believe, is not of Persian origin, and a certain dignity of bearing very

different from the rude want of manners of the Lurs. These would seem to

be of Tartar origin, coarse-featured, short-faced men, honest in their

way and brave, but quite ignorant of those graces of address which even

the worst Arabs are not wholly without. Sirdal, when he arrived among

the Lurs, was possessed of considerable wealth, which he invested in

flocks and herds, and until a short time before our visit he was living

in Bedouin magnificence. But his enemies it would seem still pursued

him, and not satisfied with his disgrace, molested him even in his exile.

By some means, the rights of which we did not learn, they managed to

instigate against him a rival chief, one Kerim Khan, who, under

Government sanction, made a successful raid upon his flocks, stripping

the unfortunate prince of everything, and driving him and his tribe

across the Kerkha river into the No Man’s Land, which lies between Persia

and Turkey, and which we had just crossed. In this position he has been

obliged to maintain himself as he could, making terms with Mizban and the

Beni Laam, who are his nearest neighbours westwards. The river Kerkha is

considered the boundary of Persia, and as it is a large and rapid river,

nearly half a mile across, he is in comparative safety from the east.

Ghafil, therefore, as a Beni Laam, was on friendly terms with him, though

it was easy to see that he despised and had no kind of sympathy with him

or the ruffians of his band. By Hajji Mohammed’s advice, and to secure

ourselves against further risks at their hands, we accordingly placed

ourselves at once under the Khan’s protection. Hajji Mohammed

fortunately knows both Persian and Kurdish, and soon explained to Sirdal

the circumstances of our position, and he, delighted to meet once more

with respectable people, readily assented. He received us with great

kindness, made us comfortable in his tent, which, in spite of his

poverty, was still more luxurious than any found among the Arabs; having

partitions of matting worked in worsted with birds and beasts, carpets,

and a fire, and gave us what we were much in want of, an excellent

breakfast of well served rice and lamb. Then, when we had pitched our

own tent just outside, he provided us with an efficient guard of Lurs,

who soon sent our robber acquaintance of the last few days about their

business. There is no love lost between them and the Arabs. Presently I

received a visit from the Khan’s wife, whom he has lately married, and

his mother, a well-bred person with perfect manners, and a refined,

pleasing face. She was in black, in mourning she explained for a son;

she has five sons, including the Khan, whose brothers live with him. A

crowd of Seguand ladies came in her company, and an Arab woman who had

been nurse to one of the Khan’s children, and who served me as

interpreter. Ghafil’s wife, too, one of the poor women who had travelled

with us, came in and joined the conversation. She is loud in her

complaints of Ghafil, who treats her ill. He is now very polite, and

presented himself during the afternoon at our tent as if nothing had

happened, with a little girl named Norah in his arms whom he told us was

his niece, he having a sister here married to one of Sirdal’s men. I had

a carpet spread for the ladies outside our tent, for it could not have

held them all, and they sat round me for an hour or more, curious and

enquiring, but exceedingly polite. They admired especially my boots and

gloves, which I pulled off to show them. One of them, turning up my

sleeve, exclaimed at the whiteness of my wrist. At the end of an hour

the elder lady rose, and wishing me affectionately good morning, took her

leave, the rest following.

We then had a pleasant day of peace and a sound night’s rest, hardly

disturbed by the ferocious shouting and singing of our guard, which,

under other circumstances, might have been frightening. Anything more

wild and barbarous than their chaunting I never listened to, but to us it

was sweet as music, for we knew that it was raised to scare our jackals,

the Beni Laam.

_April_ 2.—Next day we crossed the Kerkha. When we saw the size of the

river, swollen with melted snow and running eight miles an hour, and as

wide as the Thames at Greenwich, we felt thankful indeed for having met

Sirdal Khan. Here there would have been no fording possible, and we, or

at least our goods, would have been at the mercy of our robber escort.

The Khan, however, agreed for a sum of money, 100 krans (nothing in

Persia is done for nothing, either by prince or peasant), to have us

ferried over with our baggage to the Persian shore, and our camels and

horses swum after us. Hospitality is not a virtue real or pretended with

the Persians, and the Khan, prince as he was and a really charming man,

explained to Hajji Mohammed without affectation, that sixty of the one

hundred krans he would count as “tea money,” or as the Spaniards would

say, “ruido de casa,” payment for board and lodging. To this, however,

we were indifferent, and appreciate none the less his kindness and good

manners. He rode with us himself to the river on a well-bred Arabian

mare he told us was “asil,” as it well might be, and saw that all things

in the matter of the rafts were done as they should be. At first we rode

through the mounds of Eywan, which are disposed in a quadrangle fronting

the river, and where we found plentiful remains of pottery; then past the

kubbr of I forget what Mohammedan saint, facing a similar kubbr on the

eastern bank; then across some fordable branches of the river and islands

clothed with guttub and canora trees, to the main body of the Kerkha,

where we found a raft preparing. The canora bushes had fruit on them,

which the Khan politely picked, and gave me to eat, little yellow fruits,

pleasantly acid, like medlars, and with stones inside.

The passage of the river was a tedious, not to say difficult, process,

the single raft being composed of twenty skins only, and very crank. We

found besides, to our disgust, and also waiting to take advantage of our

passage, our late disagreeable companions, Ghafil, the one-eyed Kurd, and

all the rest, who presently began a loud argument with the Lurs as to who

should pilot our camels through the water, a ticklish duty, which

required both knowledge of the animals and skill in swimming, to perform

successfully. At first we were naturally in favour of the Lurs, and

unwilling to trust any part of our property with the mongrel Arabs; but

when it came to the point of testing their capabilities, the Lurs broke

lamentably down, being hardly able to manage the camels even on dry land,

so by the Khan’s advice we let the Bedouins manage the business, which I

must say they performed with no little courage and skill. It takes two

men to swim a camel safely. First of all the beast must be unloaded to

the skin. Then a cord is tied to the tail for one man to hold by, and

another mounts on his back. Thus he is driven into the water, and pushed

on gradually till he loses his legs. The man on his back then floats off

down stream of him, and holding with one hand by the hump, splashes water

in the camel’s face to keep his head straight, while the other urges him

from behind. The camel seems heavier than most animals in the water,

showing nothing but the tip of his nose above the surface, and he is a

slow swimmer. It was an anxious quarter of an hour for us while they

were crossing, and great was the speculation among the bystanders as to

the result. “Yetla,” “ma yetla,” “he does it,” “he doesn’t,” were the

cries as they were carried down the river. The strongest pushed fairly

straight across, but those in the worst condition seemed borne helplessly

along till camel and men and all disappeared out of our sight,—and we had

already given them up as lost, when we saw them emerging quite a mile

down upon the bank. Then we ourselves and the luggage were put across,

the mares swimming with us, though they got across much quicker than we

did. The raft was hardly eight feet square, a rough framework of

tamarisk poles lashed together on twenty goat skins. Our luggage went

first, with Hajji Mohammed perched on the top of it, booted and cloaked,

and loaded with gun and cartridge bag, sublimely indifferent, though an

accident would have sent him like lead to the bottom. We ourselves were

more prudent, and divested ourselves of every superfluous garment before

taking our seats, which we did in the company of our dogs and bird, and

of Ghafil’s wife, who nearly upset us at starting by jumping in from the

shore upon us. Our feet were in the water all the way, and our hearts in

our mouths, but by the mercy of Providence, we finally reached land amid

a chorus of such “betting on the event” as had accompanied the camels.

The last creature of our party was the little hamra mare, which Sirdal’s

servant had been holding, and which, slipping her halter, came bravely

across alone.

Just across the river lives Kerim Khan, Sirdal’s enemy, a Kurdish chief

in government pay. To him we had letters, and nothing more remained but

to go to his camp, and ask his help to forward us to Dizful.

Our former enemies now came round us like a swarm of gnats, begging and

praying us to let them be of some use. They wanted to tack themselves on

to our party, and so go to Dizful in safety, under cover of our

companionship; for it appears that they dare not go further than this

without protection. The Persian authorities here are apt to imprison any

of the Beni Laam who enter their district, and these people therefore

seldom venture beyond the Kerkha, or just this side of it. Even so, they

are sometimes caught: we saw a Beni Laam last night who had just arrived

at the Seguand camp on his way home after three or four months’

imprisonment at Dizful, besides having to pay a fine of one hundred and

fifty krans. He was accused, no doubt justly, of sheep stealing, and he

told us that several others of Mizban’s people are at this moment in jail

at Dizful.

The elder Ghafil finding that nothing could be got from us by persuasion,

tried a little of his old blustering and threats, but several of Kerim

Khan’s people were standing by, and he was powerless here, so we had the

pleasure of giving him a piece of our mind before he retired. His

younger namesake, the man in green, could not contain his rage at our

escape, and openly expressed his regret that we had not been killed in

the wilderness as had been intended. After this little scene we saw no

more of either of them, for though we afterwards heard of them in Kerim

Khan’s camp, they never dared come back into our presence.