AN ORIENTAL VICH IAN VOHR
(THE SHEIKH OF BARZAN)
"It is real rough travelling in the mountains," says the Mosul resident
casually; and the traveller just arrived from Europe hears that innocent
observation with dismay. He has undergone a fortnight of _arabas_ and
_khans_ and _chóls_ and _zaptiehs_, and lo! that purgatorial experience
is dismissed as a holiday jaunt. It is therefore with some misgiving
that he enters those formidable mountains where he has been promised
enlightenment as to what "real rough travelling" means.
Let it be recorded for his consolation that he will learn the worst at
the outset. If he is not daunted at Akra he may quite fairly count on
winning through. The ascent from that town to the top of the pass behind
it is as nasty a bit of climbing as any in all Hakkiari, and he who
achieves it with credit may pass as a graduated mountaineer. The path is
not so nerve-shaking in appearance as some of the dizzy goat-tracks that
have to be encountered beyond it; but it is an epitome of every trial
which can be ordinarily presented in concrete form. It is steep and
rugged and rotten. It traverses slabs of sloping rock, and sheets of
slippery scree. Its surface is pitted like honeycomb with holes about
twelve inches deep and six or eight inches in diameter; and if any
better traps could be devised for tripping unwary pedestrians, or
breaking the legs of horses, no doubt they would be provided to make the
entanglement complete. Our _katarjis_ admit that it is bad, but regard
the badness as incorrigible. "Her nainsell didna mak ta road" (a fact
that is quite self-evident), and "if shentlemans are seeking ta Red
Gregarach" what better going can they expect?
From the summit of the pass (full three thousand feet above the plain)
we descend into a fertile valley, well watered by a mountain rivulet,
and feathery with lofty pampas reed; and an equal ascent on the further
side brings us to the top of a second range of mountains, from which we
can take our first survey of the wild land whither we are bound.
Beneath us lies the Zab valley, a chaos of hummocks and hollows all
flung together confusedly like the waves of a choppy sea; and the broad
bright ribbon of the river, almost equal in volume to the Tigris, picks
out a devious passage through a maze of interlacing bluffs. The opposite
side of the chasm is defined by a bold escarpment, scarred by the tracks
of winter torrents and buttressed by jagged limestone fins. And above
this, along the horizon, tower the great snow peaks of the Hakkiari
Oberland--the _rigidus Niphates_ of Horace; the spot where (according to
Milton) Satan first planted his feet when he alighted on the new-made
world.
An iron-bound untamable fastness--a regular Brigands' Paradise--it is
known as the Ashiret country, that is to say, "the Country of the
Clans." And the inhabitants (to do them justice) are quite ready to
exploit its capabilities. Though nominally Turkish subjects they are
actually semi-independent; half borderers of the type of Johnny
Armstrong, half highlanders of the type of Rob Roy. Here the Sultan's
decrees are worth little without a visible backing of bayonets; and
every individual filibuster does that which is right--or more accurately
that which is expedient--in his own eyes. Such authority as exists
anywhere is for the most part in the hands of the tribal chieftains: and
the suzerainty of the Stamboul Government is just about as effective as
the suzerainty of the old kings of Scotland on the north side of
Stirling Bridge.
There are three degrees of security for a traveller in Asiatic Turkey.
There are districts where he is safe: there are districts where a
_zaptieh_ can keep him safe: and there are districts where a _zaptieh_
can't. Our knights-errant brought us down loyally to the village of Biri
Kupra, a ramshackle Kurdish hamlet which stands at the foot of the pass.
They escorted us on the next morning as far as the banks of the
river--but when we reached the ferry their responsibility came to an
end. Across they could not follow us. It was the Sheikh of Barzan's
country. And the _Hukumet_ felt some delicacy about parading their
officials in his domain. No doubt he would receive them
graciously--under favour and without prejudice; but there was no earthly
use in pretending that _zaptiehs_ could protect us there.
It is rather an adventure for a native to travel in the Ashiret country.
Supposing that he is at all worth robbing, he should sound his way
carefully as he goes. But Europeans enjoy more security. The tribesmen
have made the discovery that if a European is molested there is almost
inevitably a row. His ambassador prods up the _Hukumet_, and the
_Hukumet_ sends an expedition; and "a mort o' troops" march through the
country, and live at free quarters in the villages, and imprison a
number of people who are probably not at all to blame. Thus, though the
original aggressor is generally the last person to be directly
incommoded, he incurs quite a lot of unpopularity for "breeding such a
function" in the land. Even the most reckless marauder will think twice
before pulling his trigger upon a convoy that is travelling under the
protection of a European hat: and thus the wearer of the hat aforesaid
finds that every native who is travelling in his direction will tack
himself on to his party and "walk under his shadow" as far as their ways
coincide.
We ourselves in the present instance had no cause for any disquietude;
for the Sheikh of Barzan is not only one of the most powerful but one of
the most respectable of the mountain chieftains, and is pleased to
regard all Englishmen as his particular friends.
The Zab, at the point where we struck it, is a broad, deep, rapid,
river; and fording is out of the question either for man or beast. The
Sheikh usually maintains a horse ferry, of the type we used on the
Euphrates; but this was temporally _hors de combat_, being reported to
have sprung a leak. We found it beached on the further shore, and it
certainly seemed to us that a little human ingenuity and two or three
gallons of tar were all that it needed to make it seaworthy; but all
parties seemed quite content to put up for a time with the _keleg_--a
little wattle hurdle buoyed up on four inflated skins.
The _keleg_ could only carry two passengers at a time, or alternatively
a very small cargo; and the beasts had all to be unloaded, and induced
(most reluctantly) to swim. Thus it took a long time to transport us;
but presently we were all loaded up again and proceeded about an hour's
march up a little lateral valley, till we reached the village of Barzan
at the foot of the great flanking hill.
Barzan is rather larger than an average Kurdish village, but boasts no
distinguishing feature to suggest its importance in the land. Most of
even the less powerful chiefs are housed in defensible "castles"; but
the Sheikh of Barzan "dwells among his own people," and his palace is
just an agglomeration of several ordinary houses joined in one. It
possesses no outer door at all (or none that we have ever discovered),
and we entered it by the simple process of stepping on to the roof, and
walking across to the summer reception room, a rude _belvedere_ on the
farther side. The Sheikh, it appeared, was absent. He had gone on a
visit to Amadia, and was expected back the day after to-morrow; but as
we were journeying westward we should certainly meet him next day.
Meanwhile we were made warmly welcome by his old major-domo the
Imaum[81] (an old friend of some of our party), by his young mollah or
domestic chaplain, and by several truculent-looking _duinhewassels_ who
formed part of his regular following.
We could not, of course, be allowed to pass by the house without eating;
but we specially begged of our hosts that (as we were anxious to push
forward) they would only give us such food as they could quickly and
easily prepare. And we hold it a genuine proof of their friendliness
that they actually did as we asked them, bringing eggs, bread, honey,
and tea. A big man, who wishes to do you honour formally, would consent
to no such curtailment. He would probably keep you waiting for hours
while he killed and dressed a sheep.
When we arose to depart the imaum and mollah went with us to a certain
tree beyond the village in order to "pour us on our road." All important
houses in these parts have some recognized point on the approach to
them, whither the owner proceeds to welcome and dismiss his guests. It
is recorded that on one occasion only (in order to meet the British
Consul) the Sheikh rode out in person as far as this statutory tree.
Our hosts had provided us with an armed escort--a "Boy of the Belt" in a
red turban, indicating that he belonged to the Sheikh's personal
body-guard. And under his guidance we proceeded for a day and a half up
the valley, a journey somewhat comparable to the progress of a beetle
across the ridges and furrows of a ploughed field. The hills are too
stony for cultivation; but here and there a fan of good soil has spread
itself out from the mouth of one of the gullies, and has been terraced
into grain plots by the inhabitants of the village hard by. These
villages (judged by local standards) may be called fairly
prosperous-looking, for the Sheikh is a merciful over-lord: but the
"roads" are consistently villainous; the "Far Cry" was an asset at
Lochow!
In our eyes the first of these symptoms is the one to determine our
sympathies. We can forgive much in this country to a chieftain who does
(as a rule) honestly exert himself to keep order; who has realized that
it pays him better to protect his vassals than to oppress them; and who
can be trusted to administer some sort of "Jeddart Justice" in fairly
equable fashion to Kurd and Christian alike. But by Turkish officials
generally we fear he is less appreciated. The Old Turks hate him with an
A because he is Able, and the Young because he is Autocratic: and we
cannot pretend to deny that he is sometimes "a bit of a handful," and
that his methods of administration are rather ingenuously Draconian.
As recently as in 1909 he was at open war with the Government, and in
this particular quarrel he was not very greatly to blame. The chief
sinners were Sabonji Pasha and some of the corrupt gang who were running
the administration at Mosul. They coveted some of the Sheikh's villages,
and the Sheikh refused to part.[82] Accordingly they trumped up a charge
that he was conspiring against the _Hukumet_; a charge which could
readily be made plausible, for there is not a chief in the province but
lets his tongue loose against the Government at times. The true test of
serious disaffection, however, is the courting of Russian assistance;
and the prominent Russophiles hereabouts are the Sheikh's particular
_bêtes noirs_.
At any rate the charge won credence. The Sheikh's friends were arrested
and imprisoned. An army was marched into his territory; his villages
were seized and occupied, and his wives carried off to Mosul. The Sheikh
himself for some months was a homeless fugitive in the mountains; and it
was then that he reaped the fruit of his good treatment of his
villagers, for not a man, Christian or Moslem, ever dreamt of betraying
him to his foes. Then, too, we first made his acquaintance, disguised in
mean raiment and attended by a single follower, lurking in some of the
Christian villages just beyond the limits of his domain.
But the scoring was not all on one side. Vich Ian Vohr boasted that the
race of Ivor would seldom take the field with fewer than five hundred
claymores; and the Sheikh of Barzan can muster certainly five thousand,
and possibly twice that force. These levies were no more discommoded by
the destruction of their "base of operations" than a swarm of the local
red hornets whose nest has been demolished by a stone. Three of the
seven regiments mobilized against them were captured _en bloc_ among the
crags, with arms, ammunition, and artillery; and no commensurate losses
were ever inflicted on the mountaineers.[83] Mosul was denuded of troops
in order to maintain the struggle and the inhabitants were in a frenzy
of terror lest the ubiquitous highlanders should swoop on the
defenceless town. But that the Sheikh shrank from a step which would be
bound to make the breach irreparable, it is indeed highly probable that
these would have proved no empty fears. He is said to have declared
roundly that if matters went much farther he intended to capture the
place and make it over to the British Vice-Consul! That gentleman was by
no means desirous of receiving so inconvenient a gift!
A peace was concluded at last; and the Sheikh was pleased to attribute
it very largely to the friendly offices of the British; though really
the principal factor was the intervention of a level-headed _Vali_ at
Mosul.[84] We did little more than insist that the Sheikh's wives ought
to be set at liberty and treated with fitting distinction; and that,
when the "conspiracy" of which he was accused had been officially
admitted to be non-existent, there was no longer any valid reason for
keeping the "conspirators" in jail. But the Sheikh is "easy with them
that have shown themselves easy with him," and those who take the
trouble to "'gree wi' Rob" are usually gainers on the deal.
We traversed one of the battlefields in the course of our journey
westward: a crater-like hollow in the wilderness, environed by steep
stony hills. Here one of the Government regiments encountered the Sheikh
and his army; for the Sheikh was present in person, though he left the
actual conduct of operations to a certain Abd-'l-Kadr who acted as his
"chief of the host." It was the first regular pitched battle, and the
tribesmen were somewhat awed at the prospect of engaging the _Hukumet_;
for which cause, in order to inspirit them, the Sheikh himself fired the
first shot. In Kurdistan the firing of a gun constitutes an appeal for
assistance; and the Sheikh, with fine dramatic instinct, fired his gun
straight towards heaven, appealing to Allah Himself. The event of the
day--the capture of the entire regiment, with three pieces of mountain
artillery--was thus a prodigious enhancement of his Holiness's[85]
personal prestige. Not only had he scored a valuable point in his
secular and temporal capacity, but he was held to have signally
vindicated his spiritual pre-eminence as well.
The Sheikh, in the eyes of his followers, is not merely a great tribal
chieftain. They believe in his hereditary sanctity: and his clansmen are
also his devotees. This fact is strikingly exemplified by an incident
which had occurred a little earlier, and which was related to us by Mar
Shimun, the Patriarch of the Assyrian Christians, who himself inspires
equal veneration among his own adherents.[86] A column in pursuit of the
Sheikh caught a small boy who had dropped behind the party, and demanded
of him with menaces which way the fugitives had gone. But the child was
as staunch as steel. "By the Holy Name of the Sheikh I will not tell!"
he answered. And that was all they could get out of him either by
coaxing or threats. The Turkish Captain was fortunately a kind-hearted
fellow, and did not ill-use his small captive; but he did not omit, in
releasing him, to draw a moral from his pluck. "We shall not make much
of this war," he observed, with a smile to his officers. "You can judge
from this example with what sort of folk we have to deal. This child is
in my power utterly. None would call me to account if I killed him. And
yet, knowing this, he defies me; and swears by his Sheikh as by a god!"
It was on the evening of the second day after we had quitted Barzan that
we drew near to the hamlet of Suryi, planted in the re-entering angle
formed by the confluence of the Oramar river with the Zab. It is a mean
little place, consisting of some twenty cabins which spill themselves
down the face of a steep brae a little way back from the river; and at
the top of the bank stands the castle of the village Agha--a rudely
built fortified residence like a second-rate border peel tower. It was
here that we looked to meet the Sheikh, for it is a recognized
halting-point between Amadia and Barzan; and, crossing the Oramar river,
we bent our way towards the tower.
It was about five o'clock in the evening that we reached the first house
in the village, and the crowd of men and horses which was grouped around
the castle was a proof that the Sheikh, "with his tail on," had already
arrived from Amadia. News of our approach had preceded us; and we were
met by an embassage from his Holiness bearing an invitation (or should
we say "command" under the circumstances?) to partake of his hospitality
for the night. We dismounted at the castle door amid a throng of wild
retainers, and at the top of the rude stone staircase we were greeted by
the Sheikh in person; who led us into the "_belai_"[87] (or
_belvedere_), which served him as his temporary audience hall, and
motioned us to seats on a mattress spread immediately opposite his own.
It was a prodigious condescension from so great a man that he should
have come to the stair head to meet us. Most great chiefs will contrive
to be absent from the room when European guests are admitted, that they
may not have to rise to receive them, and so seem to admit inferiority.
But presently the Sheikh vouchsafed us a still greater honour--one that
perfectly staggered his followers--by even condescending to sup with us.
To think that a man of his holiness should actually eat with two
_giaours_!
Abdul Selim, Sheikh of Barzan, is quite a young man of about
twenty-eight years of age. Like most mountaineers he is of medium
height, with a slight and active figure and a grave but pleasant face.
He was dressed in a white fez and turban, white shirt and trousers, a
black gown trimmed with red, and a green cloak over all. His retinue
consisted of between thirty and forty retainers--"Boys of the Belt,"
distinguished by their red turbans, and positively festooned with
bandoliers. Many of these fellows must have been carrying quite two
hundred rounds of ball cartridge, and their rifles--Sniders and
Martinis--were piled around the walls of the _belai_. All showed most
obsequious deference towards their young chieftain; and it may give some
adequate conception of the reverence which they entertain for him to
record the fact that he himself, in his own proper person, is a _ziaret_
or place of pilgrimage "within the meaning of the Act." By his own
immediate followers his commands are obeyed instantly and without
question; and we have not the least doubt that had he ordered us to be
shot, instead of entertaining us graciously, the sentence would have
been executed unhesitatingly, Europeans though we were.
An instructive example of their diligence occurred shortly after our
visit. A long-standing feud between the Christians of Tkhuma and some of
their Kurdish neighbours had recently blazed into activity; and the
latter, rather unsportingly, were endeavouring to persuade their
co-religionists to join them in a _jehad_ or "holy war." A _jehad_ is an
ugly business: and we were much relieved when the Sheikh of Barzan
interfered strongly to quash it; refusing himself to sanction it, and
prohibiting his vassals from joining in. He was moved to this action, we
verily believe, partly by a wish to oblige us, and partly by his own
prejudices in favour of law and order; for he had no particular cause to
show favour to the Tkhuma _maliks_, since they had refused to shelter
him when he was a fugitive in the war.
Deprived of the Sheikh's countenance the _jehad_ proved a rather damp
squib. But for a moment it seemed just possible that some of his vassals
would break out in spite of him. And scenting insubordination in a
certain Tettu Agha, who was about the biggest recalcitrant, the Sheikh
dispatched one of his henchmen in order to emphasize his commands. The
envoy entered the Agha's castle and was duly received in audience. He
delivered his chieftain's message, but the Agha proved sullen and
obstinate. He reiterated his remonstrances, but the Agha refused to give
way.
"The Sheikh's word must not be broken," concluded the plenipotentiary.
"The Sheikh has sent me to you to tell you to stop at home."
"And what do I care if he has?" retorted the Agha mutinously. "Let the
Sheikh send his orders to others. I don't intend to obey."
The Sheikh's man sprang to his feet, and flung himself upon the rebel. A
minute later he burst from the room, brandishing a dripping dagger, and
leaving Tettu Agha dead on his own dais.
"The Sheikh's word shall not be broken," he proclaimed.
This incident was generally regarded as going a little far perhaps; but
no one thought of protesting. The lamented Tettu had never been exactly
popular; and what else could he expect, anyway, if he "wadna do what
M'Callum More bade"?
[Illustration: THE HERIKI VALLEY.
The mountain at the head of the valley is a shoulder of Sat Dagh. The
terrace fields of a mountain village appear in the lower corner.
No. 7]
The very rooms in which we were sitting, sipping tea and smoking
cigarettes with his Holiness, had been the scene of what Major Dugald
Dalgetty would call "a very pretty little _camisado_" during the
progress of the late campaign. The castle, as a frontier post, was a
position of some importance; and it was a shrewd loss to the Sheikh when
the Agha whom he had placed in charge of it betrayed his trust to his
foes. The Agha was fully aware that his _seigneur_ might feel sore about
it. He kept the place strongly garrisoned, and posted around it a double
line of sentries and watch-dogs. The approaches on two sides are barred
by the rivers, unfordable and icy cold in winter; and on the third side
rise precipitous mountains, barely climbable even by day. But one night
in a winter blizzard, when the very dogs had crept away to seek shelter,
the Sheikh's men seized their opportunity and wormed their way up to the
fort. The howling of the tempest drowned the noise of their picks as
they cautiously loosened stone after stone from the walling; and at
length they formed an opening large enough for one man to creep through
at a time. When the next morning broke the treacherous Agha lay dead,
with every man of his garrison around him: and the gentleman who was
acting as host to the Sheikh and ourselves this evening had been there
and then appointed successor. Presumably he was a "sure man."
Our supper consisted of bowls of whey, and of rice with pieces of
chicken. The Sheikh and eight or ten of his principal henchmen ate with
us, all helping themselves out of the common dishes with wooden ladles
and spoons. They all ate extremely sparingly; but this was probably out
of etiquette, the Sheikh himself setting the example because he was
feeling indisposed. Upon another occasion, when the Sheikh came to call
upon us, his four attendants were credited with having consumed a whole
sheep![88]
To his own men the Sheikh spoke but rarely, though pleasantly and often
smilingly; and they never seemed to speak to him unless they had been
first addressed. With us (as he spoke only Kurdish) he had to converse
through an interpreter; and the matters debated for the most part
concerned the petty politics of the countryside. He bewailed the
universal lawlessness, which, he said (we fear rather inaccurately), was
as bad for Kurds as for Christians; and observed that it was strange
that neither England nor Russia seemed capable of bringing in reform.
"You have gone to India," he protested, "and you stay there, though you
are not wanted. Why cannot you come to us who do want you? You would be
welcomed everywhere here."
Such feelings are well-nigh universal among all the more reputable
chieftains. They would appreciate any strong Government, no matter of
what nation or creed. The only folk really content with the present
condition of Asiatic Turkey are those who have merited hanging: and we
grant that this class would poll strong.
Hearing that we were returning to England within a few months at the
latest, the Sheikh volunteered to accompany us--of course with an
adequate "tail." He would call on the Archbishop of Canterbury and get
him to establish schools in his villages; and then he would go on to see
King George at Windsor, with whose aid he made no question he could
arrange for the settlement of Kurdistan. Alas! We could hold out no
hopes. But the suggestion was made in dead earnest; and we fear that
when we did start homewards we were careful not to let the Sheikh know.
Finally he desired to consult us medicinally. He was troubled with an
affection of the eyes[89]--in point of fact trachoma--and begged us to
give him some medicine which was capable of affording relief. We could
do nothing for him at the time; but shortly afterwards we were able to
bring up an English doctor from the C.M.S. hospital at Mosul and let the
Sheikh have the benefit of his professional skill.
It then transpired that in the interval he had consulted a native
practitioner; a wandering Yezidi medicine-man who had recently drifted
to Barzan. The Yezidi had diagnosed the watering of the eyes as due to
an excess of moisture behind the eye-balls, and had proposed running a
red-hot skewer through the Sheikh's head from temple to temple, in order
to dry up the "superfluous moisture" at the fountain head! This
horrifying suggestion was both made and received quite seriously. But
the Sheikh, very reasonably, had elected to consult the English doctor
first. We did not feel much surprised at his Holiness's reluctance to
submit to this treatment: but we did feel some admiration for the heroic
assurance of the Yezidi doctor in proposing it. Being pierced through
the temples with a red-hot skewer would not be a pleasant way of dying;
but it would be luxury compared with the sort of devices which the
Sheikh's followers might be expected to practise on the operator, by way
of obtaining consolation for the patient's untimely decease.
The Sheikh was, we fear, rather crestfallen to find that the English
doctor also wished to operate; and stipulated that he should first see
the operation practised on one of his train (who had nothing the matter
with him at all). The _vile corpus_ was quite willing; but unfortunately
the doctor jibbed at it, and eventually decided to prescribe a slower
and less certain treatment. We hope that this will prove adequate: but
we should have felt sorely tempted to perform a sham operation on the
volunteer, in order to overcome the Sheikh's reluctance to submit
himself to the real one.
There was no room for us to lodge that night in the Agha's castle. The
place was already more than full with the Sheikh's train and the Agha's
household. Accordingly his Holiness presently dismissed us, coming again
to the stair-head to do so, and sending a gentleman cateran to guide us
to a house in the village which he had ordered to be reserved for our
use. Here he came next morning to see us a little before daybreak, to
make his _adieux_ on departure, and to return (as he phrased it) the
call which we had made on him the night before. This was, however, only
a formal call, and lasted a very few minutes. He was anxious to start
his day's journey, and soon rode off towards the Oramar ferry with his
picturesque ruffians in his train.
We did not start for another hour. We had first to consume the breakfast
which our host the Agha had brought down for us; and, moreover, as all
the Sheikh's train had got to be transported across the river, it would
obviously be at least an hour before the ferry was available for our
use. Furthermore the Agha could urge that we had no cause whatever to
hurry. We were bound for the little village of Erdil, reported only a
three hours' journey; and we had much better wait "till the sun had got
into the valley" and had warmed up the frosty air a little so as to make
riding more pleasant. In the alternative he suggested that we had better
not go at all, because the road was infamous, and riding absolutely
impossible. "Horses couldn't go, and mules couldn't go, and Englishmen
couldn't walk." But we were pledged to visit Erdil, so we over-ruled
this objection. Moreover, we felt it highly impolitic to admit that
there was any place in existence where "Englishmen couldn't walk."
Erdil is a tiny derelict Christian village situated in the Oramar valley
a little above its confluence with the Zab. All the surrounding villages
are inhabited by Kurds and Moslems; and as from year's end to year's end
it is hardly ever visited by any outside Christian, Rabban Werda had
begged us earnestly at least to give it a call. Moreover we might make
discoveries. Erdil was reputed to possess some "old books" which it was
willing to show to Rabbi Dr. Wigram, and had sent us one Ibrahim, an
Erdilite, who promised to lead us to the _cache_. "Old books," in
ninety-nine cases out of one hundred, are apt to prove not worth the
seeking. But a scholar would never forgive himself for missing the
hundredth chance.
The Oramar river is a noble stream, not inferior to the Zab in volume,
gushing forth from a grim rocky portal which notches the Zab's mountain
wall. We were assured that no European had ever yet traversed its
gorges; and the assertion is certainly corroborated by the fact that the
best map of these regions leaves this corner perfectly blank. In view of
the repute of the road we felt half inclined for an instant to leave our
animals at Suryi, and call again for them on returning. But we thought
this would be too great a temptation for even a friendly Agha, and
finally resolved to take them along.
Crossing the Oramar by the ferry, and keeping up the left bank of the
river, we entered almost immediately a magnificent rocky ravine. On
either hand rose gaunt and tawny precipices fully two thousand feet in
altitude, scored all over their upper faces with the lines of the
contorted strata, and thinly clothed near the bases with gnarled and
stunted oak scrub. A deep, green, rapid river filled the whole of the
narrow invert, and this channel was thickly cumbered by a selection of
some of the very largest boulders that we have ever seen. Apparently
there are many deep pockets just behind the faces of the precipices; and
the water collecting in these, splits away the outer wall when it
freezes, and sheds the gigantic fragments into the chasm. Not a few of
these fallen masses must have been as big as the Marble Arch.
The pathway did not belie the report we had heard of it at Suryi. It
scrambled along the steep bank above the river; narrow, broken, and half
strangled among blocks of fallen stone. Three times that morning we had
to unload the mules, hand the packs across the obstructions, and load
again on the further side. Our red-turbanned cateran, who still led us,
would pause now and then in the pathway, indicating the landscape at
large with a flourish of his arm like a showman, and regarding us with a
triumphant grin. But whether he wished to express his admiration of the
romantic scenery, or his appreciation of its defensive capabilities, or
merely to apprise us that Erdil lay absolutely on the summit of
everything--as in fact it did--we were not quite able to decide.
This gorge was a few months later the scene of a notable exploit,
achieved by the Sheikh of Barzan at the expense of those _hostes humani
generis_ the Heriki Kurds. This horde of wandering robbers, the bane of
all settled communities, are wont (as already related) to migrate each
spring and autumn to and fro between Mosul and Urmi. They can travel by
several routes; but all routes converge upon one point--the "Bridge of
Rocks" over the Zab a little above Suryi. Here the Zab, as it issues
from the mountains, is throttled (like the Wharfe at Bolton) into a
narrow crack between shelving slabs of rock. The slabs are deeply
undercut, and the depth of the crack must be considerable; for at one
point, where a big rock table rises in mid current, the great river can
be crossed in two strides!
Here the Heriki always pass over, at a point where the width of the
river is about twenty-five feet. They build a bridge for themselves
every spring, and it lasts till the next winter floods. This is the sole
piece of honest and useful work which is ever achieved by those
incorrigible plunderers; and out of it accordingly a remorseless Nemesis
has fashioned "a whip to scourge them." Here the Government posts its
troops when it wishes to collect their taxes; and if they have injured
any of the Sheikh of Barzan's villages, he exacts compensation here.
Now the previous autumn, on their downward journey, the Heriki had
lifted two or three thousand sheep belonging to some Christian villages.
The villagers appealed to the English, and the English to the
Government; but of course there was not the least chance of obtaining
any redress. The following spring, however, when the Heriki were nearly
due again, we received a visit from the Sheikh of Barzan, who himself
(though he did not say so) seemed to have a crow to pick with the tribe.
"See here, Effendim," he argued; "the _Hukumet_ can never get those
sheep for you. We know they haven't got troops enough to get their own
taxes this year. Now supposing it were suggested to the _Vali_ that _I_
should be appointed to collect those taxes. Perhaps it is even possible
I might get back some of the sheep."
The Effendi shrugged his shoulders, and did not think much would come of
it; but the astute old _Vali_ of Mosul saw the humour of the notion at
once. It was quite true he had given up hope of getting the Heriki's
taxes. He even anticipated difficulty in getting the Sheikh of Barzan's.
This scheme would lubricate the bearings most admirably in both
directions: and the Sheikh was appointed tax-collector _pro hac vice_ by
return of post.
The Heriki came down to their bridge, rejoicing to find it unoccupied.
They crossed, and pushed on to Suryi, and the Sheikh broke down the
bridge behind. They entered the Oramar valley; and a few miles up they
found the "Boys of the Belt" barring it, with the Sheikh's _Ban_ and
_arrière Ban_ posted on the crags around them; and received a polite
demand-note from his Holiness the _Fermier Général_ requesting immediate
payment of taxes, sheep, _and costs_.
Even a Government regiment could hardly have got so much without
fighting; but the Sheikh had thrown his net so deftly that his captives
could not even kick. There was nothing for it but to pay, and look
pleasant, and this the Heriki chiefs did with what grace they could. We
confess that we doubt grievously whether any large percentage of sheep
got back to their original owners; but all the country was jubilant to
see the original biters so badly bit.
We held our course up the valley for about three hours--and a bittock;
and at this point Ibrahim the Erdilite cheerfully observed that we were
just half way. As he had previously assured us that the total distance
was three hours we were provoked to "pour cold words on him." All sorts
of things get "poured" in Syriac: you "pour" your guest into bed; you
"pour" your enemy into prison;[90] you "pour a howl" at a man when you
shout at him from a distance; and to "pour cold words" upon him is to
"give him a bit of your mind." However, we could not blame poor Ibrahim
very severely for a fault which he shares with all his nation--a total
inability to conceive any measurement of time.
Soon after we bore to the right and entered a tributary valley; a
narrower gorge, dark and chilly, where the pools still lay hard frozen
all along the shadier side. The path rose more steeply now with a spiral
twist to the right like the final turn of a corkscrew. We were rising on
to the top of the precipice which had overshadowed our morning's march.
The last pitch was the steepest of any; but here the ground was less
rugged, and a few sketchy outlines of terraces tried to pose as
cultivated fields. At last we emerged on a tiny plateau, a sprocket on
the slope of the mountain, and beheld the dozen rough stone cabins which
compose the village of Erdil.
Erdil is not the remotest spot on earth; for beyond it we could descry
another and yet remoter Kurdish village some five hours further up the
vale. But it is at least the remotest spot we are ever likely to get to.
A site for an eagle's eyrie rather than for an abode of man. Thrust out
on a little green tongue between two abysmal valleys it commands a
superb panorama of the mountains which lie to the northward; range
succeeding to range in seven successive _sierras_ till they culminate in
the snowy crests of Sat and Jilu, no less than fourteen thousand feet
high. And in all that craggy wilderness there was scarcely a vestige of
habitation. No wonder the villagers were excited by the advent of
visitors from the world beyond.
The populace poured out to greet us. They conducted us to the house of
the village _rais_ or head man. They installed us in his one room in the
seat of honour by the fireplace; and thronged in eagerly after us, men,
women, and children to kiss our hands. They were by no means an
ill-looking crowd, and many of the girls were quite well favoured; dark
haired, but fair complexioned; sturdy and deeply bronzed. The men wore
the usual mountain dress;[91] and the women were clad in figured blue
smocks and turbans, girt at the waist with blue sashes, and wearing
their long open sleeves knotted together behind them in order to keep
the ends out of the way. The usual full dress of the mountain women
consists of a smock reaching from the neck to about midway between knee
and ankle; and a jacket of the same length worn over it, folded across
in front, and slit up as high as the waist on either side. The whole is
girt round with a sash; and on their heads they wear kerchiefs, or (in
the Tkhuma district) little round caps edged with silver coins. Their
hair is worn down their backs, plaited in three, four, or five long
pigtails, with a six-inch horse-hair tassel worked in at the end of each
plait. The smocks are usually of some figured material, but striped
stuff is commoner for the jackets; and the colours which they chiefly
favour are Indian red or indigo blue. Usually they go barefoot in their
villages, but when they are on a journey they wear a sort of brogue like
the men.[92]
The _rais'_ house was a typical sample of the ordinary mountain cabin;
walled with rough stone rubble, and floored with beaten earth. The low,
flat, smoke-blackened ceiling was formed with unsquared poplar stems,
upon which was spread a bed of brushwood[93] roofed over with a thick
layer of mud. The mud of course cracks in dry weather and the roof
becomes very leaky; but it can be quickly consolidated with the little
stone roller which is kept on the roof for the purpose, and thus be made
once more watertight as soon as the rains return. The _tanura_, or
fireplace, is a beehive-shaped hole dug out in the centre of the
floor,[94] and the smoke finds an exit (eventually) through a hole in
the roof above. There are no windows whatever, and the doorway is a very
low one; and thus in most cases the smoke-hole serves the inmates for
skylight as well.
Poor Erdil! Forgotten and isolated, and steeped in poverty and
ignorance, it supplies an apt illustration of the conditions of life
which prevail among the Kurdish-owned Christian villages in the
mountains. Conditions which were commoner still before the advent of the
Archbishop's Mission, and which are still all too common in certain
outlying districts like Bohtan. Indeed, in many respects Erdil deserves
to be congratulated. Politically, as the inhabitants themselves
admitted, they have no great cause to complain. Their owner is the Agha
of Suryi; and consequently their over-lord is the Sheikh of Barzan, who
is nicknamed "the Sheikh of the Christians," because he treats his
Christian vassals so well. His tolerance secures them from persecution,
and his vigorous rule from raiding; and they gave him the same
testimonial that was given in old days to King Brian Boru in Ireland,
that you "might safely leave a gold bracelet on a bush by the road in
his domain."
But religiously they were left destitute. Their Patriarch seemed to have
forgotten them. All the surrounding villages were Moslem, and their
nearest co-religionists were a long day's journey away. They had their
church and their service books, and a parson's glebe and cottage; but
thirty years had elapsed since last they had a priest of their own in
the village, and it was but seldom that even a wandering deacon had
visited them during all that time. For thirty years they had no one to
celebrate their services, no one to marry them, no one to baptize their
children, no one to bury their dead; and one of the first requests that
they proffered to "Rabbi Mr. Wigram" was that he would at least recite
the Church of England burial service over the graves of those who had
died within the last few years. Surely it is no small credit to them
that under such circumstances they remained even nominally Christian;
and we feel some satisfaction in recording that a little time after our
visit their Patriarch found himself able to send them the priest whom
they desired.
The "old books" which they had promised to show us proved (as we had
more than half expected) to be only the usual Church Service books.[95]
They had kept them jealously hidden in an underground cave in a
vineyard; knowing vaguely that they were somehow sacred, but otherwise
quite ignorant of their contents, for, of course, not a man in the
village could read. The cave must have been quite a dry one, for the
books had not suffered in any way; and we cannot doubt that on our
departure they were again committed to the _cache_.
The church was a well-built stone edifice, dating possibly from the
sixteenth century; and though disused for so long a period, it was kept
clean and in good repair. Within it that Sunday evening we recited our
English Evensong; the villagers standing round reverently and joining in
the Amens, the only word they could understand. The "_Sheikh Birader
Effendi_" must confess that this strange little service was to him one
of the most impressive in which he has ever shared.
The wild rough life of the villagers was reflected in the supper that
they provided for us. Where else might one dine on ibex collops and
bread made of acorn meal? The latter sounds somewhat unpalatable, but
was in fact not at all bad eating. The queer little oaks which grow in
Kurdistan bear very large acorns almost as big as small walnuts; and
these are not nearly so bitter as English acorns but rather like
chestnuts in taste. Often they are roasted and eaten as we eat chestnuts
in England; but generally they are ground to meal for breadmaking, and
mixed with an equal proportion of barley meal. The natives grow a little
wheat likewise, so wheaten bread is not quite unknown to them; but of
this, as is to be expected, they get only a very small supply.
It was while we were breakfasting next morning that Erdil produced its
final originality in the way of diet. Some hunters had come in
overnight, and had brought with them the carcass of a boar. They had cut
him up for convenience of transport; but his huge hoofs (as big as a
cow's) and his bristly iron-grey hide proved that he must have been a
truly formidable monster: and for five piastres (ten pence) they sold us
a big chunk of the meat. His hide was the most valuable part of him, and
for this they hoped to obtain as much as two mejidies (eight shillings),
since it made such excellent shoes. It seemed little short of a crime to
allow so magnificent a pelt to be so ignominiously disposed of; but we
did not see, if we purchased it, how we were to carry it away.
Mindful of the difficulties we had found in bringing our beasts up to
Erdil, we determined in taking them down again to try and lighten their
loads. Our own personal belongings were consigned to two stalwart
porters, who undertook to guide us by a short cut, practicable only for
pedestrians; while our beasts were to make the long circuit and meet us
at the mouth of the gorge.
A few weeks later, on the Flushing packet, the steward eyed that baggage
dubiously, and opined we should need "two strong porters" to carry it up
to the train. At his words there arose in our minds a vision of two
grizzled Syrians carrying all that baggage on their shoulders, for three
hours, with scarcely a breather, across the face of a precipice which
would have made the steward's hair stand on end! As a matter of fact
each load (though it certainly looked overwhelming) totalled up to about
sixty pounds, which is the load of a porter on the Alps.
Half an hour we ascended gradually and slantingly along the face of the
mountain; and then the ground vanished from under us with a suddenness
which took away our breath. The cliff broke away from our toes sheer
down to the river beneath us, a drop (to compute it by guesswork) of
something like two thousand feet. It was a grand, if somewhat a dizzy,
spectacle; but our guides never checked for an instant. They skipped
over the lip of the precipice, and went tripping along a ledge on the
face of it, as if they considered such travelling the most ordinary
thing in the world. This then was the real "three hours' route" which
led from Erdil to Suryi, the path where "horses couldn't go, and mules
couldn't go, and Englishmen couldn't walk."
With regard to the horses and mules we endorse the description most
cordially; but for ordinary capable pedestrians it was not so very
terrible after all. True, it looked rather a fly-on-the-wall business
when seen from a little distance; but the ledges, if narrow, were firm,
and there was generally plenty of hand hold. Moreover the rocks
themselves, though they had looked absolutely vertical when seen from
below the previous morning, all proved to be more or less sloping and
not quite destitute of brushwood; so it is possible one might have
recovered oneself even had one slipped from the path. The worst bits
were at the beginning and end of our traverse, where the track led over
steeply tilted slabs. Here our European nailed boots refused to bite on
the surface, and the porters in their hempen brogues got across much
more happily than we. These hempen brogues are almost universally worn
by the hillmen, and are admirable footwear for rock work; but they need
patching every evening to be ready for the journey next day. Even
English boots, however, cannot long stand this sort of travelling. Let
them be made ever so strongly they are cut to pieces in three months.
Half way across the face of the precipice, while pausing to rest a few
minutes, we were able by means of our glasses to see our horses coming
on behind. They were then just turning into the main valley, having
accomplished about half their journey; and though we had given them an
hour's start at Erdil, we had fully two hours to wait for them at the
mouth of the Oramar gorge.