THEBES TO ASSUAN.
Hurrying close upon the serenest of Egyptian sunsets came a night of
storms. The wind got up about ten. By midnight the river was racing in
great waves, and our dahabeeyah rolling at her moorings like a ship at
sea. The sand, driving in furious gusts from the Libyan desert, dashed
like hail against our cabin windows. Every moment we were either bumping
against the bank or being rammed by our own felucca. At length, a little
before dawn, a huge slice of the bank gave way, thundering like an
avalanche upon our decks; whereupon Reïs Hassan, being alarmed for the
safety of the boat, hauled us up to a little sheltered nook a few
hundred yards higher. Taking it altogether, we had not had such a lively
night since leaving Benisouef.
The lookout next morning was dismal--the river running high in yeasty
waves; the boats all huddled together under the shore; the western bank
hidden in clouds of sand. To get under way was impossible, for the wind
was dead against us; and to go anywhere by land was equally out of the
question. Karnak in a sand-storm would have been grand to see; but one
would have needed a diving-helmet to preserve eyes and ears from
destruction.
Toward afternoon the fury of the wind so far subsided that we were able
to cross the river and ride to Medinet Habu and the Ramesseum. As we
achieved only a passing glimpse of these wonderful ruins, I will for the
present say nothing about them. We came to know them so well hereafter
that no mere first impression would be worth record.
A light but fitful breeze helped us on next day as far as Erment, the
Ptolemaic Hermonthis, once the site of a goodly temple, now of an
important sugar factory. Here we moored for the night, and after dinner
received a visit of ceremony from the bey--a tall, slender,
sharp-featured, bright-eyed man in European dress, remarkably dignified
and well bred--who came attended by his secretary, Kawass, and
pipe-bearer. Now the Bey of Erment is a great personage in these parts.
He is governor of the town as well as superintendent of the sugar
factory; holds a military command; has his palace and gardens close by,
and his private steamer on the river; and is, like most high officials
in Egypt, a Turk of distinction. The secretary, who was the bey’s
younger brother, wore a brown Inverness cape over a long white
petticoat, and left his slippers at the saloon door. He sat all the time
with his toes curiously doubled under, so that his feet looked like
clenched fists in stockings. Both gentlemen wore tarbooshes and carried
visiting-canes. The visiting-cane, by the way, plays a conspicuous part
in modern Egyptian life. It measures about two and a half feet in
length, is tipped at both ends with gold or silver, and is supposed to
add the last touch of elegance to the bearer.
We entertained our guests with coffee and lemonade, and, as well as we
could, with conversation. The bey, who spoke only Turkish and Arabic,
gave a flourishing account of the sugar works, and dispatched his
pipe-bearer for a bundle of fresh canes and some specimens of raw and
candied sugars. He said he had an English foreman and several English
workmen, and that for the English as a nation he had the highest
admiration and regard; but that the Arabs “had no heads.” To our
inquiries about the ruins, his replies were sufficiently discouraging.
Of the large temple every vestige had long since disappeared; while of
the smaller one only a few columns and part of the walls were yet
standing. They lay out beyond the town and a long way from the river.
There was very little to see. It was all “sagheer” (small); “mooshtaïb”
(bad); not worth the trouble of the walk. As for “anteekahs,” they were
rarely found here, and when found were of slight value.
A scarab which he wore in a ring was then passed round and admired. It
fell to our little lady’s turn to examine it last and restore it to the
owner. But the owner, with a bow and a deprecating gesture, would have
none of it. The ring was a toy--a nothing--the lady’s--his no longer.
She was obliged to accept it, however unwillingly. To decline would
have been to offend. But it was the way in which the thing was done that
made the charm of this little incident. The grace, the readiness, the
courtesy, the lofty indifference of it, were alike admirable. Macready
in his best days could have done it with as princely an air; but even he
would probably have missed something of the oriental reticence of the
Bey of Erment.
He then invited us to go over the sugar factory (which we declined on
account of the lateness of the hour), and presently took his leave.
About ten minutes after came a whole posse of presents--three large
bouquets of roses for the sittàt (ladies), two scarabei, a small
funereal statuette in the rare green porcelain, and a live turkey. We in
return sent a complicated English knife with all sorts of blades, and
some pots of English jam.
The wind rose next morning with the sun, and by breakfast time we had
left Erment far behind. All that day the good breeze served us well. The
river was alive with cargo-boats. The Philæ put on her best speed. The
little Bagstones kept up gallantly. And the Fostât, a large iron
dahabeeyah full of English gentlemen, kept us close company all the
afternoon. We were all alike bound for Esneh, which is a large trading
town and lies twenty-six miles south of Erment.
Now, at Esneh the men were to bake again. Great, therefore, was Reïs
Hassan’s anxiety to get in first, secure the oven and buy the flour
before dusk. The reïs of the Fostât and he of the Bagstones were equally
anxious, and for the same reasons. Our men, meanwhile, were wild with
excitement, watching every maneuver of the other boats; hanging on to
the shoghool like a swarm of bees; and obeying the word of command with
unwonted alacrity. As we neared the goal the race grew hotter. The honor
of the boats was at stake, and the bread question was for the moment
forgotten. Finally all three dahabeeyahs ran in abreast and moored side
by side in front of a row of little open cafés, just outside the town.
Esneh (of which the old Egyptian civil name was Sni, and the Roman name
Latopolis) stands high upon the mounds of the ancient city. It is a
large place--as large, apparently, as Minieh, and, like Minieh, it is
the capital of a province. Here dragomans lay in provision of limes,
charcoal, flour and live stock for the Nubian journey; and crews bake
for the last time before their return to Egypt. For in Nubia food is
scarce and prices are high, and there are no public ovens.
It was about five o’clock on a market day when we reached Esneh and the
market was not yet over. Going up through the usual labyrinth of
windowless mud-alleys where the old men crouched, smoking, under every
bit of sunny wall, and the children swarmed like flies, and the cry for
backshîsh buzzed incessantly about our ears, we came to an open space in
the upper part of the town, and found ourselves all at once in the midst
of the market. Here were peasant-folk selling farm produce;
stall-keepers displaying combs, looking-glasses, gaudy printed
handkerchiefs and cheap bracelets of bone and colored glass; camels
lying at ease and snarling at every passer-by; patient donkeys;
ownerless dogs; veiled women; blue and black robed men; and all the
common sights and sounds of a native market. Here too, we found Reïs
Hassan bargaining for flour, Talhemy haggling with a charcoal dealer;
and the M. B.’s buying turkeys and geese for themselves and a huge store
of tobacco for their crew. Most welcome sight of all, however, was a
dingy chemist’s shop, about the size of a sentry-box, over the door of
which was suspended an Arabic inscription; while inside, robed all in
black, sat a lean and grizzled Arab, from whom we bought a big bottle of
rose-water to make eye-lotion for L----’s ophthalmic patients.
Meanwhile there was a temple to be seen at Esneh; and this temple, as we
had been told, was to be found close against the market-place. We looked
round in vain, however, for any sign of pylon or portico. The chemist
said it was “kureiyib,” which means “near by.” A camel-driver pointed to
a dilapidated wooden gateway in a recess between two neighboring houses.
A small boy volunteered to lead the way. We were greatly puzzled. We had
expected to see the temple towering above the surrounding houses, as at
Luxor, and could by no means understand how any large building to which
that gateway might give access should not be visible from without.
The boy, however, ran and thumped upon the gate and shouted “Abbas!
Abbas!” Mehemet Ali, who was doing escort, added some thundering blows
with his staff and a little crowd gathered, but no Abbas came.
The by-standers, as usual, were liberal with their advice; recommending
the boy to climb over and the sailor to knock louder and suggesting that
Abbas the absent might possibly be found in a certain neighboring café.
At length I somewhat impatiently expressed my opinion that there was
“Mafeesh Birbeh” (no temple at all); whereupon a dozen voices were
raised to assure me that the Birbeh was no myth--that it was “kebîr”
(big)--that it was “kwy-ees” (beautiful)--and that all the “Ingleez”
came to see it.
In the midst of the clamor, however, and just as we are about to turn
away in despair, the gate creaks open; the gentlemen of the Fostât troop
out in puggaries and knickerbockers; and we are at last admitted.
This is what we see--a little yard surrounded by mud walls; at the
farther end of the yard a dilapidated doorway; beyond the doorway, a
strange-looking, stupendous mass of yellow limestone masonry, long and
low and level and enormously massive. A few steps farther and this
proves to be the curved cornice of a mighty temple--a temple neither
ruined nor defaced, but buried to the chin in the accumulated rubbish of
a score of centuries. This part is evidently the portico. We stand close
under a row of huge capitals. The columns that support them are buried
beneath our feet. The ponderous cornice juts out above our heads. From
the level on which we stand to the top of that cornice may measure about
twenty-five feet. A high mud wall runs parallel to the whole width of
the façade, leaving a passage of about twelve feet in breadth between
the two. A low mud parapet and a handrail reach from capital to capital.
All beyond is vague, cavernous, mysterious--a great shadowy gulf, in the
midst of which dim ghosts of many columns are darkly visible. From an
opening between two of the capitals a flight of brick steps leads down
into a vast hall so far below the surface of the outer world, so gloomy,
so awful, that it might be the portico of Hades.
Going down these steps we come to the original level of the temple. We
tread the ancient pavement. We look up to the massive ceiling, recessed
and sculptured and painted, like the ceiling at Denderah. We could
almost believe, indeed, that we are again standing in the portico of
Denderah. The number of columns is the same. The arrangement of the
intercolumnar screen is the same. The general effect and the main
features of the plan are the same. In some respects, however, Esneh is
even more striking. The columns, though less massive than those of
Denderah, are more elegant and look loftier. Their shafts are covered
with figures of gods and emblems and lines of hieroglyphed inscription,
all cut in low relief. Their capitals, in place of the huge draped
Hathor-heads of Denderah, are studied from natural forms--from the
lotus-lily, the papyrus-blossom, the plumy date-palm. The
wall-sculpture, however, is inferior to that at Denderah and
immeasurably inferior to the wall-sculpture at Karnak. The figures are
of the meanest Ptolemaic type and all of one size. The inscriptions,
instead of being grouped wherever there happened to be space and so
producing the richest form of wall decoration ever devised by man, are
disposed in symmetrical columns, the effect of which, when compared with
the florid style of Karnak, is as the methodical neatness of an
engrossed deed to the splendid freedom of an illuminated manuscript.
The steps occupy the place of the great doorway. The jambs and part of
the cornice, the intercolumnar screen, the shafts of the columns under
whose capitals we came in, are all there, half-projecting from and
half-imbedded in the solid mound beyond. The light, however, comes in
from so high up and through so narrow a space, that one’s eyes need to
become accustomed to the darkness before any of these details can be
distinguished. Then, by degrees, forms of deities familiar and
unfamiliar emerge from the gloom.
The temple is dedicated to Knum[44] or Kneph, the soul of the world,
whom we now see for the first time. He is ram-headed and holds in his
hand the “ankh,” or emblem of life. Another new acquaintance is Bes,[45]
the grotesque god of mirth and jollity.
Two singular little erections, built in between the columns to right and
left of the steps, next attract our attention. They are like stone
sentry-boxes. Each is in itself complete, with roof, sculptured cornice,
doorway, and, if I remember rightly, a small square window in the side.
The inscriptions upon two similar structures in the portico at Edfû show
that the right-hand closet contained the sacred books belonging to the
temple, while in the closet to the left of the main entrance the king
underwent the ceremony of purification. It may therefore be taken for
granted that these at Esneh were erected for the same purposes.
And now we look around for the next hall--and look in vain. The doorway
which should lead to it is walled up. The portico was excavated by
Mohammed Ali in 1842; not in any spirit of antiquarian zeal, but in
order to provide a safe underground magazine for gunpowder. Up to that
time, as may be seen by one of the illustrations to Wilkinson’s “Thebes
and General View of Egypt,” the interior was choked to within a few feet
of the capitals of the columns, and used as a cotton-store. Of the rest
of the building nothing is known; nothing is visible. It is as large,
probably, as Denderah or Edfû, and in as perfect preservation. So, at
least, says local tradition; but not even local tradition can point out
to what extent it underlies the foundations of the modern houses that
swarm above its roof. An inscription first observed by Champollion
states that the sanctuary was built by Thothmes III. Is that antique
sanctuary still there? Has the temple grown step by step under the hands
of successive kings, as at Luxor? Or has it been re-edified _ab ovo_, as
at Denderah? These are “puzzling questions,” only to be resolved by the
demolition of a quarter of the town. Meanwhile what treasures of
sculptured history, what pictured chambers, what buried bronzes and
statues may here await the pick of the excavator!
All next day, while the men were baking, the writer sat in a corner of
the outer passage and sketched the portico of the temple. The sun rose
upon the one horizon and set upon the other before that drawing was
finished; yet for scarcely more than one hour did it light up the front
of the temple. At about half-past nine A.M. it first caught the stone
fillet at the angle. Then, one by one, each massy capital became
outlined with a thin streak of gold. As this streak widened the cornice
took fire, and presently the whole stood out in light against the sky.
Slowly then, but quite perceptibly, the sun traveled across the narrow
space overhead; the shadows became vertical; the light changed sides;
and by ten o’clock there was shade for the remainder of the day. Toward
noon, however, the sun being then at its highest and the air transfused
with light, the inner columns, swallowed up till now in darkness, became
illuminated with a wonderful reflected light, and glowed from out the
gloom like pillars of fire.
Never to go on shore without an escort is one of the rules of Nile life,
and Salame has by this time become my exclusive property. He is a native
of Assûan, young, active, intelligent, full of fun, hot-tempered withal,
and as thorough a gentleman as I have ever had the pleasure of knowing.
For a sample of his good-breeding, take this day at Esneh--a day which
he might have idled away in the bazaars and cafés, and which it must
have been dull work to spend cooped up between a mud wall and an
outlandish birbeh, built by the Djinns who reigned before Adam. Yet
Salame betrays no discontent. Curled up in a shady corner, he watches me
like a dog; is ready with an umbrella as soon as the sun comes round;
and replenishes a water bottle or holds a color box as deftly as though
he had been to the manner born. At one o’clock arrives my luncheon,
enshrined in a pagoda of plates. Being too busy to leave off work,
however, I put the pagoda aside, and dispatch Salame to the market, to
buy himself some dinner; for which purpose, wishing to do the thing
handsomely, I present him with the magnificent sum of two silver
piasters, or about five pence English. With this he contrives to
purchase three or four cakes of flabby native bread, a black-looking
rissole of chopped meat and vegetables, and about a pint of dried dates.
Knowing this to be a better dinner than my friend gets every day,
knowing also that our sailors habitually eat at noon, I am surprised to
see him leave these dainties untasted. In vain I say “Bismillah” (in the
name of God); pressing him to eat in vocabulary phrases eked out with
expressive pantomime. He laughs, shakes his head, and, asking permission
to smoke a cigarette, protests he is not hungry. Thus three more hours
go by. Accustomed to long fasting and absorbed in my sketch, I forget
all about the pagoda; and it is past four o’clock when I at length set
to work to repair tissue at the briefest possible cost of time and
daylight. And now the faithful Salame falls to with an energy that
causes the cakes, the rissole, the dates, to vanish as if by magic. Of
what remains from my luncheon he also disposes in a trice. Never, unless
in a pantomime, have I seen mortal man display so prodigious an
appetite.
I made Talhamy scold him, by and by, for this piece of voluntary
starvation.
“By my prophet!” said he, “am I a pig or a dog, that I should eat when
the sitt was fasting?”
It was at Esneh, by the way, that that hitherto undiscovered curiosity,
an ancient Egyptian coin, was offered to me for sale. The finder was
digging for niter, and turned it up at an immense depth below the mounds
on the outskirts of the town. He volunteered to show the precise spot,
and told his artless tale with child-like simplicity. Unfortunately,
however, for the authenticity of this remarkable relic, it bore,
together with the familiar profile of George IV, a superscription of its
modest value, which was precisely one farthing. On another occasion,
when we were making our long stay at Luxor, a colored glass button of
honest Birmingham make was brought to the boat by a fellah who swore
that he had himself found it upon a mummy in the tombs of the queens at
Kûrnet Murraee. The same man came to my tent one day when I was
sketching, bringing with him a string of more than doubtful scarabs--all
veritable “anteekahs,” of course, and all backed up with undeniable
pedigrees.
“La, la [no, no]! bring me no more anteekahs,” I said, gravely. “They
are old and worn out, and cost much money. Have you no imitation
scarabs, new and serviceable, that one might wear without the fear of
breaking them?”
“These are imitations. O sitt!” was the ready answer.
“But you told me a moment ago they were genuine anteekahs.”
“That was because I thought the sitt wanted to buy anteekahs,” he said,
quite shamelessly.
“See now,” I said, “if you are capable of selling me new things for old,
how can I be sure that you would not sell me old things for new?”
To this he replied by declaring that he had made the scarabs himself.
Then, fearing I should not believe him, he pulled a scrap of coarse
paper from his bosom, borrowed one of my pencils, and drew an asp, an
ibis, and some other common hieroglyphic forms, with tolerable
dexterity.
“Now you believe?” he asked, triumphantly.
“I see that you can make birds and snakes,” I replied; “but that neither
proves that you can cut scarabs, nor that these scarabs are new.”
“Nay, sitt,” he protested, “I made them with these hands. I made them
but the other day. By Allah! they cannot be newer.”
Here Talhamy interposed.
“In that case,” he said, “they are too new, and will crack before a
month is over. The sitt would do better to buy some that are well
seasoned.”
Our honest fellâh touched his brow and breast.
“Now in strict truth, O dragoman!” he said, with an air of the most
engaging candor, “these scarabs were made at the time of the inundation.
They are new; but not too new. They are thoroughly seasoned. If they
crack, you shall denounce me to the governor, and I will eat stick for
them!”
Now it has always seemed to me that the most curious feature in this
little scene was the extraordinary simplicity of the Arab. With all his
cunning, with all his disposition to cheat, he suffered himself to be
turned inside-out as unsuspiciously as a baby. It never occurred to him
that his untruthfulness was being put to the test, or that he was
committing himself more and more deeply with every word he uttered. The
fact is, however, that the fellâh is half a savage. Notwithstanding his
mendacity (and it must be owned that he is the most brilliant liar
under heaven), he remains a singularly transparent piece of humanity,
easily amused, easily deceived, easily angered, easily pacified. He
steals a little, cheats a little, lies a great deal; but on the other
hand he is patient, hospitable, affectionate, trustful. He suspects no
malice and bears none. He commits no great crimes. He is incapable of
revenge. In short, his good points outnumber his bad ones; and what man
or nation need hope for a much better character?
To generalize in this way may seem like presumption on the part of a
passing stranger; yet it is more excusable as regards Egypt than it
would be of any other equally accessible country. In Europe, and indeed
in most parts of the east, one sees too little of the people to be able
to form an opinion about them; but it is not so on the Nile. Cut off
from hotels, from railways, from Europeanized cities, you are brought
into continual intercourse with natives. The sick who come to you for
medicines, the country gentlemen and government officials who visit you
on board your boat and entertain you on shore, your guides, your donkey
boys, the very dealers who live by cheating you, furnish endless studies
of character, and teach you more of Egyptian life than all the books of
Nile-travel that were ever written.
Then your crew, part Arab, part Nubian, are a little world in
themselves. One man was born a slave, and will carry the dealer’s
brand-marks to his grave. Another has two children in Miss Whateley’s
school at Cairo. A third is just married, and has left his young wife
sick at home. She may be dead by the time he gets back, and we will hear
no news of her meanwhile. So with them all. Each has his simple story--a
story in which the local oppressor, the dreaded conscription, and the
still more dreaded _corvée_, form the leading incidents. The poor
fellows are ready enough to pour out their hopes, their wrongs, their
sorrows. Through sympathy with these, one comes to know the men; and
through the men, the nation. For the life of the beled repeats itself
with but little variation wherever the Nile flows and the khedive rules.
The characters are the same; the incidents are the same. It is only the
_mise en scène_ which varies.
And thus it comes to pass that the mere traveler who spends but half a
year on the Nile may, if he takes an interest in Egypt and the
Egyptians, learn more of both in that short time than would be possible
in a country less singularly narrowed in all ways--politically,
socially, geographically.
And this reminds me that the traveler on the Nile really sees the whole
land of Egypt. Going from point to point in other countries, one follows
a thin line of road, railway, or river, leaving wide tracts unexplored
on either side; but there are few places in Middle or Upper Egypt, and
none at all in Nubia, where one may not, from any moderate height,
survey the entire face of the country from desert to desert. It is well
to do this frequently. It helps one, as nothing else can help one, to an
understanding of the wonderful mountain waste through which the Nile has
been scooping its way for uncounted cycles. And it enables one to
realize what a mere slip of alluvial deposit is this famous land which
is “the gift of the river.”
A dull gray morning; a faint and fitful breeze carried us slowly on our
way from Esneh to Edfû. The new bread--a heavy boat-load when brought on
board--lay in a huge heap at the end of the upper deck. It took four men
one whole day to cut it up. Their incessant gabble drove us nearly
distracted.
“Uskût, Khaleefeh! Uskût, Ali!” (“Silence, Khaleefeh! Silence, Ali!”)
Talhamy would say from time to time. “You are not on your own deck. The
Howadji can neither read nor write for the clatter of your tongues.”
And then, for about a minute and a half, they would be quiet.
But you could as easily keep a monkey from chattering as an Arab. Our
men talked incessantly; and their talk was always about money. Listen to
them when we might, such words as “khámsa gurûsh” (five piasters), “nûs
riyâl” (half-a-dollar), “ethneen shilling” (two shillings), were
perpetually coming to the surface. We never could understand how it was
that money, which played so small a part in their lives, should play so
large a part in their conversation.
It was about midday when we passed El Kab, the ancient Eileithyias. A
rocky valley narrowing inland; a sheik’s tomb on the mountain-ridge
above; a few clumps of datepalms; some remains of what looked like a
long, crude brick wall running at right angles to the river; and an
isolated mass of hollowed limestone rock left standing apparently in the
midst of an exhausted quarry, were all we saw of El Kab as the
dahabeeyah glided by.
And now, as the languid afternoon wears on, the propylons of Edfû loom
out of the misty distance. We have been looking for them long enough
before they come into sight--calculating every mile of the way; every
minute of the daylight. The breeze, such as it was, has dropped now. The
river stretches away before us, smooth and oily as a pond. Nine of the
men are tracking. Will they pull us to Edfû in time to see the temple
before nightfall?
Reïs Hassan looks doubtful; but takes refuge as usual in “Inshallah!”
(“God willing”). Talhamy talks of landing a sailor to run forward and
order donkeys. Meanwhile the Philæ creeps lazily on; the sun declines
unseen behind a filmy veil; and those two shadowy towers, rising higher
and ever higher on the horizon, look gray, and ghostly, and far distant
still.
Suddenly the trackers stop, look back, shout to those on board, and
begin drawing the boat to shore. Reïs Hassan points joyously to a white
streak breaking across the smooth surface of the river about half a mile
behind. The Fostât’s sailors are already swarming aloft--the Bagstones’
trackers are making for home--our own men are preparing to fling in the
rope and jump on board as the Philæ nears the bank.
For the capricious wind, that always springs up when we don’t want it,
is coming!
And now the Fostât, being hindmost, flings out her big sail and catches
the first puff; the Bagstones’ turn comes next; the Philæ shakes her
wings free and shoots ahead; and in fewer minutes than it takes to tell,
we are all three scudding along before a glorious breeze.
The great towers that showed so far away half an hour ago are now close
at hand. There are palm-woods about their feet, and clustered huts, from
the midst of which they tower up against the murky sky magnificently.
Soon they are passed and left behind, and the gray twilight takes them
and we see them no more. Then night comes on, cold and starless; yet not
too dark for going as fast as wind and canvas will carry us.
And now, with that irrepressible instinct of rivalry that
flesh--especially flesh on the Nile--is heir to, we quickly turn our
good going into a trial of speed. It is no longer a mere business-like
devotion to the matter in hand. It is a contest for glory. It is the
Philæ against the Fostât, and the Bagstones against both. In plain
English, it is a race. The two leading dahabeeyahs are pretty equally
matched. The Philæ is larger than the Fostât; but the Fostât has a
bigger mainsail. On the other hand, the Fostât is an iron boat; whereas
the Philæ, being wooden-built, is easier to pole off a sand-bank, and
lighter in hand. The Bagstones carries a capital mainsail and can go as
fast as either upon occasion. Meanwhile, the race is one of perpetually
varying fortunes. Now the Fostât shoots ahead; now the Philæ. We pass
and repass; take the wind out of one another’s sails; economize every
curve; hoist every stitch of canvas, and, having identified ourselves
with our boats, are as eager to win as if a great prize depended on it.
Under these circumstances, to dine is difficult--to go to bed
superfluous--to sleep impossible. As to mooring for the night, it is not
to be thought of for a moment. Having begun the contest, we can no more
help going than the wind can help blowing; and our crew are as keen
about winning as ourselves.
As night advances, the wind continues to rise, and our excitement with
it. Still the boats chase each other along the dark river, scattering
spray from their bows and flinging out broad foam-tracks behind them.
Their cabin windows, all alight within, cast flickering flames upon the
waves below. The colored lanterns at their mast-heads, orange, purple
and crimson, burn through the dusk-like jewels. Presently the mist blows
off; the sky clears; the stars come out; the wind howls: the casements
rattle; the tiller scroops; the sailors shout, and race, and bang the
ropes about overhead; while we, sitting up in our narrow berths, spend
half the night watching from our respective windows.
In this way some hours go by. Then, about three in the morning, with a
shock, a recoil, a yell and a scuffle, we all three rush headlong upon a
sand-bank! The men fly to the rigging and furl the flapping sail. Some
seize punting poles. Others, looking like full-grown imps of darkness,
leap overboard and set their shoulders to the work. A strophe and
antistrophe of grunts are kept up between those on deck and those in
the water. Finally, after some ten minutes’ frantic struggle, the Philæ
slips off, leaving the other two aground in the middle of the river.
Toward morning, the noisy night having worn itself away, we all fall
asleep--only to be roused again by Talhamy’s voice at seven, proclaiming
aloud that the Bagstones and Fostât are once more close upon our heels;
that Silsilis and Kom Ombo are passed and left behind; that we have
already put forty-six miles between ourselves and Edfû; and that the
good wind is still blowing.
We are now within fifteen miles of Assûan. The Nile is narrow here, and
the character of the scenery has quite changed. Our view is bounded on
the Arabian side by a near range of black granitic mountains; while on
the Libyan side lies a chain of lofty sand-hills, each curiously capped
by a crown of dark bowlders. On both banks the river is thickly fringed
with palms.
Meanwhile the race goes on. Last night it was sport; to-day it is
earnest. Last night we raced for glory; to-day we race for a stake.
“A guinée for Reïs Hassan if we get first to Assûan!”
Reïs Hassan’s eyes glisten. No need to call up the dragoman to interpret
between us. The look, the tone, are as intelligible to him as the
choicest Arabic; and the magical word “guinée” stands for a sovereign
now, as it stood for one-pound-one in the days of Nelson and
Abercrombie. He touches his head and breast; casts a backward glance at
the pursuing dahabeeyahs, a forward glance in the direction of Assûan;
kicks off his shoes; ties a handkerchief about his waist; and stations
himself at the top of the steps leading to the upper deck. By the light
in his eye and the set look about his mouth, Reïs Hassan means winning.
Now to be first in Assûan means to be first on the governor’s list and
first up the cataract. And as the passage of the cataract is some two or
three days’ work this little question of priority is by no means
unimportant. Not for five times the promised “guinée” would we have the
Fostât slip in first, and so be kept waiting our turn on the wrong side
of the frontier.
And now, as the sun rises higher, so the race waxes hotter. At breakfast
time we were fifteen miles from Assûan. Now the fifteen miles have gone
down to ten; and when we reach yonder headland they will have dwindled
to seven. It is plain to see, however, that as the distance decreases
between ourselves and Assûan, so also it decreases between ourselves and
the Fostât. Reïs Hassan knows it. I see him measuring the space by his
eye. I see the frown settling on his brow. He is calculating how much
the Fostât gains in every quarter of an hour, and how many quarters we
are yet distant from the goal. For no Arab sailor counts by miles. He
counts by time and by the reaches in the river; and these may be taken
at a rough average of three miles each. When, therefore, our captain, in
reply to an oft-repeated question, says we have yet two bends to make,
we know that we are about six miles from our destination.
Six miles--and the Fostât creeping closer every minute! Just now we were
all talking eagerly; but as the end draws near, even the sailors are
silent. Reïs Hassan stands motionless at his post, on the lookout for
shallows. The words “Shamàl--Yemîn” (“left--right”), delivered in a
short, sharp tone, are the only sounds he utters. The steersman, all eye
and ear, obeys him like his hand. The sailors squat in their places,
quiet and alert as cats.
And now it is no longer six miles, but five--no longer five, but four.
The Fostât, thanks to her bigger sail, has well-nigh overtaken us; and
the Bagstones is not more than a hundred yards behind the Fostât. On we
go, however, past palm-woods of nobler growth than any we have yet seen;
past forlorn homeward-bound dahabeeyahs lying-to against the wind; past
native boats, and riverside huts, and clouds of driving sand; till the
corner is turned, and the last reach gained, and the minarets of Assûan
are seen as through a shifting fog in the distance. The ruined tower
crowning yonder promontory stands over against the town; and those black
specks midway in the bed of the river are the first outlying rocks of
the cataract. The channel there is hemmed in between reefs and
sand-banks, and to steer it is difficult in even the calmest weather.
Still our canvas strains to the wind, and the Philæ rushes on full-tilt,
like a racer at the hurdles.
Every eye now is turned upon Reïs Hassan; and Reïs Hassan stands rigid,
like a man of stone. The rocks are close ahead--so close that we can see
the breakers pouring over them and the swirling eddies between. Our way
lies through an opening between the bowlders. Beyond that opening the
channel turns off sharply to the left. It is a point at which everything
will depend on the shifting of a sail. If done too soon, we miss the
mark; if too late, we strike upon the rocks.
Suddenly our captain flings up his hand, takes the stairs at a bound,
and flies to the prow. The sailors spring to their feet, gathering some
round the shoghool, and some round the end of the yard. The Fostât is up
beside us. The moment for winning or losing is come.
And now, for a couple of breathless seconds, the two dahabeeyahs plunge
onward side by side, making for that narrow passage which is only wide
enough for one. Then the iron boat, shaving the sand-bank to get a wider
berth, shifts her sail first, and shifts it clumsily, breaking or
letting go her shoghool. We see the sail flap and the rope fly, and all
hands rushing to retrieve it.
In that moment Reïs Hassan gives the word. The Philæ bounds
forward--takes the channel from under the very bows of the
Fostât--changes her sail without a hitch--and dips right away down the
deep water, leaving her rival hard and fast among the shallows.
The rest of the way is short and open. In less than five minutes we have
taken in our sail, paid Reïs Hassan his well-earned guinée, and found a
snug corner to moor in. And so ends our memorable race of nearly
sixty-eight miles from Edfû to Assûan.