THE WILDS OF PALESTINE
The sun rose clear and red the next morning. It was the best sort of day
for continuing my journey. The teachers set out to accompany me to the
foot of the Nazarene mountains. They struck off through the village as
the crow flies, paying no attention to the run of the streets. Down
through the market, dodging into tiny alleys, under covered passageways,
through spaces where we had to walk sidewise, they led the way. Where a
shop was in the way they marched boldly through it, stepping over the
merchandise and even over the squatting keeper, who returned their “good
morning” without losing a puff at his cigarette. On they went, stopping
for nothing, straight up the wall-like slope of a tall hill and out upon
a well marked path that led over the brow of the hill.
At the foot of the mountain they paused. To the north rose a snow-capped
peak. Between the hills, to the west, peeped the sparkling
Mediterranean. Eastward, as far as the eye could see, stretched a wall
of mountains. We could see a dozen villages, tucked away in long, narrow
valleys clinging to steep slopes, or lying bent over sharp ridges like
broken-backed creatures. Shukry named these villages for me, and many of
them were places I had read of in the Bible. The teachers pointed out a
tall peak far across the trackless plain, which they said rose above the
bad town of Gineen, where all Christians were hated. Then, bidding me
good-by almost tearfully, they turned back up the mountain pass.
Late in the afternoon I passed through a country that looked like a
garden, with graceful palms and waving pomegranates, and perfumed with
the fragrance of orange and lemon groves, which covered the lower slope
of the peak that had been pointed out to me. Back of the garden stood
the bad town of Gineen. When I appeared among its people I met with
scowls and curses. A few stones from a group of youngsters at a corner
of the bazaar rattled in the streets behind me.
My letter was addressed in Arabic. The squatting shopkeeper to whom I
showed it scowled at me long and fiercely, but finally called a
passing-boy, and, mumbling a few words to him, bade me follow. The
urchin climbed up the sloping street, made several unexpected turnings,
and pointed out a large house surrounded by a stern-looking wall. Then
he scampered away as fast as he could go.
I clanged the heavy knocker again and again, until the sound echoed up
and down the street. But, receiving no answer, I sat down on the curb. A
well dressed native wandered by. I showed him the letter. He glared at
it, muttered, “Etnashar saa” (“Twelve o’clock at night”), and went on
his way. From time to time visitors paused at neighboring gates or
house-doors, and, standing in the center of the street, lifted up their
voices in mournful wails, and the doors were finally opened to them.
Beggars came past, wailing longer and more mournfully than the others;
nor did they stop until a few bread-sheets or coppers were tossed out to
them. Bands of women, whose faces were covered, drew up in a circle
around me to talk about me and to fill me with the creepy feeling one
might experience at a visit of the Ku-Klux Klan.
I had been squatting against the wall for fully two hours when an old
man in European dress came slowly down the street, mumbling to himself
as he ran through his fingers a string of yellow beads. He paused at the
gate and pulled out a key. I sprang to my feet and handed him the
letter. He read it with something of a scowl, and, motioning me to wait,
went inside. I waited a long time.
At last the gate groaned and made way for the ugliest creature in the
Arab world. He was a youth of about twenty, as long as a day without
bread, and so thin that the light seemed to shine through him. His
shoulders were bowed until his head stuck out at right angles to his
body. Long yellow teeth protruded from his lips. In his one eye was a
wicked gleam. His behavior at once showed him to be one who hated
_faranchees_ with a deadly hatred. He wore the headdress of the Bedouin
and half a dozen long flowing garments, which hung from his lank form as
from a hat-rack.
I understood enough of his snarling remarks to know that he was a family
servant, and that he had been sent to lead me to the servants’ quarters.
He led the way to a hovel on the opposite side of the street, unlocked a
battered door, and let me into a hut furnished with a moth-eaten divan
and a pan of live coals. A smartly dressed young native came in soon
after, and spoke to me in good French.
“My family is in an unfortunate position,” he explained. “We are friends
of the Kawar, and so always the friends of his friends. As we are the
only Christians in Gineen, we can give you only servants’ quarters. But
you must not stay in Gineen to-night. If you wait until to-morrow you
will have to go on alone, and in the mountains are Bedouins who every
day catch travelers and fill their eyes and mouths and noses with sand,
and drag them around by a rope, and cut them up in small pieces and
scatter them all around. You must go to-night with the mail caravan.
Then you will be safe.”
“I’ve tramped all day,” I answered; “I will find lodgings in the town if
I am troubling your family.”
“Great heavens!” shrieked the young man. “There you would be cut to
pieces in an hour! Gineen hates Christians. If you stop here they will
beat my family.”
He seemed so worried that I decided to do as he advised. He ordered the
crooked servant to bring me supper, and went out.
The queer creature followed his master, and returned with a bowl of
lentils. He brought back with him two companions who did not look much
better than he did. No sooner had he placed the food on the floor than
all three squatted around it, and, clawing at it with both hands, made
way with the meal so rapidly that I had to go hungry. When the last
scrap had disappeared, the newcomers fell to licking the bowls.
The long and crooked servant began the mournful wail that is the Arab
notion of a song. Rocking back and forth where he sat, and thrusting out
his long yellow teeth, he fixed a sidewise look upon me and howled for
an unbroken two hours. I could tell by the roars of laughter from his
mates that the words he sang were no compliment to _faranchees_.
At about nine o’clock in the evening he turned the other two into the
street; then, motioning me to take up my knapsack, he dived out into the
night. I managed to keep at his heels, although he dodged among the
huts, and even ran around some of them twice in his efforts to shake me
off. At last we reached the station for caravans. The keeper of the inn
was a bitter enemy of unbelievers, and at first did not want to let me
in. He finally made way, however; but he shouted abusive language at me
as long as I remained in the building. The servant settled his misshapen
form on a heap of straw, and took up his song of mockery where he had
left off, while he cast sidelong looks of hatred at me.
At last the caravan appeared. It was a train of four mules and three
drivers. The snarls of the servant and the keeper were friendly
greetings compared with the vicious language and looks cast toward me by
the newcomers when they were told I would go on with them. It looked to
me as if they were more to be feared than capture by sand-stuffing
Bedouins.
One of the four mules was saddled with the mail-sacks, and, at a signal
from the leader, the drivers sprang astride the others. The caravansary
door opened, letting in a cutting draught of January air. I followed the
party outside, fully expecting to be offered a mount on one of the
mules. The train, however, kept steadily on. The hindmost Arab signed to
me to grasp a strap on the back of his mule; then he suddenly cut the
animal across the flanks dangerously near my fingers, and they started
off, while I trotted behind like a Damascus donkey-boy. I fancied I
heard several chuckles of delight, half smothered in loud curses.
The night was as black as a Port Said coaling negro. In the first few
rods I lost my footing more than once, and barked my shins on a dozen
large rocks. The joke the drivers played upon me, however, was not
ended. Once, far enough from the caravansary to make return difficult,
the leader shouted an order, the three struck viciously at the animals,
and, with a rattle of small stones against the boulders, away went the
party at full gallop. I lost my grip on the strap, broke into a run in
an attempt to keep up, slipped and slid on the stones, struck up a slope
that I had not seen in the darkness, and, stumbling half way up it on my
hands and knees sprawled at full length over a boulder.
I sat up and listened until the tinkle of the pack-mule’s bell died away
on the night air; then I rose to feel my way back to the caravansary. It
was closed and locked. Luckily, I managed to find my way to the street
in which the Christian lived, and pushed open the door of the hovel. No
one was in the room, although the lighted wick of a tallow lamp showed
that the servant had returned. I spread out three of the four blankets
folded on the divan, and lay down. A moment later the walking skeleton
entered, leaped sidewise as if he saw a ghost, and, spreading the
remaining blanket in the most distant corner, curled up with all his
flowing garments upon him. I rose to blow out the light; but the Arab
set up a howl of cowardly terror that might have been heard in Nazareth,
so I left it lighted.
The next day I went on toward Nablous. The route was rocky and wild. I
crossed range after range of rocky peaks covered with tangled forests of
oak and turpentine trees. Here and there, against a mountainside, clung
a black-hide tent village of roving Bedouins. These were the tribes that
were believed to catch lone Christians and scatter their remains along
the wooded valleys. To-day, however, they were doing nothing more
terrible than tending a few flocks of fat-tailed sheep.
Late in the morning I came in sight of the mud village of Dothan. It was
a crowded collection of hovels—made of mud and shaped like those of the
Esquimaux—perched on several shelves of rock that rose one above
another. The well marked path that I had been following for some time
led boldly up to the first hut, ran close along its wall, swung round
the building, and ended. There was no other path in sight.
A score of giant dogs, coming down upon me from the hill above, gave me
little time to think. Luckily, there lay within reach a long-handled
kettle, which I grabbed for self-protection; and the unwashed population
that came tumbling down the slope after the dogs, to gaze upon the
strange sight of a lone _faranchee_ in their midst, saw him laying about
right merrily. Not one of the villagers made any attempt to call off the
curs. It was the usual case of every man’s dog no man’s dog.
I went on up the slopes and shelves of rock. I could not find the path.
Wherever a narrow passage-way looked like the trail, I scrambled up the
jagged faces of the rock, only to find, after I had walked a long time,
that each passage brought me into back yards where several huts choked
the air with their smoke.
At last I caught sight of a peasant astride an ass moving back and forth
across the slope, but mounting steadily higher. I followed him, and came
out upon a broad platform of rock. Beyond this was a path so steep that
it seemed almost straight up and down. But that path merely showed me
what the day’s journey would be like. I overtook the peasant in a narrow
valley; and not far beyond, a second horseman burst out of another cut
in the earth, and joined us.
The peasant carried a club and a long blunt knife. He seemed quite
anxious to keep both in plain sight. The second horseman, who wore the
garb of a soldier, carried two pistols and a dagger in his belt, a sword
at his side, and a long slim gun across his shoulders. The countryman
offered to let me ride his beast; but, as the animal was too small, I
continued to trudge at its heels.
About noon, on a narrow plateau, we came upon an open well surrounded by
a party of wicked-looking Bedouins. They scattered quickly at sight of
the officer. My companions tied their animals near a patch of grass, and
drew out their dinners. The officer knelt beside the well with a pot;
but he was so stout that he couldn’t reach the water. The peasant was a
Tom Thumb in size. So I reached down and dipped up the water for them.
They were both grateful to me, and thrust food upon me from both sides
so fast that I was unable to take it all.
The officer seemed to be a man of wide experience. He did not appear
much astonished at the _faranchee_ way of eating; but, more than that,
he owned a strange machine at which the peasant gazed in speechless
wonder. The strange thing was an alcohol lamp! The peasant seemed afraid
of it, for he could not be coaxed within ten feet of it until the coffee
was prepared. Then, after he had once become bold enough to touch the
apparatus, he fell upon it like a child upon a strange toy, and examined
its inner workings so thoroughly that the officer spent half an hour in
fitting it together again.
In the afternoon the peasant turned aside to his village, and not far
beyond the soldier lost his way. What a small chance I should have had
alone on a route that puzzled even a native acquainted with the country!
We had followed for some distance a wild cut between the mountains.
Suddenly this ended against the wall of another cliff. On one side of us
was an impassable jungle of rocks and trees, and on the other a slope
leading upward almost as steep as the side of a house, and covered for
hundreds of feet with loose slaty rock and rough stones.
The officer dismounted and squatted contentedly at the foot of the
slope. For an hour at least he sat there without moving, except to roll
several cigarettes. At last a native, spattered with mud, appeared. The
officer asked him a question, and he replied by pointing up the wooded
slope. Three times the horse tried to climb up, only to slide helplessly
to the bottom. The officer handed me his gun: then, dismounting, he
tried to lead the steed up by walking back and forth across the slope.
Several times the animal fell on its haunches and tobogganed down the
hill, dragging the cavalryman after him. The gun soon weighed me down
like a cannon; but we reached the top at last, and were glad to stretch
ourselves out on the solid rock surface of the wind-swept peak.
The officer spread out food before us. Far below, to the southward, lay
a wonderful scene. Two ranges of sharp and broken mountain-peaks raced
side by side to the southeast. Between these ranges lay a wild tangle of
rocks and small forests, through which a swift stream fought its way to
the Mediterranean Sea, bending far out of its course in its struggle to
get around the base of the mountain on which we stood. The place was as
silent and lonesome as if it were some undiscovered world.
For an hour we followed the run of the stream far below, for we knew it
would finally lead us to lower, more level land. We rounded several
peaks, climbing down little by little. The path became somewhat more
plainly marked, but the scene remained wild and savage. Suddenly the
cavalryman, who had just rounded a monstrous rock before me, reined in
his horse with an excited jerk, grasped his sword, and pointed with it
across the valley. “Nablous!” he shouted. I hastened to his side. On a
small plateau far below us, backed by a rocky waste of mountains and
surrounded by a rushing river, stood a city, a real city, with straight
streets and closely packed stone buildings like those of the Western
world!
We wound our way down the mountain path to an old stone bridge that led
directly into the city. At the gate a company of ragged, half-starved
Turkish soldiers tried to stop me; but my companion drove them off with
a wave of the hand. We plunged at once into the noisy, crowded streets
which were as narrow and as numerous as those of Damascus. They were
covered with arch-shaped roofs almost their entire length, so that we
seemed to be walking through a dark, cool tunnel. The shoes of the horse
rang sharply against the cobblestones as the animal plowed its way
through the jabbering crowd, and by keeping close at its heels I escaped
being jostled and pushed about.
The shops looked very much alike. The cavalryman dismounted before one
of them, handed the reins to the keeper who came forward to meet him,
and, turning to me, earnestly invited me to spend the night in the inn
above. But my Nazarene friends had given me letters to one Iskander
Saaba, a Nazarene teacher, and I thought I ought to deliver them.
I had a hard time finding the home of the teacher. In the cities of
western Asia the streets are not named, nor the houses numbered. Mr.
Smith, you learn, lives near the house of Mr. Jones. If you inquire
further you may be told that Mr. Jones lives not far from the house of
Mr. Smith, and so on; and you gain nothing by getting impatient or
angry.
A short distance from the inn, a water-carrier and a baker’s boy struck
me in the ribs at the same time with the burdens they carried. A runaway
donkey, bestrided by a mean-looking fellow, ran me down. A tradesman
carrying a heavy beam turned the corner just in time to make me see a
starry sky in the covered passage-way. These things, of course, were
merely accidents. But when three stout rascals caught hold of the
knapsack across my shoulders, and hung on to it until I had kicked one
of them into a neighboring shop, and a corner street peddler went out of
his way to step on my heels, I could not so easily excuse them. As long
as I remained among the crowded shops these sneaking injuries continued.
Whenever I stopped, a crowd quickly gathered about me to show their
dislike by purposely jostling against me, by making insulting remarks
about my race, and even by spitting on my clothes.
I found the home of Iskander Saaba at last, and spent a pleasant evening
there. The next morning a steady rain was falling, and the young teacher
urged me to stay over, with the old saying, “To-morrow is just as good
as to-day.” When I satisfied him that this was not a common saying in
the Western world, he set out to show me the way through the city. On
the way he stopped often to buy fruits, which he stuffed into my
knapsack. When I objected, he said: “It is far to Jerusalem, and some
day I will come to America.”
Since the oldest times Nablous has carried on much trade with Jerusalem;
but only until very lately has the lazy Turk begun to build a road
connecting the two towns. That part of the road beyond the southern gate
was well built; but in this rainy season it was a river of mud, which
clung to my shoes in great cakes, and made walking more difficult than
it had been in the pathless mountains to the north.
[Illustration: The shopkeeper and traveling salesman with whom I spent
two nights and a day on the lonely road to Jerusalem. Arabs are very
sensitive to cold, except on their feet and ankles.]
About noon I came to the end of the highway. I had been warned that the
road was not finished. “It is all complete,” Shukry had said, “except
over the mountain, the highest mountain of Palestine, and over that it
runs not.” And it was true. Before me rose a high mountain almost as
steep as a wall. A path was cut diagonally to the top, but I had to
crawl up on my hands and knees with the greatest care, in the fear of
losing my footing. At the top I came again upon the road. It was wide
and well built, yet as it stood, it must have been utterly useless: for
no carriage or other wheeled vehicle could ever have been dragged up
that wall-like hillside; and the sure-footed ass which still carries
merchandise between the two cities would make the journey exactly as
well had the new road never been thought of.
Long after nightfall I stumbled upon a lonely shop. Inside were the
keeper and a traveling salesman of tobacco. The building was no more
than a wooden frame covered over with sheet-iron; and soon after I had
gone to bed on one of the shelves that served as bunks, the rain began
to thunder on the roof near my head. This continued all through the
night. Sleep was as impossible as it would have been inside a bass drum
at a concert. In the morning a downpour more violent than I had ever
known held us prisoners; and, as the weather was bitterly cold, I stayed
on my shelf and listened to the roaring of the tin shack through the
longest day that ever rained or blew itself into the past tense.
The next day the storm was not so bad; so I set out again. In all the
dreary country round I came across only one stone village. It was the
ancient Bethel, lying among the sharp hills. Beyond it the highway
side-stepped to the eastward. The air of Palestine was filled with
moisture that morning. The hills ahead were somewhat veiled by the mist;
in the valleys lay a thick gray fog; while overhead the sky was dull and
lead-colored.
[Illustration: The Palestine beast of burden carrying an iron beam to a
building in construction.]
Before me, well above the sky-line, hung a long, dark cloud. As I looked
at this cloud it began to take on the shape of a distant line of
buildings; yes, it was a city in the sky that I saw, with a wide strip
of sky beneath it. It grew plainer and plainer, until there appeared in
the heavens a dull gray city, a long city, bounded at one end by a great
tower, at the other shading off into nothing. Then suddenly it
disappeared. Black clouds, scurrying westward from across the Jordan
River, erased the image from the sky as if it had been a lightly
penciled line.
Yet it was Jerusalem that I saw. Miles beyond, the fog lifted and showed
the city plainly, and it was that same long city bounded on the east by
a great tower; but this time it had footing on the solid earth—on a
dull, drear hill that sloped to the west. I went on down the highway,
and across the hills and the dreary fields,—past the tombs of the Kings
and Judges, where to-day shivering shepherd boys seek shelter from the
winds,—and on into the crowded bazaars of the city where Christ was
crucified.
Great, howling crowds swept me through markets dirtier than those of
Damascus, up and down slimy stone steps, jostling, pushing, trampling
upon me at every turn. They did not do this because they wanted to be
disagreeable to me: It was merely carelessness on their part, for they
had seen so many _faranchees_ that they did not notice me when I got in
their way. But I was very tired from my long day’s tramp; so when I
reached the end of a street I turned to an open doorway in order to get
out of the crowd. Through the doorway I caught a glimpse of a long
stretch of green grass and of a great mosque, or Mohammedan church.
I had no sooner stepped inside this yard than a shout arose from a
rabble of men and boys at one side of the square. But that did not
surprise me, for in Damascus the people had shouted every time I entered
the grounds belonging to a mosque. So I marched on, pretending I did not
notice that they were howling at me. The shouting became louder. Men and
boys came down upon me from every direction, howling like demons, and
firing stones at me from every side. Some of them struck me on the legs;
others whistled dangerously near my head. I left hurriedly.
Later in the day I learned that I had trespassed into the sacred grounds
of the mosque of Omar. It is named for Caliph Omar, the leader of the
Mohammedans who captured Jerusalem from the Christians in the year 1636.
One who does not worship Mohammed may not enter this mosque or the
grounds belonging to it without a guard of paid soldiers.
I got back into the crowded streets, and was pushed and jostled as
before. To escape this I went down more slimy steps and along a narrow
alley until I came to a towering stone wall. Here I saw a strange sight.
Hebrews, rich and poor, some dirty and ragged, others wearing diamonds,
by turns kissed and beat with their fists the great blocks of stones,
shrieking and moaning with tears streaming down their cheeks. I did not
have to be told where I was. This time I had fallen upon the “Jews’
Wailing Place.”
I wandered here and there, and at noonday remembered that a sum hardly
equal to forty cents jingled in my pockets. It was high time to look for
work. So I turned toward the office of the American consul. If there
were work to be had by _faranchees_ in the city, the consul, surely,
would know it. I fought my way through the gazing crowd of doorkeepers
and others into the outer office. A moment later I was admitted to the
inner office. The kindly white-haired consul asked me to give him a full
account of my journey in Palestine.
“I shall give you a note to the Jewish hotel across the way,” he said,
when I had finished, “and you may pay the bill when you earn the money.
For you will find work, you may be sure. See me again before you leave
the city.”
I mounted an outdoor stairway on the opposite side of David Street to a
good inn. From the window of the room assigned to me there was a
far-reaching view. To the north, east, and south spread a jumble of
small buildings, with their dome-shaped roofs of mud or stone outlined
against a few houses covered with red tiles. Here and there rose the
slender minarets or steeples of Mohammedan mosques, and in about the
center of the city was the great Christian Church, which is said to be
built to cover the spot where the Saviour was buried. At the farther
edge of the city, yet so near that I could see it from base to dome,
stood the beautiful mosque of Omar where I had but recently caused so
much excitement. Back of it was a forest of olive trees, and farther on
the Mount of Olives. Beyond, miles of dreary hills stretched away to the
great wall of the mountains of Moab.
While I was taking a walk after dinner, I came upon an Englishman who
lived in Jerusalem. The Englishman wanted some letters translated into
French. I began on them at once, and worked late into the night. For the
three days following I spent my time in writing and in sight-seeing. The
bazaars were half deserted at this period; for on Friday the Mohammedans
held a festival, Saturday was the Jewish Sabbath, and Sunday the day of
rest for Christians. So among them all there was little going on in the
business section during those three days.
On Saturday, at the hotel, there was nothing to eat but meat. It was
served cold, for what Jew could order his servants to build a fire on
the Sabbath? The day grew wintry cold, however. The hotel-keeper sent
for a servant, and gave orders in a language that sounded much like
German, ending with the unnecessary remark: “I believe this is one of
the coldest days we have had this year.”
The servant scratched his moth-eaten head, shuffled off, and returned
with a bundle of twigs that were soon crackling in the tiny sheet-iron
stove.
On Sunday I had nothing much to do; so I pushed through the howling mob
of peddlers at the gate of the city, and strolled southward along a road
from which I could see, now and then, the sparkling waters of the Dead
Sea. A few hours later I climbed into the wind-swept village of
Bethlehem.
Standing like a fortress at the center of the town is the Church of the
Nativity, built over the site of the manger where Christ was born. The
rough stone walls on each side of the low doorway of this church are so
blackened by the hands of centuries of pilgrims that the entrance looks
like a huge rat-hole. Had it been Christmas Eve while I was there, I
should have seen a great procession of priests, clergymen, and Turkish
soldiers carrying waxen candles and marching to the basement of the
church, where a waxen baby to represent the infant Jesus lies in a
marble manger, on cushions of red silk with a layer of straw beneath. I
should have heard the oldest priest of the procession sing the story of
Christ’s birth, while outside in the streets the people feasted and sang
merry songs until morning. As it was, however, I went inside to see
nothing more exciting than Christians of many beliefs worshiping in
different parts of the church.
That afternoon I returned to Jerusalem. The Englishman came next morning
with another letter, which I wrote in French and returned to him at
noon. Then, having paid my bill at the hotel, I went to tell the consul
that I was about to leave the city.
“How much money have you?” he asked.
“About two dollars.”
“Good! Now, my lad, take my advice. There is a steamer leaving Jaffa for
Egypt to-night. Take the afternoon train,—ten francs will more than pay
your fare,—and once in Jaffa perhaps you can get work on the steamer to
pay your passage across. Ask the American consul there to give you his
assistance.”
“I can save money by walking,” I had the courage to say.
“Impossible!” cried the consul. “It is forty miles to Jaffa. The ship
leaves at noon, and there is not another for ten days. Take the train;
you can’t walk there in time.”
In spite of the consul’s advice, I spent half my money for a roll of
films, and struck out on foot to the coast. Long after dark I found a
place to sleep in Latron, the home of the thief who was crucified with
Christ.
I put off again before daylight, in a pouring rain, across a marshy
plain. It was nearly noon when I reached port; but the sea was running
mountain-high, and the task of loading the steamer was going on slowly.
A native offered for a few coppers to guide me to the American consul.
Together we rushed through the streets, ankle-deep in soft mud, and
stopped at last before a large hotel. I dashed into the office and
called for the consul.
“Impossible!” cried the clerk. “The consul is at dinner.”
I started toward the dining-room. The clerk snatched wildly at my
dripping garments, and sent a servant to tell the consul I wanted to
speak to him.
A moment later a very tall American consul stood framed in the doorway
before me—though, to be sure, the frame was a good six inches too short
and wrinkled the picture sadly. He was a Frenchman, and so excited
because he had been disturbed “before the wine” that he could think of
no words but those in his own language. While he scolded me violently he
tore at his hair. It was long before I could induce him to listen to me.
When he finally understood that I wanted merely a note to the ship’s
agent, he became more friendly and said he would write it at once.
A moment later the clerk handed me an unfolded note, and I rushed away
to the wharf a half mile distant. The ship was still there. I hurried to
the office window, and thrust the letter through the opening. Even in my
hurry I could not fail to notice that the agent who peered out at me
wore a glass eye—and a celluloid nose!
His face puckered up as he read the note. “Ah!” he said, drawing a
ticket from the rack. “Very well! The fare is twelve francs.”
“The fare? But doesn’t the consul ask you to let me work for my passage
as a sailor?”
He pushed the note toward me. It was in French. I heard a warning
whistle from the harbor! The letter was written in a scrawl:
_Dear Friend:_
The bearer, Harris Franck, is an American sailor who wishes to go
to Egypt. Will you kindly sell him a ticket and oblige your
humble, etc., etc.
—— ——,
_American Consular Agent_.
A letter giving the company the right to sell me a ticket that it would
have been delighted to sell to any sort of man or ape that had the
money! It was of no value whatever.
Caring nothing for the rain, I sat down against a pillar outside the
office. Only four miserable francs rattled in my pocket. I now saw that
I would have to spend long, penniless days on the Jaffa beach. The
loading and unloading of the steamer were still going on. Boatmen were
struggling to row across the mountain-like waves. Now and then a giant
billow overturned a freight-filled rowboat high on the beach. Barefooted
natives waded into the surf with tourists in their arms. Each warning
whistle seemed to thrust Egypt farther and farther away. If only—
I felt a tap on the shoulder. A young native in the uniform of the
ship’s company was bending over me.
“Go on board anyway,” he advised me.
“Eh?” I cried.
“The captain is English. If you are a sailor he will give you work.”
“But I can’t get on board,” I answered.
For reply the native pointed to his company’s boat, loaded with baggage
and mails, at the edge of the wharf. I snatched up my belongings and
dropped into it.
The steamer was about to start when I scrambled on board. I fought my
way through a jumble of tumbled baggage, seasick natives, and shouting
seamen, and tried to make my way to the captain. A huge seaman pushed me
back. When darkness fell on an open sea I had not yet succeeded in
reaching him. Squirming natives covered every spot on the open deck. I
crawled under a canvas, used my bundle for a pillow, and fell asleep.
In what seemed about half an hour later I awoke to find the ship gliding
along as smoothly as on a river. I crawled out on deck. A bright morning
sun was shining, and before my astonished eyes lay Port Said.
The ship glided on. It was bound for Alexandria. I went to find the
captain once more—and once more was pushed back by the brawny seaman.
I returned to the deck and sat down. To my horror, the Arabian purser
began to collect the tickets. He came near me and held out his hand.
“Where can I see the captain?” I demanded.
“M’abarafshee” (“I cannot understand”), he answered in Arabic, shaking
his head. “Bilyeto!” (“ticket!”)
Certainly I must give some excuse for being on board without a ticket. I
rummaged through my pockets for the consul’s note, spread it out, and
laid it in the purser’s hand. Its yellow color looked disturbingly out
of place on the collection of dark blue tickets. The officer poured
forth his astonishment in a torrent of Arabic.
“M’abarafshee!” I mocked.
He opened his mouth to send forth another torrent, paused, scratched his
head, and, with a shrug of his shoulders, went on gathering _bilyetos_
from the native passengers.
Some time later he climbed down from the upper deck, and, beckoning to
me, led the way to the captain. The latter, a huge Briton, stormed back
and forth across the ship, striving to give orders to the native crew in
such Arabic as he could call to mind—but breaking into violent English
with every fourth word to rage at the sailors for their stupidity. His
eye fell upon me.
“Here!” he roared furiously. “What is all this?” And he waved the now
ragged note in my face.
“Why, that’s a note from the American consul in Jaffa, sir. I asked him
to write that I wanted to work for my passage to Egypt.”
The purple anger on the skipper’s face, caused partly by the strain of
trying to make himself understood in Arabic, disappeared somewhat at the
sound of his own language.
“But,” he went on more quietly, “this note asks the company to _sell_
you a ticket. It’s written in French, and this is what it says—” And he
translated it.
“American sailor, are you?” he went on.
I handed him my papers stating that I had been a sailor.
“I’m ready to turn to with the crew, sir,” I put in.
“N—no. That’ll be all right,” said the skipper, stuffing the note into
his pocket, as he turned to see what the seamen on the deck below were
about.
“Cover that hatch before a sea fills her!” he shouted.
Early next morning I went ashore in Alexandria.