THE CATARACT AND THE DESERT.
At Assûan one bids good-by to Egypt and enters Nubia through the gates
of the cataract--which is, in truth, no cataract but a succession of
rapids extending over two-thirds of the distance between Elephantine and
Philæ. The Nile--diverted from its original course by some unrecorded
catastrophe, the nature of which has given rise to much scientific
conjecture--here spreads itself over a rocky basin bounded by
sand-slopes on the one side and by granite cliffs on the other. Studded
with numberless islets, divided into numberless channels, foaming over
sunken rocks, eddying among water-worn bowlders, now shallow, now deep,
now loitering, now hurrying, here sleeping in the ribbed hollow of a
tiny sand-drift, there circling above the vortex of a hidden whirlpool,
the river, whether looked upon from the deck of the dahabeeyah or the
heights along the shore, is seen everywhere to be fighting its way
through a labyrinth, the paths of which have never yet been mapped or
sounded.
Those paths are everywhere difficult and everywhere dangerous; and to
that labyrinth the shellalee, or cataract Arab, alone possesses the key.
At the time of the inundation, when all but the highest rocks are under
water and navigation is as easy here as elsewhere, the shellalee’s
occupation is gone. But as the floods subside and travelers begin to
reappear, his work commences. To haul dahabeeyahs up those treacherous
rapids by sheer stress of rope and muscle; to steer skillfully down
again through channels bristling with rocks and boiling with foam,
becomes now, for some five months of the year, his principal industry.
It is hard work, but he gets well paid for it, and his profits are
always on the increase. From forty to fifty dahabeeyahs are annually
taken up between November and March; and every year brings a larger
influx of travelers. Meanwhile, accidents rarely happen; prices tend
continually upward; and the cataract-Arabs make a little fortune by
their singular monopoly.[53]
The scenery of the first cataract is like nothing else in the
world--except the scenery of the second. It is altogether new, and
strange, and beautiful. It is incomprehensible that travelers should
have written of it in general with so little admiration. They seem to
have been impressed by the wildness of the waters, by the quaint forms
of the rocks, by the desolation and grandeur of the landscape as a
whole; but scarcely at all by its beauty--which is paramount.
The Nile here widens to a lake. Of the islands, which it would hardly be
an exaggeration to describe as some hundreds in number, no two are
alike. Some are piled up like the rocks at the Land’s End in Cornwall,
block upon block, column upon column, tower upon tower, as if reared by
the hand of man. Some are green with grass; some golden with slopes of
drifted sand; some planted with rows of blossoming lupins, purple and
white. Others again are mere cairns of loose blocks, with here and there
a perilously balanced top-bowlder. On one, a singular upright monolith,
like a menhir, stands conspicuous, as if placed there to commemorate a
date, or to point the way to Philæ. Another mass rises out of the water
squared and buttressed, in the likeness of a fort. A third, humped and
shining like the wet body of some amphibious beast, lifts what seems to
be a horned head above the surface of the rapids. All these blocks and
bowlders and fantastic rocks are granite; some red, some purple, some
black. Their forms are rounded by the friction of ages. Those nearest
the brink reflect the sky like mirrors of burnished steel. Royal ovals
and hieroglyphed inscriptions, fresh as of yesterday’s cutting, start
out here and there from those glittering surfaces with startling
distinctness. A few of the larger islands are crowned with clumps of
palms; and one, the loveliest of any, is completely embowered in
gum-trees and acacias, dôm and date palms, and feathery tamarisks, all
festooned together under a hanging canopy of yellow-blossomed creepers.
On a brilliant Sunday morning, with a favorable wind, we entered on this
fairy archipelago. Sailing steadily against the current, we glided away
from Assûan, left Elephantine behind, and found ourselves at once in the
midst of the islands. From this moment every turn of the tiller
disclosed a fresh point of view, and we sat on deck, spectators of a
moving panorama. The diversity of subjects was endless. The combinations
of form and color, of light and shadow, of foreground and distance, were
continually changing. A boat or a few figures alone were wanting to
complete the picturesqueness of the scene; but in all those channels,
and among all those islands, we saw no sign of any living creature.
Meanwhile the sheik of the cataract--a flat-faced, fishy-eyed old
Nubian, with his head tied up in a dingy yellow silk handkerchief--sat
apart in solitary grandeur at the stern, smoking a long chibouque.
Behind him squatted some five or six dusky strangers; and a new
steersman, black as a negro, had charge of the helm. This new steersman
was our pilot for Nubia. From Assûan to Wady Halfeh, and back again to
Assûan, he alone was now held responsible for the safety of the
dahabeeyah and all on board.
At length a general stir among the crew warned us of the near
neighborhood of the first rapid. Straight ahead, as if ranged along the
dike of a weir, a chain of small islets barred the way; while the
current, divided into three or four headlong torrents, came rushing down
the slope, and reunited at the bottom in one tumultuous race.
That we should ever get the Philæ up that hill of moving water seemed at
first sight impossible. Still our steersman held on his course, making
for the widest channel. Still the sheik smoked imperturbably. Presently,
without removing the pipe from his mouth, he delivered the one
word--“Roóhh!” “Forward!”
Instantly, evoked by his nod, the rocks swarmed with natives. Hidden
till now in all sorts of unseen corners, they sprang out shouting,
gesticulating, laden with coils of rope, leaping into the thick of the
rapids, splashing like water-dogs, bobbing like corks, and making as
much show of energy as if they were going to haul us up Niagara. The
thing was evidently a _coup de théatre_, like the apparition of Clan
Alpine’s warriors in the Donna del Lago--with backshîsh in the
background. The scene that followed was curious enough. Two ropes were
carried from the dahabeeyah to the nearest island, and there made fast
to the rocks. Two ropes from the island were also brought on board the
dahabeeyah. A double file of men on deck, and another double file on
shore, then ranged themselves along the ropes; the sheik gave the
signal; and, to a wild chanting accompaniment and a movement like a
barbaric Sir Roger de Coverley dance, a system of double hauling began,
by means of which the huge boat slowly and steadily ascended. We may
have been a quarter of an hour going up the incline; though it seemed
much longer. Meanwhile, as they warmed to their work, the men chanted
louder and pulled harder, till the boat went in at last with a rush, and
swung over into a pool of comparatively smooth water.
Having moored here for an hour’s rest, we next repeated the performance
against a still stronger current a little higher up. This time, however,
a rope broke. Down went the haulers, like a row of cards suddenly tipped
over--round swung the Philæ, receiving the whole rush of the current on
her beam! Luckily for us, the other rope held fast against the strain.
Had it also broken, we must have been wrecked then and there
ignominiously.
Our Nubian auxiliaries struck work after this. Fate, they said, was
adverse; so they went home, leaving us moored for the night in the pool
at the top of the first rapid. The sheik promised, however, that his
people should begin work next morning at dawn, and get us through before
sunset. Next morning came, however, and not a man appeared upon the
scene. At about midday they began dropping in, a few at a time; hung
about in a languid, lazy way for a couple of hours or so; moved us into
a better position for attacking the next rapid; and then melted away
mysteriously by twos and threes among the rocks, and were no more seen.
We now felt that our time and money were being recklessly squandered,
and we resolved to bear it no longer. Our painter therefore undertook to
remonstrate with the sheik, and to convince him of the error of his
ways. The sheik listened; smoked; shook his head; replied that in the
cataract, as elsewhere, there were lucky and unlucky days, days when men
felt inclined to work, and days when they felt disinclined. To-day as it
happened, they felt disinclined. Being reminded that it was unreasonable
to keep us three days going up five miles of river, and that there was a
governor at Assûan to whom we should appeal to-morrow unless the work
went on in earnest, he smiled, shrugged his shoulders, and muttered
something about “destiny.”
Now the painter, being of a practical turn, had compiled for himself a
little vocabulary of choice Arabic maledictions, which he carried in his
note-book for reference when needed. Having no faith in its possible
usefulness, we were amused by the industry with which he was constantly
adding to this collection. We looked upon it, in fact, as a harmless
pleasantry--just as we looked upon his pocket-revolver, which was never
loaded; or his brand-new fowling-piece, which he was never known to
fire.
But the sheik of the cataract had gone too far. The fatuity of that
smile would have exasperated the meekest of men; and our painter was not
the meekest of men. So he whipped out his pocket-book, ran his finger
down the line, and delivered an appropriate quotation. His accent may
not have been faultless; but there could be no mistake as to the energy
of his style or the vigor of his language. The effect of both was
instantaneous. The sheik sprang to his feet as if he had been
shot--turned pale with rage under his black skin--vowed the Philæ might
stay where she was till doomsday, for aught that he or his men would do
to help her a foot farther--bounded into his own ricketty sandal and
rowed away, leaving us to our fate.
We stood aghast. It was all over with us. We should never see Abou
Simbel now--never write our names on the Rock of Aboosîr, nor slake our
thirst at the waters of the second cataract. What was to be done? Must
the sheik be defied, or propitiated? Should we appeal to the governor,
or should we immolate the painter? The majority were for immolating the
painter.
We went to bed that night, despairing; but lo! next morning at sunrise
appeared the sheik of the cataract, all smiles, all activity, with no
end of ropes and a force of two hundred men. We were his dearest
friends now. The painter was his brother. He had called out the ban and
arrière ban of the cataract in our service. There was nothing, in short,
that he would not do to oblige us.
The dragoman vowed that he had never seen Nubians work as those Nubians
worked that day. They fell to like giants, tugging away from morn till
dewy eve, and never giving over till they brought us round the last
corner and up the last rapid. The sun had set, the after-glow had faded,
the twilight was closing in, when our dahabeeyah slipped at last into
level water, and the two hundred, with a parting shout, dispersed to
their several villages.
We were never known to make light of the painter’s repertory of select
abuse after this. If that note-book of his had been the drowned book of
Prospero, or the magical Papyrus of Thoth fished up anew from the bottom
of the Nile, we could not have regarded it with a respect more nearly
bordering upon awe.
Though there exists no boundary line to mark where Egypt ends and Nubia
begins, the nationality of the races dwelling on either side of that
invisible barrier is as sharply defined as though an ocean divided them.
Among the shellalee, or cataract villagers, one comes suddenly into the
midst of a people that have apparently nothing in common with the
population of Egypt. They belong to a lower ethnological type, and they
speak a language derived from purely African sources. Contrasting with
our Arab sailors the sulky-looking, half-naked, muscular savages who
thronged about the Philæ during her passage up the cataract, one could
not but perceive that they are to this day as distinct and inferior a
people as when their Egyptian conquerors, massing together in one
contemptuous epithet all nations south of the frontier, were wont to
speak of them as “the vile race of Kush.” Time has done little to change
them since those early days. Some Arabic words have crept into their
vocabulary. Some modern luxuries--as tobacco, coffee, soap, and
gunpowder--have come to be included in the brief catalogue of their
daily wants. But in most other respects they are living to this day as
they lived in the time of the Pharaohs; cultivating lentils and durra,
brewing barley beer, plaiting mats and baskets of stained reeds, tracing
rude patterns upon bowls of gourd-rind, flinging the javelin, hurling
the boomerang, fashioning bucklers of crocodile-skin and bracelets of
ivory, and supplying Egypt with henna. The dexterity with which, sitting
as if in a wager boat, they balance themselves on a palm-log, and paddle
to and fro about the river, is really surprising. This barbaric
substitute for a boat is probably more ancient than the pyramids.
Having witnessed the passage of the first few rapids, we were glad to
escape from the dahabeeyah and spend our time sketching here and there
on the borders of the desert and among the villages and islands round
about. In all Egypt and Nubia there is no scenery richer in picturesque
bits than the scenery of the cataract. An artist might pass a winter
there, and not exhaust the pictorial wealth of those five miles which
divide Assûan from Philæ. Of tortuous creeks shut in by rocks
fantastically piled--of sand-slopes golden to the water’s edge--of
placid pools low-lying in the midst of lupin-fields and tracts of tender
barley--of creaking sakkiehs, half-hidden among palms and dropping water
as they turn--of mud dwellings, here clustered together in hollows,
there perched separately on heights among the rocks, and perpetuating to
this day the form and slope of Egyptian pylons--of rude boats drawn up
in sheltered coves, or going to pieces high and dry upon the sands--of
water-washed bowlders of crimson, and black, and purple granite, on
which the wild fowl cluster at midday and the fisher spreads his nets to
dry at sunset--of camels, and caravans, and camps on shore--of
cargo-boats and cangias on the river--of wild figures of half-naked
athletes--of dusky women decked with barbaric ornaments, unveiled,
swift-gliding, trailing long robes of deepest gentian blue--of ancient
crones, and little naked children like live bronzes--of these, and a
hundred other subjects, in infinite variety and combination, there is
literally no end. It is all so picturesque, indeed, so biblical, so
poetical, that one is almost in danger of forgetting that the places are
something more than beautiful backgrounds, and that the people are not
merely appropriate figures placed there for the delight of sketchers,
but are made of living flesh and blood, and moved by hopes, and fears,
and sorrows, like our own.
Mahatta, green with sycamores and tufted palms, nestled in the hollow
of a little bay; half-islanded in the rear by an arm of backwater,
curved and glittering like the blade of a Turkish cimeter, is by far the
most beautifully situated village on the Nile. It is the residence of
the principal sheik, and, if one may say so, is the capital of the
cataract. The houses lie some way back from the river. The bay is
thronged with native boats of all sizes and colors. Men and camels,
women and children, donkeys, dogs, merchandise and temporary huts, put
together with poles and matting, crowd the sandy shore. It is Assûan
over again, but on a larger scale. The shipping is tenfold more
numerous. The traders’ camp is in itself a village. The beach is half a
mile in length and a quarter of a mile in the slope down to the river.
Mahatta is, in fact, the twin port to Assûan. It lies, not precisely at
the other extremity of the great valley between Assûan and Philæ, but at
the nearest accessible point above the cataract. It is here that the
Soudan traders disembark their goods for re-embarkation at Assûan. Such
ricketty, barbaric-looking craft as these Nubian cangias we had not yet
seen on the river. They looked as old and obsolete as the ark. Some had
curious carved verandas outside the cabin-entrance. Others were tilted
up at the stern like Chinese junks. Most of them had been slavers in the
palmy days of Defterdar Bey; plying then as now between Wady Halfeh and
Mahatta, discharging their human cargoes at this point for re-shipment
at Assûan; and rarely passing the cataract, even at the time of
inundation. If their wicked old timbers could have spoken they might
have told us many a black and bloody tale.
Going up through the village and palm gardens, and turning off in a
northeasterly direction toward the desert, one presently comes out about
midway of that valley to which I have made allusion more than once
already. No one, however unskilled in physical geography, could look
from end to end of that huge furrow and not see that it was once a
river-bed. We know not for how many tens of thousands, or hundreds of
thousands, of years the Nile may have held on its course within those
original bounds. Neither can we tell when it deserted them. It is,
however, quite certain that the river flowed that way within historic
times; that is to say, in the days of Amenemhat III (_circa_ B.C. 2800).
So much is held to be proven by certain inscriptions[54] which record
the maximum height of the inundation at Semneh during various years of
that king’s reign. The Nile then rose in Ethiopia to a level some
twenty-seven feet in excess of the highest point to which it is ever
known to attain at the present day. I am not aware what relation the
height of this ancient bed bears to the levels recorded at Semneh, or to
those now annually self-registered upon the furrowed banks of Philæ; but
one sees at a glance, without aid of measurements or hydrographic
science, that if the river were to come down again next summer in a
mighty “bore,” the crest of which rose twenty-seven feet above the
highest ground now fertilized by the annual overflow, it would at once
refill its long-deserted bed and convert Assûan into an island.
Granted, then, that the Nile flowed through the desert in the time of
Amenemhat III, there must at some later period have come a day when it
suddenly ran dry. This catastrophe is supposed to have taken place about
the time of the expulsion of the Hyksos (_circa_ B.C. 1703), when a
great disruption of the rocky barrier at Silsilis is thought to have
taken place; so draining Nubia, which till now had played the part of a
vast reservoir, and dispersing the pent-up floods over the plains of
Southern Egypt. It would, however, be a mistake to conclude that the
Nile was by this catastrophe turned aside in order to be precipitated in
the direction of the cataract. One arm of the river must always have
taken the present lower and deeper course; while the other must of
necessity have run low--perhaps very nearly dry--as the inundation
subsided every spring.
There remains no monumental record of this event; but the facts speak
for themselves. The great channel is there. The old Nile mud is
there--buried for the most part in sand, but still visible on many a
rocky shelf and plateau between Assûan and Philæ. There are even places
where the surface of the mass is seen to be scooped out, as if by the
sudden rush of the departing waters. Since that time, the tides of war
and commerce have flowed in their place. Every conquering Thothmes and
Rameses bound for the land of Kush, led his armies that way. Sabacon, at
the head of his Ethiopian hordes, took that short cut to the throne of
all the Pharaohs. The French under Desaix, pursuing the Memlooks after
the battle of the pyramids, swept down that pass to Philæ. Meanwhile the
whole trade of the Soudan, however interrupted at times by the ebb and
flow of war, has also set that way. We never crossed those five miles of
desert without encountering a train or two of baggage-camels laden
either with European goods for the far south, or with oriental treasures
for the north.
I shall not soon forget an Abyssinian caravan which we met one day just
coming out from Mahatta. It consisted of seventy camels laden with
elephant tusks. The tusks, which were about fourteen feet in length,
were packed in half-dozens and sewed up in buffalo hides. Each camel was
slung with two loads, one at either side of the hump. There must have
been about eight hundred and forty tusks in all. Beside each shambling
beast strode a bare-footed Nubian. Following these, on the back of a
gigantic camel, came a hunting-leopard in a wooden cage and a wildcat in
a basket. Last of all marched a coal-black Abyssinian nearly seven feet
in height, magnificently shawled and turbaned, with a huge cimeter
dangling by his side and in his belt a pair of enormous inlaid
seventeenth-century pistols, such as would have become the holsters of
Prince Rupert. This elaborate warrior represented the guard of the
caravan. The hunting-leopard and the wildcat were for Prince Hassan, the
third son of the viceroy. The ivory was for exportation. Anything more
picturesque than this procession, with the dust driving before it in
clouds and the children following it out of the village, it would be
difficult to conceive. One longed for Gerôme to paint it on the spot.
The rocks on either side of the ancient river-bed are profusely
hieroglyphed. These inscriptions, together with others found in the
adjacent quarries, range over a period of between three and four
thousand years, beginning with the early reigns of the ancient empire
and ending with the Ptolemies and Cæsars. Some are mere autographs.
Others run to a considerable length. Many are headed with figures of
gods and worshipers. These, however, are for the most part mere
graffiti, ill-drawn and carelessly sculptured. The records they
illustrate are chiefly votive. The passer-by adores the gods of the
cataract; implores their protection; registers his name and states the
object of his journey. The votaries are of various ranks, periods, and
nationalities; but the formula in most instances is pretty much the
same. Now it is a citizen of Thebes performing the pilgrimage to Philæ;
or a general at the head of his troops returning from a foray in
Ethiopia; or a tributary prince doing homage to Rameses the Great, and
associating his suzerain with the divinities of the place. Occasionally
we come upon a royal cartouche and a pompous catalogue of titles,
setting forth how the Pharaoh himself, the Golden Hawk, the Son of Ra,
the Mighty, the Invincible, the Godlike, passed that way.
It is curious to see how royalty, so many thousand years ago, set the
fashion in names, just as it does to this day. Nine-tenths of the
ancient travelers who left their signatures upon these rocks were called
Rameses or Thothmes or Usertasen. Others, still more ambitious, took the
names of gods. Ampère, who hunted diligently for inscriptions both here
and among the islands, found the autographs of no end of merely mortal
Amens and Hathors.[55]
Our three days’ detention in the cataract was followed by a fourth of
glossy calm. There being no breath of air to fill our sails and no
footing for the trackers, we could now get along only by dint of hard
punting; so that it was past midday before the Philæ lay moored at last
in the shadow of the holy island to which she owed her name.