There now came forward to welcome us a f_A Pilgrimage to Nejd, the Cradle of the Arab Race. Vol. 2 [of 2] A Visit to the Court of the Arab Emir, and "our Persian Campaign."

eyes, riding a good-looking chestnut mare. He dismounted, introduced

himself as the Khan’s son, and invited us to his father’s tents. These

he said lay close by, but we were not yet at the end of this day’s

difficulties. A network of irrigation, and a deep muddy canal had to be

passed, and the camels which had so successfully escaped the dangers of

the river, were again nearly perishing, and more ignobly, in the mud.

The Kurds on this side the river were useless to assist us, as in their

ignorance of camels they only made matters worse, and but for the sudden

reappearance of the one-eyed giant, who had been once our greatest enemy,

I think we should have all stuck fast. But now he made amends for part

of his misdeeds and ill-designs by lending a powerful hand. He and

Wilfrid between them unloaded the camels, and carried the luggage over on

their heads up to their waists in holding mud, and then dragged through

the camels. The boy, meanwhile, had gone to fetch help from his father;

and we were hardly across, when he reappeared, still on his chestnut

mare, a Kehîleh Harkan, he told us, from the Beni Laam, for all the

tribes here get their horses from the Arabs. And then we saw a cavalcade

approaching, and in the midst a portly figure on an old grey mare, whom

the boy introduced to us as the Khan.

Kerim Khan is, after Huseyn Koli Khan of the Bactiari, the most powerful

chief of Luristan. His tribe occupies most of the district formerly

known as Susiana, and from his camp on the Kerkha the ruins of Susa, now

merely mounds, were visible. The land east of the river is very fertile,

and being moreover well irrigated, is mostly under cultivation. Though

living in tents, these Lurs can hardly be called nomadic, for their camps

are permanent ones, at least for many months together. The one where we

now found ourselves was in appearance quite as much a village as it was a

camp, the tents being pitched close together in rows, and from their pent

house shape looking exceedingly like houses. In the centre of the camp

is a large open space, within which the sheep and cattle of this section

of the tribe are driven at night. These, however, are not numerous, for

Kerim Khan’s people are cultivators of the soil, rather than shepherds.

We noticed many good-looking horses about, procured, they told us, mostly

from the Beni Laam.

The tent in which we were lodged was a most elaborate construction. Its

roof was of the same material as that used by the Arabs, goat’s hair

cloth, but the side walls were of carpet stuff, with intervals of open

grass matting, through which the air circulated pleasantly. It had,

besides, a regular door, while inside were some handsome Persian carpets

spread near a lighted fire, which we soon made use of to dry our clothes,

for we were wet through, with the rivers and canals we had crossed. The

Lurs themselves differ even more from the Arabs, than their habitations

from Bedouin tents. They have none of the Bedouin dignity of manner, and

their dress is a mean one, a square coat of felt, and a little felt

skull-cap, from under which their black hair curls up in a single greasy

wave. Their voices, too, to one coming from among the Arabs, sounded

exceedingly absurd, as they have a sort of sing-song intonation, and are

pitched so high as to be almost in falsetto. This with the drawl, which

we had noticed before in Ali Koli Khan, made us at first inclined to

laugh. Kerim Khan keeps his people in excellent order, and no crowding

round us or importunate questioning was permitted. The great man

himself, though far from dignified in appearance, was well-mannered, and

when he came, after having first sent us breakfast, to see us in our new

tent, conversed politely, first a few words of Arabic, and afterwards in

Kurdish, which Hajji Mohammed interpreted. We told him of our

adventures, and of our intended visit to the Bactiari chieftain, with

whom he was well acquainted, and of our journey from Haïl with Ali Koli

Khan, his son. I am not sure that he altogether believed us, when Hajji

Mohammed added, that we were persons of distinction travelling for

amusement. In Persia, it is the custom to judge strangers entirely by

the appearance they make, and we, travelling in our poor Arab clothes,

and accompanied by a single servant, gained less credit in his eyes than

we should have found with Arabs, who care nothing for externals. He

promised, however, to send us on with two horsemen on the following day

to Dizful, and thence, if we would, to the Bactiari. In a private

conference, however, later with the cavass, he imposed his conditions.

We were to pay him ten tomams (four pounds sterling), as “tea-money,” an

exorbitant demand, which we were nevertheless obliged to accede to.

Hospitality here is never given gratis, nor has anyone much shame of

begging, for even our little friend and first acquaintance here, the boy

on the chestnut mare, though his father is evidently a very rich man,

spares no occasion of asking money, “for his bride,” he says. Gold is

what he likes best.

_April_ 3.—The Khan and his son rode with us for half a mile this

morning, to see us started on our way to Dizful. He has given us two

horsemen as he promised, so at least we have something for our money, and

they seem respectable people. We had hardly ten miles to go, and the

road, for there was a road, was in tolerable order, and the men helped us

drive our camels according to such lights in camel driving as they

possessed. At first, we made a circuit, so as to cross the canal at a

place where there was an old stone bridge, and in so doing we passed not

two miles from Shush, the ancient Susa. Wilfrid would have liked to

visit the mound, but I was impatient to get on, and in fact there is

nothing above-ground by all accounts to see. Then we travelled through a

beautiful plain, bounded by the splendid line of the Bactiari mountains,

still covered almost to their base with snow, a refreshing sight, for the

sun was now very hot. At their foot, we could make out the town of

Dizful, indistinctly at first, and then clearly, while all around us lay

well-cultivated fields of waving corn just turning yellow. Here and

there grew shady canora trees, and there were many rills of water. Now

and then, too, a village shaped like a fortress, with a surrounding wall

of sun-dried bricks, on the roofs of which storks had built their nests,

and were clattering with their bills. In the fields, we heard francolins

calling and quails; and the roadside was gay with flowers, red, blue, and

yellow. Several times we stopped in the shade of a tree, and let the

horses and camels graze on the crops, for so our horsemen insisted we

should do, and there was no hurry. Travellers here are probably too

scarce for grazing rules to be enforced against them. Nor did the

peasants we met seem to mind. We were in Persia at last, and the country

seemed very delightful.

At eleven o’clock, we came to a large village by the side of a broad

shallow stream of transparent water, flowing over a bed of pebbles, and

overhung by shady trees. A group of women were washing their clothes,

and the road was full of country people on foot and donkey-back, crossing

the ford. A pretty picture, such as we had hardly seen since we left

Syria. This, and a second river which we passed presently, are called

the Bellarú, and cover with their various branches nearly a mile of

country. The water in them was cold enough to make a pleasant coolness

in the air, coming like the Kerkha water from the snows. Then at two

o’clock, we found ourselves close to Dizful, set picturesquely on the

great river Diz, which is spanned by a fine old bridge of squared

masonry, the work of ancient times. The town itself occupies some high

ground beyond the river, that is to say on its left bank, but on this

side, there is not a single house. The bridge is the main feature. It

has twenty-one arches, some pointed, some round, with buttresses to break

the stream. It is very much out of repair, there being one hole in it

big enough for a camel to fall through. It would seem to belong in part

to the age of the Persian monarchy, in part to that of the Caliphs, but I

have not sufficient knowledge of architecture to feel sure about this.

In any case, here we are at Dizful, and once more under a settled

government, with police and soldiers, and all the other blessings of

civilisation at our call. We may be thankful that it is so.

CHAPTER IV.

“In Xanadu did Kubla Khan

A stately pleasure-house decree,

Where Alph the sacred river ran,

Through caverns measureless by man,

Down to a sunless sea.”

COLERIDGE.

Pleasures of town life—The Khani’s court—Bactiari shepherds—Shustar—Its

palace, its river, and its garden—A telegraph clerk.

_April_ 4.—Dizful, though still alive with a population of 30,000

persons, and a certain amount of traffic, for it is the corn market of

the tribes westwards on the Ottoman frontier, and eastwards on the

Bactiari, now possesses but the shadow of its past prosperity, if we may

judge from the neglected condition of its magnificent bridge and the

ruined walls which remain to mark its former circumference. Between

these and the limit within which the present inhabited town has shrunk,

lies a widish strip of unoccupied land. Here we have our camp in a

hollow out of sight from the road, and here we had hoped to remain

unnoticed and undisturbed. But alas, it was Friday, and the whole

population turned out at daybreak, and there was no chance of escaping

discovery. All the inhabitants of Dizful, men, women, and children, have

been idling about, holiday-making in their best clothes all day long,

with apparently nothing to do but stare at us. I am sure they consider

the arrival of a party of strangers as a God-send, for from early dawn

until an hour ago, at the _asr_ when the governor sent three soldiers to

disperse them, they have literally swarmed round our tent like their own

flies. Not content, as Arabs are, with looking on from a reasonable

distance, these Persians persist in trying to thrust their way inside the

tent, and not succeeding, they sit down in rows so close to it that we

cannot stir without pushing somebody away. Besides, they cannot look

with their eyes; they must touch everything with their fingers, and they

must laugh and talk, and have answers to all their foolish questions.

They mean no harm, but it is very tiresome, and has hindered us not a

little in our repairs and preparations. The camel saddles and bags

wanted mending, the camels had to be doctored for mange, with an ointment

which had first to be mixed, the horses to be shod, the stores looked

through, purchases to be made of rope and provisions, and all this with

several hundred persons at one’s elbow; each ready with advice and

interference.

Our appearance, I have no doubt, is a great temptation to them, for there

can be few things more unutterably dull than one of their festivities.

Pigeon-flying is here as much the fashion as it is at Aleppo, and there

is the same element of gambling in the performance. The birds are let

loose from their separate dovecots, and allure each other home; such at

least is the explanation given us of the excitement shown in watching

them. Whoever gets most birds from his neighbour wins. Then there are

dervishes and seyyids in green clothes who go about selling sugar-plums

and collecting alms; and a few of the richest have horses on which they

gallop about. We, however, in our Arab dresses, are a perplexity and an

endless source of inquiry to all; and our dogs, and our falcon, and our

camels, excite almost as much interest as they might in Hyde Park or the

Champs Elysées. We should have done far better to stay the other side of

the river, where there is an honest bit of desert much more in keeping

with our establishment, and where nobody comes. Rasham, too, to add to

our troubles, got loose and flew wildly about over the crowd, and could

not be caught till Wilfrid climbed to the top of a tower there was in the

city wall, and lured him down. We were almost at our wits’ end with the

mob when the governor’s guard arrived, and restored order. I profit by

the quiet thus secured, and by the last hour of daylight, to write my

journal.

Besides the vulgar populace, several polite and well-to-do inhabitants

have called on us; the most agreeable of them, a party of four, came in

the morning, and afterwards spent the day sitting under the shade of the

ruined wall close by, where Wilfrid returned their visit. In the

afternoon they came again. They were Ardeshir Khan, a very dignified and

very fat man; Pasha Khan, next in dignity and fat; Yusef Khan, thin and

very dark; and lastly, Aga Shukra Allah, red-haired and speaking a little

Arabic, and thus able to converse with us and interpret for his friends.

The wife of one of these gentlemen sent to propose to come and see me,

and on my accepting, arrived immediately with a score of attendants. We

sat together on my carpet, which I ordered to be spread near the tent;

but with the best will in the world, our conversation was but halting;

Hajji Mohammed is not a fluent dragoman, and he grows deafer every day.

A seyyid also called on us and brought his little girl, named Khatún, a

funny little thing of five, to whom I gave a silver kran; then some

rather ill-mannered persons calling themselves Sabæans. {179}

Two or three people have been riding about on horseback; one on a very

handsome little bay horse, said to be of Nejd origin, brought back by a

pilgrim, as it is the fashion for pilgrims who can afford to do so, to

bring back a colt from Nejd.

This year’s pilgrims they tell us have not yet returned, and we are the

first to announce their arrival at Meshhed Ali. We hoped to have heard

something here of our friend Ali Koli Khan, but are disappointed. He

intended to go by water from Bagdad to Mohammra or Ahwas, and so to

Shustar and home—the usual route, in fact—for ours is not a road

travelled by respectable people. Dizful communicates with the outer

world only by Shustar. It is of no use, however, waiting for Ali Koli.

We cannot spare the time, and must pay our visit to Huseyn Koli Khan now

or not at all. No one can tell us exactly where to find the Bactiari

chief, some saying he is at Shustar, some at Teheran, while all agree

that some of his people are encamped between this and Shustar, and to

Shustar we consequently mean to go.

Our last visit was from the governor or deputy-governor, who being, we

suspect, not quite sober, (for the Persians drink wine) behaved so oddly

that Wilfrid had to beg him to take himself off there and then. On the

whole, our day’s rest at Dizful has been hardly a pleasant one.

_April_ 5.—Shaking the dust of this very tiresome city from our feet, we

resumed our march to-day. We are depressed at the poor reception we have

received after all in Persia, the country we have heard of so long as

famed for its politeness, but perhaps we ourselves are to blame. Hajji

Mohammed tells us we should have travelled in a different way, and he is

probably right. The Persians, he says, judge only from what they see,

and have no idea that people travelling without servants can be

respectable. We should have come with a retinue, an escort of fifty men

and half as many servants. Then we should have been _fêted_ everywhere.

But it is too late now, and we must travel on as we can.

We took the Shustar road this morning, a well-travelled track, passing at

first through corn-fields and villages, and then across a fine plain of

grass. The soil here looks richer than any I have ever seen in any part

of the world, and it is well-watered and wooded with canora trees. We

are marching parallel with the mountains, a lovely range crowned with

snow, and quite 8000 to 10,000 feet above the sea. Immediately to our

right, a wonderful square-topped hill stands out in front of the main

range; a _diz_, or fortress, the people call it. We have passed several

encampments of Bactiari; wild-looking people, who when you ride up to

their tents, run at once to their guns as though they expected constantly

to be attacked. They are guarded by some of the most ferocious dogs I

ever saw, which were with difficulty prevented from attacking Shiekha and

Sayad. Their masters, however, are not inhospitable when things are

explained, and we had several basins of milk offered us on the way. From

them we have learned that the Khani, as they call their chief, is

somewhere on the road, and the prospect has cheered us not a little.

To-night we are encamped all alone, except for the company of an old Arab

and his wife, who joined us on the road—Chaab Arabs they call

themselves—who have been useful, helping us with the camels. There are

many Bedouin Arabs, it appears, in this part of Persia. We have got a

sheep to-night, and are to have a feast.

_April_ 6.—The Bactiari tents are like those of the Arabs, but the men

are dressed as I have described the Seguand, and Kerim Khan’s people.

They keep horses, and carry lances or guns, but I saw no horses which

seemed well-bred. Early in the morning a man came from one of their

tents, and told us that the Khani had passed the night not ten miles from

where we were, at a place called Obeyd, which our two guides from Kerim

Khan knew well. It lay off the high-road to the left, just under the

square-topped hill we noticed yesterday. Though anxious now to get on to

Shustar, where alone we can procure servants (and they are a necessity we

feel more and more every day), we could not of course forego our visit to

Ali Koli’s father, and taking a line in the direction pointed out, struck

out to the north somewhat back from our yesterday’s line of march. It

was a rough bit of travelling over broken rocky ground, cut up here and

there with streams. Very beautiful, however, for in every hollow there

grew real turf brilliantly green, and sprinkled over with borage flowers

and anemones; and wherever there was a pool of water, frogs were croaking

among the weeds. Our progress was slow, for Assad, one of our men, had

bought a donkey at the camp, with a new born foal, and as the foal could

not walk, he carried it before him on his horse. He was continually

letting it slip off, and stopping to hoist it up again. Towards nine

o’clock, we came to a ridge of limestone, overlooking a wide valley out

of which the square crag we had been following rose like a wall of

masonry, five hundred feet or more; beyond which again, lay the snow

range of the Bactiari. While we were looking and admiring, we heard

shots fired, and knew that there must be a camp in the valley, the

Khani’s, we hoped, and so it proved. But before descending, the two

Persians insisted upon going through an elaborate furbishing of

themselves and their clothes. There was a little pool close by, and

there they washed and combed themselves, and then washed their clothes,

spreading them afterwards on the rocks to dry. We in the meanwhile found

a bit of shade under a rock and slept. It was about noon when we woke

and went down to the valley, where we presently saw a large building, the

fort of Obeyd, with half-a-dozen white canvas tents grouped round it.

This was Huseyn Koli Khan’s travelling camp, and the fort was also his.

It is modern and in good repair, a square building flanked with towers,

surrounding a courtyard.

In the middle of the camp stood the Khani’s reception tent like a great

umbrella, for the side walls were taken down for the heat. There Huseyn

Koli sat in state surrounded by a kind of court.

Huseyn Koli Khan is the greatest chieftain of all Western Persia. He is

said to be able to put 20,000 horsemen into the field, and this may very

well be true, as the whole of the south-western slopes of the mountains

are occupied by his tribe. In person he is imposing without being

particularly good-looking; he is a thick-set rather heavy man, with a

broad face, brown beard and hair, and I think grey eyes. He reminds me

of a picture I have seen somewhere of Ghenghis Khan, or another Mongul

prince, from whom it is not altogether impossible he may be descended.

His manner is very straightforward and plain, and he gives one the

impression of being altogether an honest man. He received us very

cordially, made us sit down by him in the middle of his courtiers who

were standing obsequiously round him, and gave us some cups of excellent

tea.

The manner of tea-making in Persia deserves notice, inasmuch as the tea

is there put into the boiling water, while with us the boiling water is

poured on the tea; and tea made in the Persian fashion is without the

bitter taste too often the result of our method.

We spent an hour or two thus with the Khan, giving him the latest news of

his son, who it appears is expected daily now from Ahwas, and learning

much about the road which still lies between us and Bushire. The Khan is

on his way to Teheran, where he has rank under the Shah as a general in

the army, so is unable to invite us to visit him in the mountains where

his home is, and where he keeps the stud of Arab mares for which his name

is famous. This would be more unfortunate if we did not now recognise

the necessity of getting without further delay to the coast. The weather

in the last two days has become suddenly hot, and it would be folly to

allow ourselves to be caught by the summer with so long a march before

us. Besides, we are hardly in such travelling order as to allow of great

experiments. In spite of all our exertions, and all our offers of high

wages, we cannot get any one to drive our camels. The fact is, the camel

is almost as strange a beast here as he would be in England, and

camel-drivers about as scarce. So we are to go to Shustar to-morrow

accompanied by a confidential man of the Khani’s, who will put us into

good hands.

We had a grand debate on returning to our tent whether or not to send

presents to our host; but on Hajji Mohammed’s advice, and rather against

our own judgment, at last did so. But our host would receive nothing,

saying that it was for him to do honour to his guests, and that he wanted

nothing. He has sent us a most excellent dinner now, consisting of

half-a-dozen really well-cooked dishes, things we had not tasted since we

left Bagdad. There is also a live lamb to take with us to-morrow, and

two large boxes of sweetmeats made of fruits and flowers.

_April_ 7.—Our visit to Huseyn Koli Khan, though a disappointment in some

ways, for it was but a morning call, has been none the less a good

fortune to us. The confidential man whom the Khan sent with us brought

us early into Shustar, and through his intervention we are now

comfortably established in a really delightful place, the deserted palace

of the Shahzade, or Prince Governor of the province, which is to us as a

haven of repose, fortress and palace and garden in one. But all this

requires description.

Shustar from the river is extraordinarily like Dizful. The Karkería, on

which it stands, is the Diz over again, but I think a larger river; and

there is a stone bridge apparently of the same date. The bridge of

Shustar is a fine work. It is the broadest I have ever seen out of

Europe, for one might drive a coach across it but for the holes; and it

is quite fifty feet high above the water. The most singular feature of

it is that it is built in a zigzag, and that it has immense piers to the

buttresses, some of which seem to have held waterwheels. The parapet is

very low, and the whole thing so much out of repair, that crossing it as

we did, in a hurricane of wind, we were rather nervous about the camels.

Below it is an immense weir, over which the river falls with a deafening

roar. A fine arched gateway shuts it off from the city, and just above

stands the castle, where we are.

Shustar seems a larger town than Dizful, but it is said to be less

flourishing. They both have great empty spaces within the walls, and

plenty of ruins. The kalat is an immense rambling place, enclosing a

number of different buildings. First, there are rows of vaulted

buildings, intended probably for barracks, with a large outer court, full

just now of green pasture, a sort of mallow, on which we have turned our

camels out to graze. These outbuildings are two storeys high, with

loop-holes to shoot out of. From the outer court a paved causeway leads

up to a narrow gate, the entrance of an inner castle, built round a large

square court, with trees and flower-beds in the middle. From this again

a flight of fifteen steps leads up to a terrace, garden, and pavilion

three storeys high. This last is the hammam, and is the building

specially placed at our disposal. The Shahzade is absent, and the only

inhabitants of his kalat are a garrison of about a dozen soldiers, but

they live in the outer circle of buildings, and will not disturb us. The

prince-governor’s absence is a disadvantage to us, although we profit by

it to inhabit his house, for our letters are to him, and we do not know

what sort of wakil he has left here. To-day, however, we have seen

nobody, and have been very happy and content in the coolness and peace of

all around. Only the river makes a distant roar, far below, for from the

terrace one looks sheer down at least eighty feet to the water.

_April_ 8.—This spot is like a thing in a fairy tale. Our pavilion

contains several rooms on the ground-floor, grouped round a central piece

where there is a fountain; and above this is a gallery with more empty

rooms round it. We live on the ground-floor, and our windows open on to

a narrow terrace with a low stone parapet, from which one can throw a

stone down into the river. The Karkeria makes a sharp bend just above

Shustar, round what looks like the most beautiful park, a level

greensward with immense dark green shady trees, standing as if planted

for ornament. Here we sit, and late in the evening and early in the

morning I see a pair of pelicans swimming or flying below. The terrace

communicates with the garden, which is gay with poppies, pink and lilac

and white, in full bloom. There is a little tank, and a row of stunted

palm-trees, where rollers, green and blue birds like jays, sit, while

swifts dart about catching mosquitoes and flies, only a few hundred,

alas, out of the millions that torment us. For there is no rose without

a thorn, nor is this lovely kiosk and garden full of blooming poppies

without its plague. The flies and mosquitoes are maddening, and to-day

the heat of summer has burst upon us. After a hot night, the day dawned

hotter still, and a sultry wind blew up dark clouds, till now the sky is

black all round.

Towards evening we had thunder and lightning, but hardly a drop of rain;

and to-night the air is heavy as lead. I am getting anxious now about

the heat. I wish we could get away, either to the hills or the sea but I

fear we shall be detained some days. The storm has prevented the

Shahzade’s wakil from paying us the visit he announced this morning, and

we cannot even prepare to go on without seeing him; we are, in fact,

dependent on his assistance. We sent him our letter for the Shahzade

early this morning, and Hajji Mohammed brought back word that he was

coming immediately; but we have been waiting all day, and he has not

come. What is still more tiresome is the unfortunate circumstance that

no letter has come for us from the British Consul at Bussora. This puts

us into an awkward position; we had given out that we expected the

letter, and it is worse to say that one expects such a letter and not to

get it, than never to have mentioned it.

Several visitors have been to see us, two or three merchants, a doctor,

and others; they all, on hearing we had not received the countenance we

had expected, looked on us somewhat doubtfully, in spite of our talking

about our letter of recommendation to the Shahzade. However, we shall

see what the wakil says to-morrow.

_April_ 10.—This is the evening of our fourth day at Shustar, and we are

not absolutely sure of starting, though we hope to get away to-morrow

morning. . . . Yesterday was a wretched day. The night before last

Wilfrid was suddenly taken ill, and though the attack has now passed off,

it has left him weak. A serious indisposition makes all minor

difficulties seem trifles; but these become important when they cause

delay, and we have been in much trouble about getting servants.

This town life is certainly not healthy in the great heat (and summer has

come upon us in earnest); and every day wasted will make travelling more

difficult, and the heat greater. We hope, however, that we have settled

all with the governor, but until we are actually off I shall not be at

ease.

The wakil has reluctantly promised us an escort for Bebahan, protesting

that the country between it and Shustar is so unsafe, that he cannot

guarantee our safety, but he may at the last moment recall his promise.

And we are still without a servant, except a little man who takes the

camels out to graze in the morning, and brings them home at night. This

little man says he will go with us, but I doubt his doing so when the

moment comes; so many people have offered their services and then backed

out, amongst them the so-called “Sheykh” Mohammed, our acquaintance of

the mill and not a sheykh at all, only a zellem of Chaab extraction, and

a householder of Shustar. But we do not like him, nor any of the

candidates, except two soldiers, and these we cannot have, as they belong

to the small garrison of the kalat, and the governor refuses to give them

leave.

The governor has been very suspicious of us, and thrown all the obstacles

he could in our way. He came yesterday, fortunately not till Wilfrid was

better and able to receive him, and was evidently indisposed to further

our wishes. His manner, though extremely polite, showed that he was

determined we should go to Ahwas, not Bebahan. He strongly urged us to

give up all notion of taking the Bebahan road; the country was unsafe; no

escort short of a thousand men would suffice to get us through, and that

number he had not at his disposal; and besides, we should be wanting in

respect to the Shahzade if we did not go and present our letter to him;

we were really bound to go to Ahwas, where we should find him. As to a

letter from the English balioz (consul) at Bussora, no such communication

had been received; and he the wakil, knew nothing about us. He could

only repeat that he would do nothing for us except forward us to Ahwas.

He positively refused an escort for any other object.

Things were in this position when the wakil left, and we were at our

wits’ end, when fortunately, a young gentleman called who belongs to the

telegraph office, Mirza Ali Mohammed, of Shiraz, “captain of telegraphs,”

who talks a little Arabic, and a little French. It then occurred to

Wilfrid to telegraph to the Legation at Teheran, requesting that the

government there should be asked to order the wakil of Shustar to give us

an escort to Bebahan. The captain of telegraphs carried off this

message, which he had written and translated into Persian for us, and the

money for its transmission; but this morning he returned the money, with

news that the telegram could not be sent. The fact is he dared not send

it without informing his superior, who declined to let it go. But it has

had its effect. The governor has no pretext now for doubting our

respectability, for suspicious characters would not want to communicate

with the central government at Teheran. So instead of a thousand, we are

to have an escort of six men and a sergeant to accompany us to Bebahan.

It has been unwillingly granted, and I shall not be surprised if it

should even yet be withdrawn.

_Later_.—There seems to have been a storm somewhere; the air is clear,

and we hope for less oppressive weather. But the foretaste of heat we

have had, is a warning. We have talked over our plans, and agreed to

give up all idea of pushing on to Bender Abbas, and to be satisfied with

reaching Bushire. There can be no difficulty in finding Captain Cameron,

for he will be obliged to pass between Bebahan and the sea, but we must

make haste or he will have crossed our line before we can get to the

coast. His intention was to keep as near to the coast as possible, so

that we ought to meet him near or at Bender Dilam.

Three or four respectable merchants of Shustar have waited upon us this

evening, and given us much friendly advice about the dangers of travel in

which we do not much believe. They shook their heads when Wilfrid

remarked, that surely under the administration of the Shahzade and his

excellent wakil, the country must be safe, and assured us that the wakil

was perfectly justified in dissuading us from our undertaking. It would

be much safer to go to Ahwas. Another, Hajji Abdallah, had with him a

letter in English from an English firm at Bushire, which he begged us to

translate. It was far from complimentary, and we had some difficulty in

disguising it under a form of Arabic politeness. He, too, was loud in

his dissuasion of our journey.

Our visitors shewed no sign of going away, and I believe they would have

sat on all through the night talking, had we not dismissed them. Hajji

Abdallah’s last words were an entreaty to reconsider our decision, and

abandon the foolish plan of going to Bebahan. He has once been that way

he says, and would not for the world go again; there are not only

dangerous wild tribes, but mountain passes and impassable rocks. We

listened unmoved, and in fact we had no choice.

[Picture: Shagran]

CHAPTER V.

“Solitudinem faciunt, pacem appellant.”

TACITUS.

Illness and misery—A Persian escort—The Shah’s Arab subjects—Ram Hormuz

and its nightingales—Night marching—Deserted villages—How they collect

taxes in Persia—Bebahan.

_Friday_, _April_ 11.—It would be easy to quote unlucky starts on

Fridays, and I am afraid this is one. Wilfrid is ill again, a passing

fatigue we hope, from loading the camels this morning in the hot sun, and

riding all day long in it. He is lying down now in the tent and trying

to rest, but the flies are intolerable.

Our plan in leaving Shustar was to go with our escort, seven soldiers on

foot, armed six with matchlocks and one with a narghileh, to Ram Hormuz,

a small town eighty miles on the road to Bebahan, and there get a

reinforcement from the Ferraz-bashi or deputy governor of the place for

the other eighty miles. This sounded well enough, but already our escort

has deserted us, and we are alone.

After delays of all sorts, for till the moment of starting we were still

without servants, we got our camels loaded, and about ten o’clock rode

out of the palace gate and through the streets of Shustar, and over a

stone bridge, which spans the second of the two branches of the river on

which the town stands, and into the open country beyond. It was terribly

hot, and the whole country is a plague of flies, which buzz about one all

day long, and settle on one’s head at night.

Our camels have profited by the mallows in the court of the palace to

such an extent that they are all fat and frisky, and we had some trouble

in loading them. But, at the last moment, we had an unexpected offer of

assistance. A young Arab, dressed in a green calico jibbeh, suddenly

appeared upon the scene, and volunteered his services. He had a pleasant

face, so that we were taken with him at once. He told us that he was a

native of some village on the Tigris near Bagdad, and that he had been

impressed by the Turks for their navy, in which he had served three

years, that he had then managed to desert while in port at Bussorah, and

had fled across the border to Mohamrah. He had since earned his bread by

working as horse-keeper for one of the Bawiyeh sheykhs, and later, tiring

of that, in service with different Persians at Shustar. His idea now,

was to get down to the sea once more, and he begged us to take him with

us to Bushire. By accident Hajji Mohammed knew something of some of his

relations at Bagdad, and as such a person was exactly what we most

wanted, we accepted him at once, on his own terms. This young fellow’s

coming has been an advantage to us in more ways than one, for it had the

immediate effect of inducing another of the crowd who were witnessing our

departure to volunteer, and a little red-haired Persian in blue frock and

trowsers, came forward to enlist in our service. Thus we are no longer

wholly dependent on our old cavass and on ourselves.

As soon as we were outside the town, our sergeant and the six soldiers

began to give themselves airs of military importance, advancing in front

of us in skirmishing order, and enjoining us to keep close together,

although the country had a quite peaceable appearance, the road much

frequented by country people on donkeys, unarmed and peaceable folks.

The track led through undulating ground chiefly barren, here and there a

patch of cultivation, often between high banks. Our brave defenders here

shewed their zeal by running up to the tops of the steepest and highest

of these banks, firing off their guns at random, generally in the air,

but one of the shots hit a lizard sitting in its hole. Their energy,

however, cooled as the heat increased; and towards noon, they were

satisfied to trudge along with only an occasional diversion to look out

for enemies. By a quarter to one o’clock, they all seemed tired, and we

too were glad to halt for three quarters of an hour, under a large shady

canora tree, in the midst of a field of oats. Here we ate our luncheon,

while the animals fed on the oats. Wilfrid complained a little of the

sun, but it was not till we had gone on again for a couple of hours that

he acknowledged he felt really ill. We were just turning off the track

to the north, to go to the tents of a certain Hassan Khan, known to the

soldiers, when he said he could have gone no further. The tents were not

a mile from the road, but getting there was almost too much for him. We

found them set in a circular enclosure, fenced in by a hedge of branches,

like a new made Sussex fence, and evidently intended to last longer than

a true Bedouin camp ever does. Here there are about a dozen small tents,

half hair, half matting. Outside the enclosure, a few mares and foals

grazing, among them one rather nice filly, Wadneh Hursan they say, and

animals of all sorts, cows, sheep, and goats have been brought inside the

hedge for the night.

Wilfrid is extremely tired. The rest seems to have done him no good. He

complains of his head and of pains all over. I hope fatigue and the heat

are sufficient to account for his feeling ill. I dread a return of the

attack he had at Shustar. I wish we had not left the town. This is a

forlorn spot to be ill in, and though at Shustar we should be no better

off, as far as concerns getting out of the country, there would be a few

more comforts, and a chance of sending for help to Bussora. If he gets

worse we shall be in an almost hopeless position. Every place seems

frightfully far off the moment there is a difficulty about moving; to get

back to Shustar would be almost as impracticable as to go on to Ram

Hormuz. Seven hours’ travelling seems now an impassable gulf. I have

arranged a sort of mosquito net for Wilfrid against the flies, but it

only keeps them out for a time, and then a few manage to get inside it,

and it has all to be rearranged. But now it is nearly sundown, and the

flies will go to sleep at dark; and if the night is cool he may get some

sleep.

Everybody here is fortunately kind. Hassan Khan, the chief, is away at

Shustar, but his brother Kambar Aga received us well. He has good

manners, speaks Arabic pretty fairly, and has been telling me about his

tribe, a section of the Bawiyeh of Ajjem, as distinguished from the

Bawiyeh of the Ottoman dominions. The people and their chief seem to be

very poor. Kambar professes himself ready to accompany us to-morrow to

another camp not far off, and on our line of march, that of Hajji Salman,

an Arabic-speaking tribe; this is fortunate, as our escort has deserted.

They probably never meant to come further than this, but however that may

be, they have in fact abandoned us and gone home to Shustar. In the

middle of the day, while we were sitting under the canora tree, they

demanded money, and Hajji Mohammed foolishly, without asking us, gave

them as much as they ought to have had for the whole journey to Ram

Hormuz, and as a consequence, having secured their pay, and with no

further motive for taking trouble they departed. Their company is no

loss, they were disagreeable and tiresome, but they were of value as a

mark of government protection, and in that respect it is unfortunate that

they have left us.

Escort or no escort I care not, if only Wilfrid would get better, and he

seems no better.

_Saturday evening_, _April_ 12.—Wilfrid alarmingly ill all night. He got

rapidly worse, and then seemed unconscious of all around; it seemed

hopeless, but now he has rallied, and I think the worst is over. Still I

have made up my mind not to look beyond the necessity of the moment, and

indeed these twenty-four hours blot out past and future. I don’t know

why I write a journal. He cannot sit up yet, though he says he shall be

able to travel to-night. I don’t know what to think, but the wish to

move is something gained; a short time ago he could hardly speak, and if

he really has turned the corner, a few hours may make a great difference.

He now says that by travelling at night only, he shall be able to go on.

Ghada, our new Arab, has behaved very well. I hardly know what I should

have done without him to keep the fire up all night, and help to make

medicines and beef-tea. In the evening and night I tried everything I

could think of out of our small stock of medicines, and in vain. The sun

rose and blazed fiercely, and the flies swarmed as before. But in the

afternoon the illness took another turn, and now, at any rate, the danger

seems to be past.

To please Wilfrid, though I doubt his being able to travel, I have packed

up everything and got the tents down, and each separate load put ready;

for to carry out the plan of night-travelling, we must load after dark,

that is, by the light of a very small moon, when it rises about one

o’clock. We are then to be off, Wilfrid to ride his delúl, and we are to

get as far as we can; I have got cold tea and beef-tea in bottles, to be

accessible at any moment. He has remained lying down on his rugs and

pillow, the only things not yet packed, which, when the time comes, will

be put on his delúl.

Kambar Aga and his tribe are good people. Nothing could be kinder than

they have been. Hassan Khan has sent a third brother from Shustar, Aga

Ibrahim, who is to accompany us with six of his men to Hajji Salman’s

camp.

_April_ 13.—Wilfrid was able to travel for four hours, and though much

exhausted seems really none the worse. We reached the Salamat camp about

six this morning. We hope to set out presently—about sunset.

The moon rose last night towards one o’clock, but owing to the slowness

of everybody the loading took more than an hour. They all wanted to wait

till the moon should be high in the sky before starting. We first struck

across the plain of pasture and scrub to get back to the track, and then

pursued our way along it eastwards. At half-past five we saw some tents

to the south, but these our guides said were the wrong ones. An hour

later met two zellems, who told us the contrary, but too late for us to

return; and they added that they came from a camp of Salamat Arabs an

hour or so further east. It was already hot, but we pushed on, the road

good and level, splendid pasture, hills to the left, an interminable

plain in front and to the right, extending to the Karkeria and beyond it.

Some tents were pointed out to us, said to be on the opposite bank of the

river. We reached the Salamat camp, Sheykh Abeyeh, at eight o’clock.

A few fairly good-looking but very small mares are to be seen. The camp

has been evidently on the spot for weeks, and is accordingly unsavoury,

more like a village than a camp.

We have, or rather had, for I write while waiting to start, our tent on a

small tell separated by a dip in the ground from the Salamat encampment.

The ground here is covered with a horrid little spiked grass, like

miniature barley to look at, which pricks through everything. Its barbed

thorns are like fish-hooks, very difficult to extract, and all our

clothes and bedding are full of them.

Wilfrid spent the day lying down in the tent, able to talk though tired.

The people here are not ill-bred, and they have even been kind to us.

Their Sheykh, Abeyeh, with several of his friends, and relations, came to

see us soon after our arrival. Abeyeh told us that his tribe belongs to

the Ahl es-Shimal, and he knows all about the tribes of the Hamád and

their horses. His brother Rashid showed us a very beautiful grey colt,

which he offered to exchange for our hamra mare, who is suffering from a

sore back. The colt is too young, or might have been worth taking; the

owner says he would not part with it but that the Shahzade has intimated

an intention of buying it. The Shahzade is, it seems, in the habit of

purchasing all the good-looking horses he hears of, and does not pay for

them, but he does not take mares; this, at least, is the tale told to us.

Our mare, though thoroughbred, is in such wretched condition that the

Shahzade would hardly care to seize her.

Abeyeh readily agreed to escort us to Ram Hormuz with six khayal, Rashid

proposed to accompany us on foot as camel driver, and Aga Ibrahim (from

Hassan Khan’s), also offers to go on. It is five o’clock, time to pack.

* * * * *

Eight o’clock. Wilfrid felt so ill an hour ago that all these

arrangements seemed to be vain. But he is better, and now we are off.

_April_ 14.—Our new plan of travelling by night seems to answer well.

Wilfrid was able to go on from nine till five o’clock. He is recovering,

though reduced to the extreme of thinness. The heat during the day is

insufferable, and even if there had been no cause of anxiety, we could

hardly have continued marching by day. The flies are intolerable, they

sitting in swarms upon our heads, and if driven off, perch again in spite

of darkness. However, in the dark they are quiet unless disturbed, which

is some small relief. Last night our track went a good deal up and down,

crossing small ravines and watercourses, and pools and ditches full of

water. Sometimes we waded through tall grass, splendid stuff, growing

quite wild and uncared for. The moon serves us hardly at all, but we

could see dimly by starlight. The constellation of the Scorpion is now

our guide, rising as it does in the south-east. I have slept little

lately, and once last night I fell fast asleep on horseback, and woke

with a start at a sound of munching. It was my mare grazing eagerly

knee-deep in wild oats. Where the camels were I could not see, but heard

them soon afterwards some way off ahead. Wilfrid bore up as long as he

could, till at five o’clock he said he could not go a yard further, and

we camped for the day, pitching the tent on a tell commanding all

surrounding tells. Our escort objected to this halt. “The Shirazi will

come down from those hills and rob us,” said Abeyeh, “and the town of Ram

Hormuz is only three or four hours further. Let us go on.” His

objection was natural; this is very exposed ground, and close to us on

the north rises a range of crags, from which the Shirazi robbers may be

watching us. But perched on the tell we get a little air, and this is

worth some risk. Besides, they have not come yet, and we shall he gone

presently. Abeyeh argued in vain; if there had been legions of robbers

in sight, I don’t think Wilfrid would have moved. He was indeed unfit to

stir, and has been lying on the ground under the shade of the tent ever

since. A halt like this is not much of a rest; the heat is too

overpowering, the flies too troublesome. Beyond the rocky range we see

high snow peaks, very tantalising in this furnace, and looking the other

way, there is just below us a fine piece of meadow land on the banks of a

running stream. In all the hollows there is rich pasture. Abeyeh and

his men have kept a good look-out, some posted about on heights, and the

rest watching the mares hobbled, and turned loose to graze.

It is four o’clock; the heat lessening, and Wilfrid says he is ready to

go on. We must pack.

* * * * *

_April_ 15.—We have at last reached Ram Hormuz, or as it is pronounced

“Ramuz.” We left our bivouac on the tell at five o’clock yesterday

afternoon. Wilfrid tried riding on horseback, but found the effort too

great, and had to give it up and mount his delúl. Our way lay through

more long grass, and ditches, and water. I, as sleepy as the night

before, was constantly dozing off and waking suddenly in the middle of

some long dream, unable to remember where I was. There is nothing so

painful as this struggle with sleep, and it lasted all night long. At

last we came suddenly in sight of some camp fires about half a mile away

to our right, and Abeyeh, fearing to advance further, ordered a halt.

There was danger, he said, in coming on an encampment unawares, lest we

should be taken for enemies. We did not stop to argue, but with delight

obeyed, and in a few minutes were sound asleep upon the ground—nor did we

wake till day was already breaking.

A discussion now arose what further was to be done. The tents, we were

informed, belonged to the Khamis, an Arab tribe, half Bedouin, half

fellah, and Abeyeh was for spending the day with them. But the sound

sleep had done Wilfrid good, and as it grew light we could see the palm

groves of Ram Hormuz, apparently ten miles off, and we knew that there we

should get refuge from the sun. So leaving the rest to follow or not as

they would—we got on our horses and started at a gallop, Shiekha and

Sayad bounding on in front of us delighted at this unexpected run. At

first there was no road, and we got entangled in a series of

watercourses, but scrambling through these we reached a footpath where

the going was good, and presently overtook a party of Arabs, men and

women, riding in on donkeys to market at the town. They all expressed

themselves much pleased to see us, taking us to be Arabs like themselves,

and here in Persia they always seem delighted to meet their countrymen.

They pointed us out the town, for there was more than one grove of palms,

and in the mirage which hid everything as the sun rose, we had lost sight

of it. At half-past six we stopped at the ferraz-bashi’s door, and in

another minute were sitting in a cool court-yard under the shade of a

wall, waiting till the respectable functionary, our host, had finished

his devotions.

On the sight of our letters from the governor of Shustar he made us very

welcome—conversing through the medium of his secretary, who knows Arabic.

Carpets were brought, and tea made—the most delicious draught we ever

tasted in our lives—flavoured with orange and some acid fruit. The

gallop has cured Wilfrid, and he says he shall not be ill again.

Our caravan having arrived, we have moved outside the town, for the

ferraz-bashi’s house is not big enough to hold us all, and are encamped

on a little mound overlooking the gardens which skirt Ram Hormuz. I wish

I could describe the beauty of this place. Round us lie a few acres of

green wheat, in which quails and francolins are calling, and through

which a little stream of running water winds. Close by, on another

mound, stands a beautiful little kubbr, the tomb of some saint, and on

either side gardens half run wild, a delicious tangle of pomegranate,

fig, and vine, with here and there lemon and peach, and groups of palm.

The pomegranates now are in full flower, and so are the roses, and every

thicket is alive with nightingales. It is nearly sunset, and groups of

blue-gowned Persians are coming across the fields from the town, to wash

and say their prayers at the stream and the kubbr. The town itself is

half hidden in the gardens, but shows picturesquely through, backed by a

range of crimson hills, scored and lined with blue shadows. We have been

following the edge of these hills all the way from Shustar. They are the

same which are supposed to hold the Shirazi robbers our Arab escort

feared so much.

The position of the Arabs here is a miserable one. At war with these

Shirazi, and pillaged by the Government which does nothing to protect

them, they still cling to their little bits of cultivation wherever there

is water near the hills. They are half the year nomadic, going south and

west with the flocks, but in the spring return to the hills, plough up a

few acres, and gather in a crop if possible before the tax-gatherer has

found them out. The Persian Government is weak, and the garrison of Ram

Hormuz is generally only sufficient for its duty of holding the town, but

every now and then a reinforcement arrives from Ahwas or Fellahieh and

then a raid is made under pretext of a collection of arrears, and horses

and cattle are driven off in payment. This seems to be the plan

throughout the province. We asked Abeyeh and the Khamis Sheykh who came

with him to-day to our camp, why they put themselves into this government

trap by coming to the hills, when they might remain unmolested in the

plain, or go where they would. “It is the soil,” they exclaimed, “the

soil which is so rich. Where should we find another like it?” Indeed,

the whole of this side of Persia seems meant to be a garden. Unlike the

plains of Bagdad, which never can have been cultivated except with

irrigation, the land here grows crops as in Europe, watered by the rain

from heaven. The range of Bactiari hills by attracting clouds gives it

this rare advantage.

Ram Hormuz itself must have been a great city once. Its position at a

point where several rivers meet, and at the foot of a gorge, leading

through the mountains to Shiraz, makes it naturally a place of

importance, but it is little more now than a market for the Bedouin

tribes and a military station.

The ferraz-bashi has been very amiable to us, though, like everyone else,

averse to our further progress in the direction of Bebahan. The road, he

says, is most unsafe, every village at war with its neighbour, and he

dares not send troops with us even if he had them. There is, however, in

the town, a certain potentate of the district first to be traversed, one

Mohammed Jafar, Khan of the village of Sultanabad, who can protect us if

any one can. To him we are to be recommended, and perhaps he will go on

with us to-morrow. Abeyeh and his men, alas, can go no further. They

are Arabs, and honest men, and camel drivers, and we have bid them

good-bye with regret. But the people further on are Persian, and Persian

and Arabian are everywhere at odds. The idea is not agreeable of

plunging into a hornet’s nest, such as the country beyond us is described

to be, but there is no help for it; to return is impossible. Every day

becomes more and more fearfully hot, and our only hope now is the sea.

_April_ 16.—We are refreshed by a good night’s rest, such as we have not

had since leaving Shustar. The ferraz-bashi called again this morning,

walking out in the cool of sunrise, with a rose in his hand, to pay us

his compliment. It seems to be the fashion among the Persians to go

about with flowers, which they present to each other as polite offerings,

and just now it is the season of roses. His Excellency informed us that

Kaïd Mohammed Jafar would be ready to start for Sultanabad at the asr

(about half past three), so we have made all our preparations for

departure. Although the heat has been great, 96° at coolest, I have

managed to make a sketch of Ram Hormuz, but nothing can do justice to its

beauty. We have been more pleasantly received here, than anywhere else

in Persia, and I feel sure we might make friends with the people if only

we could speak their language. Travelling without knowing the language,

is like walking with one’s eyes shut.

_April_ 17.—Mohammed Jafar arrived soon after four, and immediately we

started. It was of importance that no time should be lost, for we had a

river to cross, the Jerrahi which comes down here from the mountains, and

runs into the Persian Gulf, at Fellahieh. The country, till we came to

it, was a difficult one for camels, being a very network of irrigation,

with the channels crossed by treacherous little bridges. But the camels

managed it all without accident. The river, of which we crossed two

branches, flows over a bed of gravel, and was nowhere over our horses’

girths. The water very cold, with melted snow, so that a delicious

breeze of iced air followed the current. It was now past sundown, and we

were anxious to be clear of the inclosed ground, before it should be

absolutely night; but the Kaïd, tiresome man, had made an arrangement

with some friends at a little village beyond the river to dine with them,

and then go on in the night, a plan which did not at all suit us. Indeed

it was impossible for us, with our camels, to halt in such a spot, where

we could not have prevented them trampling the standing corn, and where

we should have been helpless after dark. So declining, as politely as we

could, the hospitality offered, we left the Kaïd to take his meal with

his four horsemen, and pushed on alone. A villager was sent to show us

the way, for we were not a mile from open ground, and night was falling

and every minute precious, and we were resolved to reach it if we could.

Road, however, it soon appeared there was none, for to reach the village,

the Kaïd had taken us away from the main path, and as it grew darker we

got more and more entangled, in dykes and ditches. At one moment things

seemed almost hopeless with us, a deep canal barring all further

progress, and the villager who had brought us to this pass, profiting by

the confusion, having run away. Fortunately Wilfrid perceived this

flight in time, and riding after him fired his pistol in the air, and

brought him back, when, under the compulsion of fear, he showed us where

to cross. It was a poor ford, and some of the loads got wet, but beyond

it we were on hard ground, and able now to wait in patience till the Kaïd

and his men should come. Our shot seemed to have disturbed their feast,

and we had not long to wait. Then we marched on in silence and utter

darkness, but over a good road, till half-past one in this morning, when

a loud barking of dogs announced our arrival at Sultanabad.

Here the Kaïd has a house to which he at once retired, leaving us to lie

down in our cloaks, with our camels and horses, till daylight. He would

willingly have invited us in, but we dare not leave our beasts and

property, and now we have pitched our tent for the day, looping it up as

usual, like an umbrella, to get every breath of air. When day dawned, we

saw the Kaïd’s house on one side of us, with three big canora trees

overshadowing its entrance, and a walled garden at the back of it; on the

other side the village with its barley fields and splendid grass crops.

The houses of the village, built of sun-dried brick, are in a cluster

together, about two hundred yards from our mound; in front of them two or

three black tents. The Kaïd’s house is of considerable size, and appears

to contain several court-yards. Sultanabad is itself a poor,

mean-looking place, but if Hajji Mohammed is to be believed, a very nest

of brigands, any one of whom for one single kran would kill a man, a real

stronghold of robbers, and as such keeping the neighbouring country in

terror. But I don’t know what to think, for Hajji Mohammed believes

every tale he hears, and the horsemen have been cramming him all the way

along with stories of Mohammed Jafar’s exploits, to enhance their chief’s

importance. How he does what he likes in the teeth of the government,

who dare not punish him for having killed several of the Shahzade’s

people only a couple of years ago, how only he and his Sultanabadis can

travel safely on the Bebahan road; and one can hardly blame poor Hajji

Mohammed for expecting us to lead him into mischief, for we have before

done so, and he thinks us reckless of danger. He is always lecturing us

on prudence, though he himself is an odd combination of caution and

rashness; he once at a critical moment wanted to stuff his revolver into

an inaccessible bag, merely because the strap of the belt belonging to it

was broken; another time he would have given his gun to a stranger to

carry, had we not prevented his doing so. We spent this morning drinking

tea and eating eggs and butter and a kid, and spreading wet things to

dry. Fortunately no serious damage has been done, and the fierce sun

soon dried everything. A breeze sprang up, too, which helped the drying,

and drove away the flies.

Hajji Mohammed was commissioned in the course of the morning to negotiate

terms with the Kaïd, who had been already sounding the cavass as to how

much money could be got from us. He has really done it very well, and

arranged that at Bebahan we are to pay the Kaïd one hundred krans. The

great man at first asked for an abba or a cashmere shawl, but here Hajji

Mohammed seems to have spoken with proper firmness.

We want to start at half-past four, and ought to pack now, but the

servants are dawdling over the remains of the kid; they will not move

till they have devoured the last morsel. Besides, they have got several

girths to mend before we can load.

_April_ 18.—We had a great deal of trouble to start at all yesterday

afternoon, and after a difficult march we have got no farther than the

village of Jazûn, about fifteen miles, which was reached at five A.M.

this morning. At this rate we shall be a month getting to Bebahan,

especially if the pass over the range of rocky hills we must cross, is as

rugged as report says.

It turned out that the Kaïd himself did not intend to start with us, but

to send his nephew with four people on foot, and follow himself with the

four horsemen. He stood by as we loaded, and then wished us good

evening. When all was ready he asked us the favour to take with us a

bundle of brown wool for Bebahan, and as it was not heavy we agreed.

While Wilfrid turned to look at this package, a villager took the rifle

off his delúl, but hastily put it back on Wilfrid’s shouting “Stop

thief,” and ran off accompanied by the little crowd which had gathered

round us, no doubt equally guilty at heart, and expecting blows. Then we

started—it was about half-past five, a fine evening with a breeze, which,

alas, died away at sunset, after which for two hours the air was

extremely sultry. The Sultanabad field crops had to be crossed, but they

were on dry land, with only a few easy ditches. Then we came to ground

like a park, formerly cultivated, but now abandoned to nature; canora

trees dotted about like handsome hawthorn trees, as if planted for

ornament, the grass all crops run wild, splendid oats and barley now in

the ear. Here and there an abandoned village, the walls gleaming red in

the setting sun. Some of these were inhabited not very long since, and

we were told various tales regarding them; from one place the inhabitants

had gone away of their own accord quite lately to escape the

tax-gatherer’s next visit, leaving their corn standing; from another they

had been driven by fire and sword, the soldiers burning the village after

sacking it.

After about two hours we crossed the river Abn’l Faris; it is not many

yards wide nor is it deep, but the banks are steep and overgrown with

trees and thick bushes. A narrow and nearly perpendicular path leads

down to the ford. The camels have become skilful, and managed the

scramble admirably; Shakran now carries our personal baggage, he has

completely recovered, and is the cleverest of them all. Hajji Mohammed

sat imperturbable on Wilfrid’s delúl, and nearly got his head caught in

the tangle of branches. After this we had another water or two to cross

in the dark, the approaches to which were always announced by the

croaking of frogs; then the chirping of grasshoppers replaced the

croaking, and we were again on hard ground, the country a good deal up

and down and broken up into ravines and fissures caused by rains. At ten

o’clock, as far as we could make out by starlight, we were on good flat

pasture land, real pasture not crops, and trees growing in groups as in a

park, with a low ridge on the left. Here we halted for an hour to eat,

and thought to have a nap; but Mohammed Jafar, who after all joined us

some time before, would not hear of this. It would be dangerous; the

Shirazi would swoop down from those hills to the north. He altogether

declined remaining longer than necessary, and there was an earnestness in

his manner that brought conviction with it; he really believed in the

danger he talked of. The night was fine, and it would have been a pity

not to make use of it; we pushed on over good ground for an hour, and

after that through mud, ditches, and frogs; about one o’clock a wide

ditch completely barred further progress. We had for a good while been

again among crops, so rank that wading through them was hard work, and on

reaching this ditch, we all groped about, trying to find a passage for

the camels. There was no sort of track; the horsemen had, in fact, got

off the road and could not find it again, but there was no difficulty as

to general direction, the Scorpion being our guide. Here, however, we

were stuck fast by irrigation works, for at this particular spot the

ditch was impracticable for camels, and all efforts in the dark to hit

upon a ford were vain. The horsemen had already got across, and were

shouting to us to follow; indeed, they had for the last hour guided us in

a haphazard way by shouts and singing. One of them sang remarkably well,

and kept up a sort of refrain:

[Picture: A line of musical notes]

But now they screamed, shouted, and sang to no purpose. We refused to

waste any more time in a useless search, and sat down to wait for

daylight. One of the khayal then returned and sat with us till four A.M.

talking all the while to Hajji Mohammed about the Shirazi. We lay down

and went to sleep. By half-past four we had found a passage through the

mud and water of the canal, and beyond it got on to desert ground, on

which we passed several small detached oasis-like palm gardens. Half an

hour’s march further took us to Jazûn.

Jazûn is the only village left of many which once existed between

Sultanabad and Bebahan, and whose ruins we have passed. They were

deserted only a few years ago; the governors of the province, who found

it impossible to collect taxes from them, having solved the difficulty by

destroying them. This village is now a collection of little mud houses

on the left bank of a natural stream of running water. It is surrounded

by fields and groups of palm trees. Our horses are tethered out by long

ropes fastened to palm trees, to feed on green barley; the camels are

further off with Shafi. Shafi is an excellent worker, but he does not

speak a word of Arabic, or I should tell him how well satisfied we are

with him. We ourselves have encamped on the high bank backed by the

stream, so that the villagers, who are a tiresome set of people, can only

approach us on one side.

Jazûn as well as Sultanabad, belongs to the family of Mohammed Jafar. He

has been sitting here talking to us through Hajji Mohammed. He tells us

that his family, although they now no longer talk Arabic, are of the

Safeyeh tribe, and came originally from Nejd, bringing their horses with

them; and that a beautiful little white mare his nephew rides, and which

we admired yesterday evening, is a Hamdanyeh Simri. This mare is very

small, 13·2 at most, but almost perfect; the head very fine with black

nose, black round the eyes as if painted, _jebha_ prominent, and

_mitbakh_ extremely fine; tail properly set on and carried, a good style

of going, bones rather small, but legs apparently wiry and strong. One

of the men rides a chestnut mare said to be Kehîleh Sheykhah, about 14

hands, with four white feet, handsome head, and _mitbakh_. Mohammed

Jafar mentioned that the particular breeds now possessed by his tribe are

Hamdani Simri, Abeyan, Hadban, Wadnan, Meleyhan, Seglawi and Kehîlan.

His own grey mare does not look thoroughbred, and he did not say anything

about her. Mohammed Jafar now informed us that his nephew would proceed

to Bebahan with us while he himself must go home, and he wished to have

the whole sum of one hundred krans paid to him at once. After some talk

he agreed to take seventy krans as his share, the rest to be given to his

nephew at the end of the journey. He certainly gets the lion’s share,

but beggars cannot be choosers, and we are dependent on his goodwill to

pass us through this part of the country, so that on the whole we ought

to be glad that he has not asked more. We are altogether in a false

position, too weak to insist upon our own terms, and our best plan is to

march as fast as we can to Bebahan. Unfortunately there are not only

crags to cross, but the Kurdistan river has to be forded.

_April_ 19.—A disagreeable twenty-four hours has passed, and we have

scaled the crags, and escaped from the Jazûn people, who, it seems, had

some evil design. But there is still the Kurdistan river between us and

Bebahan.

We managed to set out from Jazûn soon after two o’clock in the afternoon,

getting at once off the plain on to broken ground, which became more and

more broken till at seven o’clock, when we halted, we were involved in a

confused mass of hills apparently tossed together at random. We had

crossed several small streams in deep ravines, and one narrow ledge of

rock at the head of a ravine, which would have been unpleasant in the

dark. Saw three or four gazelles, luckily not perceived by the

greyhounds, for we cannot stop for sport. Sand-grouse, beebirds,

plovers, and doves abounded. By seven o’clock we had done about ten

miles and ascended over 600 feet, and Wilfrid proposed to halt for some

hours. I was pleased, not liking passes and steeps in the dark, and we

still had the pass itself before us, but Abdallah Khan, the Kaïd’s

nephew, remonstrated and protested danger. Wilfrid, however, gave a

peremptory order to unload the camels and we sat down to drink tea and

make a frugal meal, and proposed afterwards to make aliek for the camels,

as they have had a tiring march and cannot feed now in the night. Before

we had done eating Hajji Mohammed came to announce that forty Jazûnis

were following to attack and plunder us. Shafi, he said, had found this

out, and told him, and he added that the welled Abdallah Khan had also

been told of the plot and warned by the villagers not to stay with us.

He called the youth, who confirmed the tale, as did all the others, the

four men on foot who had come all the way with Abdallah. It seems

probable that an attack really was contemplated, for Shafi could gain

nothing by inventing such a story. But, as Wilfrid suggested, it may

have been only a way of “expressing the polite feelings of the

inhabitants of Jazûn.” He however agreed that we ought to be on the

watch and start as soon as possible—at this moment it was really

impossible. Guns and revolvers were placed ready and sentinels posted,

and Abdallah earnestly assured us he would stand by us. I think he

would, he had been a much better guide than his uncle and was besides

always ready to help and to wait for the camels at difficult places.

After all this agitation, nothing happened except one or two false

alarms, and I don’t think I ever slept a sweeter sleep than between nine

and two o’clock this night—no mosquitoes and no flies.

It took us more than an hour to load in the dark, and we were not off

till past three o’clock; at first feeling our way in single file, led by

Abdallah, along a very broken and steep road. For part of the way we had

a little assistance from a red crescent moon. At a quarter to six, we

had gained the highest point of the ridge, between 1600 and 1700 feet

above the sea, making about 900 feet ascent from Jazûn. Here there was

at last an open view, down towards the Kurdistan river, with the palm

village of Kaïkus plainly visible, and other palm villages beyond the

river, and still further something vague, said to be Bebahan.

A gradual descent brought us on to a strip of plain, swarming with

cuckoos, beebirds, doves, francolins, and sandgrouse, and dotted with

canora trees, singly or in clumps, here and there fields of corn.

The sight of a mound commanding air, if air there should be, decided us

to halt, and here we now are, waiting for the decline of day to set out

again and ford the river. This plain by the river is hardly more than

three hundred feet below the top of the pass we came over this morning.

_Sunday_, _April_ 20.—Bebahan has been reached at last. Our final march,

though not a long one, took us till towards midnight to accomplish, for

we had the Kurdistan river to cross. This was the deepest of any we had

forded, and there was a long delay in choosing a safe place; and then the

water was up to our saddle bows, and running almost like a mill race.

But the camels are now so used to water in every form from mud to

torrents, that all marched bravely through, a portion only of the luggage

getting wet. Unfitted though the country has been in many ways for

camels, we may nevertheless congratulate ourselves with the thought that

with no other beasts of burden could we have got our luggage across the

rivers at all. Loaded mules must have been swept away.

The Kurdistan forms the boundary on this side of the cultivated plain of

Bebahan. Beyond it, we found ourselves travelling entirely between

cornfields, and along a broad highway towards the capital of Khusistan.

When two hours from the town we sent on Hajji Mohammed to announce us to

the governor, but the governor was already asleep, and it was with some

difficulty that we were admitted by the guard within the gate; nor was it

possible in the utter darkness of the night to choose our ground within

for camping. In the first open place we stopped, and as we were, lay

down and slept (we care little now, how or where it is we lie, the ground

is always soft as a feather-bed). Then, with the first light, we went on

through the town and stopped again in front of the Seraï. Here I have

been writing my journal and sketching the picturesque old palace, with

its tottering minarets covered with storks’ nests. “The Shahzade is

still sleeping,” say the sentries, “and will not be awakened.”

CHAPTER VI.

“Last scene of all . . . . . .

A mere oblivion.”—SHAKESPEARE.

A last rush through the sun—We arrive at Dilam on the Persian

Gulf—Politics of the Gulf—A journey “in extremis”—Bushire—The End.

THE rest of our journey was little better than a feverish dream of heat

and flies. After a day spent at Bebahan, where we were hospitably

entertained by the Shahzade, Ahtesham ed-Daulah, a Persian nobleman of

real good breeding, we recommenced our weary march, thinking only now to

get down to Bushire alive.

The kind invitations of our host could not detain us, nor the polite

attentions of his wives, nor the amiable visits of merchants, calendars,

and other idle persons, who thronged our lodgings from dawn to dusk. The

truth is Bebahan was like a furnace, and we felt that it was more than

our strength would stand, to prolong our sufferings over another week.

The lowlands of Persia, bordering on the Persian Gulf, are one of the

most oven-like regions of the world, and though Bebahan lies nearly 1400

feet above the sea, it shares the climate of the Gulf. We had now,

besides, nothing further to fear in the way of robbers or marauders, and

prepared ourselves for a last desperate rush through the sun to Bushire.

The distance was hardly more than a hundred and twenty miles, but between

Bebahan and Dilam there lay a region of hills, worse, according to

report, than any we had yet passed, and absolutely impassable for camels.

Still we had good reason to feel confident in the climbing powers of our

beasts, and could not think of leaving them behind. Accordingly the next

day we started, our courage well screwed to the sticking point of

endurance, and under escort of three of the Shahzade’s horsemen.

We set off at six in the afternoon, making the best of what daylight yet

remained to get well started on our road. The difficulties are almost

always greater close to the town, and once fairly on the beaten track,

our camels would have no temptation to wander. From Bebahan to Dilam

there are two considerable lines of ridges or hills—steps, as it were,

and extremely precipitous ones, down to the sea coast. At first it was

easy going for the camels, but presently, about an hour after dark, we

found ourselves in broken ground, where, after stumbling on till

half-past nine, we were brought to a dead halt by finding ourselves at

the brink of a deep gulf, in which the road seemed to disappear. This

made it necessary we should wait till daylight, and we lay down with our

camels on the road, and slept soundly till the first streak of dawn at

half-past four. Then we discovered we had left the road, though only a

few yards, and that the fissure before us was a sufficient reason for the

halt we had made. The chief formation of these hills is not rock but

clay, which being entirely without vegetation except in favoured spots,

is furrowed into ravines and fissures by the action of the rain, making

the district impassable except along the beaten track. We had risen some

hundred feet from Bebahan, and so had nearly reached the summit of the

first pass, where to our joy we saw something far away which we knew by

instinct must be the sea. This raised our spirits, and we began our

descent at once.

The path was very precipitous, and looking down from the edge it looked

impossible that a camel should get down the thousand feet of zigzag which

one could see plainly to the bottom. In some places rocks jutted out of

the soil, making awkward narrow passes, and in others there were drops of

three feet and more. Our horses of course made no difficulty, but

watching the camels was nervous work, knowing as we did how little could

be done to help them. Still we did what we could, going in front and

calling them “Hao-hao,” according to Bedouin fashion, which they

understand so well. They know us now and trust in us, and so came

bravely on. Even the Mecca delúl and the Safra, the young and giddy

ones, have learned sobriety. Three hours exactly it took to get down,

and without accident. Another hour brought us to Zeytun, a pretty

village on the river Zorah, with palm gardens and a good patch of

cultivated land. At the river we stopped, exhausted already by the sun

and overcome by the sight of the cool running water. Here we lay

frizzling till the afternoon.

At four we crossed the river, as broad but a little less deep than the

Kurdistan (both have gravelly bottoms), and resumed our march. A last

cup of the ice-cold water was indulged in, but it could not slake my

thirst, which nothing now can cure, though as a rule we drink nothing

till the evening. Our march was a repetition of last night’s, a long

stumble half asleep along a break-neck road ending as before in an

“impasse,” and the rest of the night spent on the ground. We are plagued

now, especially in these night halts, where we cannot see to choose a

bed, with the horrible little spiked grass. Every bit of clothing we

have is full of these points. These and the flies make it impossible to

sleep by day, and we are both very weary, Wilfrid almost a skeleton.

_April_ 23.—At a quarter past three, we again went on, by the light of a

false dawn, the Scorpion, still in front of us. We know exactly now the

rising of these stars in the south-eastern sky. The ascent this time was

longer and more gradual, and the descent shorter than the former one, but

quite as difficult. This second ridge is considerably lower than the

first, and at the foot of it our path followed a sort of valley in which

we found a few pools of water. Then suddenly the gorge opened and we

found ourselves at eight o’clock in the plain, with a village near us,

and about eight miles away Dilam and the sea, simmering like melted lead

to the horizon.

Eight miles, it sounds an easy march; but the heat, which now on the sea

coast is more insufferable than ever, stopped us half way, and again we

rigged up our tent on the plain, and lay under it till evening. Then we

rode into Dilam. Our first question was for Captain Cameron, whose road

should here have joined our own; but no Frank or stranger of any kind had

passed that way. {227}

Dilam, like most maritime villages on the north-eastern shore of the

Persian Gulf, is inhabited by people of Arab race, who have carried on a

mixed trade of commerce and piracy there from time immemorial. Of the

two, the piracy seems to have been the more profitable trade, for since

its suppression by the English or rather Indian navy, the villages have

languished. The Arab idea of piracy by sea, is exactly the same as that

of ghazús by land. Any stranger not in alliance with the tribe, or under

its protection, is held to be an enemy, and his goods to be lawful prize.

The greater part, however, of the armed expeditions, formerly made in the

Gulf were directed by one tribe or village against another tribe or

village, and were called in Arabic ghazús no less than if they had been

made by land. The British Government, however, naturally found these

ideas antiquated and the practice inconvenient, and in the interests of

its commerce undertook, thirty or forty years ago, to keep the police of

the Gulf. It compelled the Sheykhs of the various towns and villages to

enter into what is called the Truce of the Gulf, and piracy has

disappeared. Expeditions henceforth, if made at all, were to be made by

land, and armed vessels, if met by an English cruiser, were confiscated.

This sealed the fate of the coast villages, for the commerce of the Gulf

alone being insufficient to support them, their inhabitants took up new

quarters further inland, and from sailors became cultivators of the soil.

The sea-port villages, where ports there are, still live on but poorly,

and where there are no ports, the coast is abandoned. Dilam possesses no

regular port, except for small boats, but the anchorage is good, and I

believe the roadstead is considered one of the best in the Gulf. It has

been talked of as the terminus of an Indo-Mediterranean railway.

Dilam now is a poor place of perhaps two hundred houses, but there are a

few well-to-do people in it who presently came out to pay us their

respects. The English name is well known on the coast, and there was no

danger now of any lack of courtesy. We were besieged at once with

hospitable offers of entertainment for man and beast, but as usual

preferred our camp outside the town. This we placed on a strip of sand

dunes fronting the sea, and dividing it from the level plain which runs

inland ten miles to the foot of the hills. This strip was scattered over

with thorn bushes, in one of which a pair of cormorants were sitting.

Our visitors remonstrated with us on choosing such a spot, assuring us

that it was full of poisonous snakes, but this no doubt was nonsense.

Among the rest came a wild-looking man with a gun, who told us he was a

Beluch, and sent by the governor of Dilam as a guard, to protect us

during the night. He had been in Turkish service, and was now in the

Persian. This was our first meeting with anything Indian. We liked the

man. In the evening, when it was dark and all were gone, Wilfrid gave

himself the luxury of bathing in salt water.

We had now done what few if any Europeans had done before,—come all the

way by land from the Mediterranean to the Persian Gulf: our journey had

been over two thousand miles.

_April_ 24.—There was now a great debate whether we should go on still by

land for the other hundred miles which remained to us before we could

reach Bushire, or whether, selling our camels here at Dilam, we should

hire a sefineh, or native boat, to convey us with our things by sea.

Wilfrid was much taken with this last idea, thinking that the arrangement

would save us from another week’s toil in the overwhelming heat; but to

me the sight of the rickety boats in which we should have had to trust

ourselves and our horses to the mercy of the winds and waves, was

sufficient to make me rejoice that the negotiation about a sea journey

failed. Then it was decided to march on as before. There seemed

something sad, too, in abandoning our camels here, and taking to the

ships of the sea where they could not follow us; and though we knew our

parting from them was anyhow at hand, it was a respite to take them on.

We had got, from our long care of them, to take great pride in their

condition, and they were now fat and free from mange, a triumph of

management which only those who have travelled far and loved their camels

will understand.

On the afternoon of the 24th, having spent just twenty-four hours at

Dilam, we struck our tents, and began our last march.

The country bordering the Persian Gulf is here a dead flat, little, if

anything, raised above the level of the sea. It is very barren, and

impregnated for the most part with saltpetre, while here and there broad

tidal creeks intersect it, wherever a stream runs into it from the hills.

These formed the only obstacle to our march, and we travelled more easily

now by night, for there began to be a moon.

I hurry over these last days, indeed the heat and the march absorbed all

our faculties and thought. Our plan was to start about three o’clock in

the afternoon, when usually a light breeze sprang up from the south-east,

and travel on till the moon set, or till some creek barred passage for

the night; then sleep upon the ground till dawn, and on again till eight.

By that hour the sun had become a fierce and importunate thing, beating

as if with a weight upon our heads; and, choosing a place where there was

some show of pasture, we unloaded and turned out our beasts to graze, and

then rigged up the tent and lay gasping under it in the breathless air,

supporting life with tea. Hajji Mohammed now was only capable of

tea-making. In all things else he had become idiotic, sitting half back

on his beast, or in the tent, ejaculating: “Allah kerim,” God is

generous. Our tempers all were severely tried, and we could do little

now to help each other. Ghada and Rahim, Arab and Persian, were at

daggers drawn. The horses’ backs for the first time were getting sore,

and the dogs were run nearly off the soles of their feet. Shiekha and

Sayad in a course in which they killed a gazelle were injured, the former

having cut her feet badly on the glazed edges of some dry cracked mud she

had galloped over. Lastly, and this was a terrible grief, one of the

camels being badly loaded had slipped its pack, and in the fall Rasham

had been crushed. The falcon’s leg was broken, and for the last three

days of our journey, it seemed impossible he should live, clinging as he

was obliged to do by one leg to the saddle. It was all like a

night-mare, with no redeeming feature but that we knew now the end was

close at hand.

On the 25th we reached Gunawa, on the 26th Bender Rik and on the 27th,

Rohalla, where we crossed the river, and then marching on without halting

through the night, we forded a shallow arm of the sea, and found

ourselves the next morning about dawn upon the edge of the Khor, or salt

lake of Bushire. As the sun rose Bushire itself was before us, and our

long march was at an end.

It was now necessary to abandon our nomadic life, and shipping all our

goods in a “baggara,” and leaving the unloaded camels to be driven round

at low tide to the neck of the Bushire peninsula, we put ourselves and

our dogs and bird on board, and with a fresh breeze ran in two hours to

the custom-house landing. There, taken for Arabs, we had long to wait,

but in the end procuring porters, walked in procession through the

streets to the Residency. When we arrived at the door of the Residency,

the well-dressed Sepoys in their smart European uniforms, barred us the

door with their muskets. They refused to believe that such vagabonds,

blackened with the sun, and grimed with long sleeping on the ground, were

English gentlefolks or honest people of any sort.

APPENDIX.

[Picture: Granite range of Jebel Shammar. Effect of mirage]

NOTES ON THE PHYSICAL GEOGRAPHY OF NORTHERN ARABIA.

Arabia between latitude 34° and latitude 29°, may be described in general

terms as a plain of sand-stone grit, or gravel, unbroken by any

considerable range of hills, or by any continuous watercourse, if we

except the Wady Hauran, which traverses it in the extreme north and in

rainy seasons forms a succession of pools from the Harra, east of Jebel

Hauran, to the Euphrates. This stony plain is known to the Bedouins as

the Hamád or “Plain” _par excellence_; and though for the most part

destitute of perennial pasture, or of water above ground, there are

certain districts in it better provided which form their winter quarters.

Such are the above mentioned Wady Hauran, the resort of the Bisshr

Ánazeh, and the Wady-er-Rothy, of the Daffir, and Shammar. A few wells

would seem to exist on the line of certain ancient routes, traversing the

Hamád from various points on the Euphrates, and these form centres of

attraction to the tribes. But their immediate neighbourhood is

invariably barren, having been pitilessly browsed down for centuries.

Routes of this sort connect Kâf with Shedadi, Meskakeh with

Suk-esh-Shiókh, and Jôf with Maan. But the best frequented of them and

that best supplied with water is the great Haj road from Meshhed Ali to

Jebel Shammar, called the road of Zobeydeh. On this wells and reservoirs

were constructed in the 9th century, by the widow of Harun-el-Rashid, and

kháns, for the convenience of pilgrims, the ruins of which still exist.

A Pilgrimage to Nejd, the Cradle of the Arab Race. Vol. 2 [of 2] A Visit to the Court of the Arab Emir, and "our Persian Campaign." · 第 12 / 13 章

There now came forward to welcome us a funny little boy with half-shut