maroc and mazagan :3

Kettle's family, and after reflecting upon
my experience among hard-swearing men of many nations, seafarers,
land-sharks, beach-combers and the rest, I award the Maalem pride of
place. You will find him to-day in Djedida, baking his bread with the aid
of the small apprentice who looks after the shop when he goes abroad, or
enjoying the dreams of the haschisch eater when his work is done. He is no
man's enemy, and the penalty of his shortcomings will probably fall upon
no body or soul save his own. A picturesque figure, passionate yet a
philosopher, patiently tolerant of blinding heat, bad roads, uncomfortable
sleeping quarters and short commons, the Maalem will remain alive and real
in my memory long after the kaids and wazeers and other high dignitaries
of his country are no more than dimly splendid shadows, lacking altogether
in individuality.

I learned to enjoy Djedida by night. Then the town was almost as silent as
our camp below Mediunah had been. The ramparts left by the Portuguese and
the white walls of the city itself became all of a piece, indistinct and
mysterious as the darkness blended them. Late camels coming into the town
to seek the security of some fandak would pad noiselessly past me; weird
creatures from the under-world they seemed, on whom the ghostlike Arabs in
their white djellabas were ordered to attend. Children would flit to and
fro like shadows, strangely quiet, as though held in thrall even in the
season of their play by the solemn aspect of the surroundings. The
market-place and road to the landing-stage would be deserted, the gates of
the city barred, and there was never a light to be seen save where some
wealthy Moor attended by lantern-bearing slaves passed to and from his
house. One night by the Kasbah the voice of a watchman broke upon the
city's silence, at a time when the mueddin was at rest, and it was not
incumbent upon the faithful to pray. "Be vigilant, O guardians," he
cried,--"be vigilant and do not sleep." Below, by my side, on the ground,
the guardians, wrapped warm in their djellabas, dreamed on, all
undisturbed.

By night, too, the pariah dogs, scavengers of all Mohammedan cities,
roamed at their ease and leisure through Djedida, so hungry and so free
from daintiness that no garbage would be left on the morrow. Moorish
houses have no windows fronting the road--decency forbids, and though
there might have been ample light within, the bare walls helped to darken
the pathway, and it was wise to walk warily lest one should tumble over
some beggar asleep on the ground.

[Illustration: SUNSET OFF THE COAST]

On nights like these and through streets not greatly different, Harun
al Raschid fared abroad in Baghdad and lighted upon the wonderful folk who
live for all time in the pages of the _Arabian Nights_. Doubtless I passed
some twentieth-century descendants of the fisher-folk, the Calendars, the
slaves, and the merchants who move in their wonderful pageantry along the
glittering road of the "Thousand Nights and a Night,"--the type is
marvellously unchanging in Al Moghreb; but, alas, they spoke, if at all,
to deaf ears, and Salam was ever more anxious to see me safely home than
to set out in search of adventure. By day I knew that Djedida had little
of the charm associated even in this year of grace with the famous city on
the Tigris, but, all over the world that proclaims the inspiration of
Mohammed, the old times come back by night, and then "a thousand years are
but as yesterday."

Happily we were right below the area of rebellion. In the north, round Fez
and Taza, there was severe fighting, spreading thence to the Riff country.
Here, people did no more than curse the Pretender in public or the Sultan
in private, according to the state of their personal feelings.
Communication with the south, said the Maalem, was uninterrupted; only in
the north were the sons of the Illegitimate, the rebels against Allah,
troubling Our Lord the Sultan. From Djedida down to the Atlas the tribes
were peaceful, and would remain at rest unless Our Master should attempt
to collect his taxes, in which case, without doubt, there would be
trouble.

[Illustration: A VERANDAH AT MAZAGAN]

He was a busy man in these days, was the Maalem. When he was not baking
bread or smoking kief he was securing mules and bringing them for our
inspection. To Mr. T. Spinney, son of the British Vice-Consul in Mazagan,
we owed our salvation. A master of Moghrebbin Arabic, on intimate terms
with the Moors, and thoroughly conversant with the road and its
requirements, he stood between me and the fiery-tongued Maalem. This mule
was rejected, that saddle was returned, stirrups tied with string were
disqualified, the little man's claim to have all "the money in the hand"
was overruled, and the Maalem, red-hot sputtering iron in my hands, was as
wax in Mr. Spinney's. My good friend and host also found Kaid M'Barak,[7]
the soldier, a tall, scorched, imperturbable warrior, who rode a brave
horse, and carried a gun done up in a very tattered, old, flannel case
tied with half a dozen pieces of string. The kaid's business was to strike
terror into the hearts of evil men in return for a Moorish dollar a day,
and to help with tent setting and striking, or anything else that might be
required, in return for his food. He was a lean, gaunt, taciturn man, to
whom twelve hours in the saddle brought no discomfort, and though he
strove earnestly to rob me, it was only at the journey's end, when he had
done his work faithfully and well. His gun seemed to be a constant source
of danger to somebody, for he carried it at right angles to his horse
across the saddle, and often on the road I would start to consciousness
that the kaid was covering me with his be-frocked weapon. After a time
one grew accustomed and indifferent to the danger, but when I went
shooting in the Argan forest I left the blessed one in camp. He was
convinced that he carried his gun in proper fashion, and that his duty was
well done. And really he may have been right, for upon a day, when a hint
of possible danger threatened, I learned to my amusement and relief that
the valiant man carried no ammunition of any sort, and that the barrel of
his gun was stuffed full of red calico.

Our inland tramp over, he took one day's rest at Mogador, then gathered
the well-earned store of dollars into his belt and started off to follow
the coast road back to Djedida. Perhaps by now the Basha has had his
dollars, or the Sultan has summoned him to help fight Bu Hamara. In any
case I like to think that his few weeks with us will rank among the
pleasant times of his life, for he proved a patient, enduring man, and
though silent, a not unedifying companion.

Among the strange stories I heard in Djedida while preparing for the
journey was one relating to the then War Minister, Kaid Mahedi el Menebhi,
some-time envoy to the Court of St. James's. In his early days Menebhi,
though a member of the great Atlas Kabyle of that name, had been a poor
lad running about Djedida's streets, ready and willing to earn a handful
of _floos_[8] by hard work of any description. Then he set up in business
as a mender of old shoes and became notorious, not because of his skill as
a cobbler, but on account of his quick wit and clever ideas. In all
Mohammedan countries a Believer may rise without any handicap on account
of lowly origin, and so it fell out that the late Grand Wazeer, Ba Ahmad,
during a visit to Djedida heard of the young cobbler's gifts, and
straightway gave him a place in his household. Thereafter promotion was
rapid and easy for Menebhi, and the lad who had loafed about the streets
with the outcasts of the city became, under the Sultan, the first man in
Morocco. "To-day," concluded my informant, "he has palaces and slaves and
a great hareem, he is a Chief Wazeer and head of the Sultan's forces, but
he still owes a merchant in Djedida some few dollars on account of leather
he had bought and forgot to pay for when Ba Ahmad took him to
Marrakesh."[9]

[Illustration: A BLACKSMITH'S SHOP]

In the R'hamna country, on the way to the southern capital, we pitched our
tents one night in a Government n'zala, or guarded camping-ground, one of
many that are spread about the country for the safety of travellers. The
price of corn, eggs, and chickens was amazingly high, and the Maalem
explained that the n'zala was kept by some of the immediate family of
Mahedi el Menebhi, who had put them there, presumably to make what profit
they could. I looked very carefully at our greedy hosts. They were a rough
unprepossessing crowd, but their wealth in sheep and goats alone was
remarkable, and their stock was safe from molestation, for they were
known to be relatives of the Sultan's chief minister, a man whose arm is
long and hard-hitting. Since last autumn Menebhi has resigned his high
office, reduced his household, manumitted many slaves, and gone on the
great pilgrimage to Mecca, so it may be presumed that his relatives in the
forsaken R'hamna country have lowered their prices. Yet, 'tis something to
have a great wazeer for relative even though, for the time being, loss of
favour has given him leisure for pious observances.

At length the evening came, when the last mule was selected, the last
package made up, and nothing lay between us and the open road. Sleep was
hard to woo. I woke before daylight, and was in the patio before the first
animal arrived, or the sleepy porter had fumbled at the door of the
warehouse where the luggage was stacked.

    Morn in the white wake of the morning star
    Came furrowing all the orient into gold,

and gave to the tops of walls and battlements a momentary tinge of rose
colour, a sight well worth the effort demanded by early rising.
Sparrow-hawks and pigeons were fluttering over their nests on the deserted
battlements, a stork eyed me with solemn curiosity from the minaret of a
near mosque, and only the earliest wayfarers were astir. How slowly the
men seemed to do their work, and how rapidly the morning wore on. Ropes
and palmetto baskets refused to fit at the last moment, two mules were
restive until their "father," the Maalem, very wide awake and energetic,
cursed their religion, and reminded them that they were the children of
asses renowned throughout the Moghreb for baseness and immorality. One
animal was found at the last moment to be saddle-galled, and was rejected
summarily, despite its "father's" frenzied assurances. Though I had been
astir shortly before three, and at work soon after four, it was nearly
seven o'clock when the last crooked way had been made straight, the last
shwarri[10] balanced, and the luggage mules were moving to the Dukala
gate.

The crowd of curious onlookers then gave way, some few wishing us well on
the journey. I daresay there were many among them, tied by their daily
toil to the town, who thought with longing of the pleasant road before us,
through fertile lands where all the orchards were aflower and the peasants
were gathering the ripe barley, though April had yet some days to revel
in. Small boys waved their hands to us, the water-carrier carrying his
tight goat-skin from the wells set his cups a-tinkling, as though by way
of a God-speed, and then M'Barak touched his horse with the spur to induce
the bravery of a caracole, and led us away from Djedida. I drew a long
breath of pleasure and relief; we were upon the road.

FOOTNOTES:

[6] The sok is the market-place.

[7] Kaid is a complimentary title--he was a common soldier. M'Barak means
"the blessed one," and is one of the names usually set apart for slaves.

[8] Base copper coins, of which a penny will purchase a score.

[9] It is fair to say that this is no more than one of many stories
relating to the great Wazeer's early days. Another says that he started
life as a soldier. There is no doubt that he is a man of extraordinary
talent.

[10] A pannier made of palmetto.




ON THE MOORISH ROAD




[Illustration: A SAINT'S TOMB]




CHAPTER III

ON THE MOORISH ROAD

    With the brief gladness of the Palms,
        that tower and sway o'er seething plain,
    Fraught with the thoughts of rustling shade,
        and welling spring, and rushing rain;
    'Tis their's to pass with joy and hope,
        whose souls shall ever thrill and fill
    Dreams of the Birthplace and the Tomb,--
        visions of Allah's Holy Hill.

    _The Kasidah._


We travel slowly, for the Maalem "father" of the pack-mules--guide,
philosopher, and trusted companion--says that haste kills strong men, and
often repeats a Moorish proverb which tells us that walking is better than
running, and that of all things sitting still is best. If Salam and I,
reaching a piece of level sward by the side of some orchard or arable land
when the heat of the day has passed, venture to indulge in a brisk canter,
the Maalem's face grows black as his eyes.

"Have a care," he said to me one evening, "for this place is peopled by
djinoon, and if they are disturbed they will at least kill the horses and
mules, and leave us to every robber among the hills." Doubtless the
Maalem prophesied worse things than this, but I have no Arabic worth
mention, and Salam, who acts as interpreter, possesses a very fair amount
of tact. I own to a vulgar curiosity that urges me to see a djin if I can,
so, after this warning, Salam and I go cantering every late afternoon when
the Enemy, as some Moors call the sun, is moving down towards the west,
and the air gets its first faint touch of evening cool. Fortunately or
unfortunately, the evil spirits never appear however, unless unnoticed by
me in the harmless forms of storks, stock-doves, or sparrow-hawks.

[Illustration: NEAR A WELL IN THE COUNTRY]

In this fertile province of the Dukala, in the little-known kingdom of the
victorious Sultan, Mulai Abd-el-Aziz, there are delightful stretches of
level country, and the husbandman's simplest toil suffices to bring about
an abundant harvest. Unhappily a great part of the province is not in
permanent cultivation at all. For miles and miles, often as far as the eye
can see, the land lies fallow, never a farmhouse or village to be seen,
nothing save some zowia or saint's tomb, with white dome rising within
four white walls to stare undaunted at the fierce African sun, while the
saint's descendants in the shelter of the house live by begging from pious
visitors. Away from the fertility that marks the neighbourhood of the
douars, one finds a few spare bushes, suddra, retam, or colocynth, a few
lizards darting here and there, and over all a supreme silence that may be
felt, even as the darkness that troubled Egypt in days of old. The main
track, not to be dignified by the name of road, is always to be discerned
clearly enough, at least the Maalem is never in doubt when stray paths,
leading from nowhere to the back of beyond, intersect it.

At long intervals we pass a n'zala, a square empty space surrounded by a
zariba of thorn and prickly pear. The village, a few wattled huts with
conical roofs, stands by its side. Every n'zala is a Government shelter
for travellers; you may pitch your tent within the four walls, and even if
you remain outside and hire guards the owners of the huts are responsible
for your safety, with their worldly goods, perhaps with their lives. I
have tried the interior of the Moorish n'zalas, where all too frequently
you must lie on unimagined filth, often almost within reach of
camel-drivers and muleteers, who are so godly that they have no time to be
clean, and I have concluded that the drawbacks outweigh the advantages.
Now I pitch my tent on some cleaner spot, and pay guards from the village
to stretch their blankets under its lee and go to sleep. If there are
thieves abroad the zariba will not keep them out, and if there are no
thieves a tired traveller may forget his fatigue.

On the road we meet few wayfarers, and those we encounter are full of
suspicion. Now and again we pass some country kaid or khalifa out on
business. As many as a dozen well-armed slaves and retainers may follow
him, and, as a rule, he rides a well-fed Barb with a fine crimson saddle
and many saddle cloths. Over his white djellaba is a blue selham that
came probably from Manchester; his stirrups are silver or plated. He
travels unarmed and seldom uses spurs--a packing needle serves as an
effective substitute. When he has spurs they are simply spear-heads--sharp
prongs without rowels. The presence of Unbelievers in the country of the
True Faith is clearly displeasing to him, but he is nearly always diplomat
enough to return my laboured greeting, though doubtless he curses me
heartily enough under his breath. His road lies from village to village,
his duty to watch the progress of the harvest for his overlord. Even the
locusts are kinder than the country kaids. But so soon as the kaid has
amassed sufficient wealth, the governor of his province, or one of the
high wazeers in the Sultan's capital, will despoil him and sell his place
to the highest bidder, and in the fulness of time the Sultan will send for
that wazeer or governor, and treat him in similar fashion. "Mektub," it is
written, and who shall avoid destiny?[11]

[Illustration: NEAR A WELL IN THE TOWN]

When the way is long and the sun hot, pack and saddle animals come
together, keeping a level pace of some five miles an hour, and Salam or
the Maalem beguiles the tedium of the way with song or legend. The Maalem
has a song that was taught him by one of his grandfather's slaves, in the
far-off days when Mulai Mohammed reigned in Red Marrakesh. In this chant,
with its weird monotonous refrain, the slaves sing of their journey
from the lands of the South, the terrors of the way, the lack of food and
water. It is a dismal affair enough, but the Maalem likes it, and Salam,
riding under a huge Tetuan hat, carrying my shot gun, in case some fresh
meat should come along, and keeping watchful eye on the mules, joins
lustily in the refrain. Salam has few songs of his own, and does not care
to sing them, lest his importance should suffer in the native eyes, but he
possesses a stock of Arabian Nights' legends, and quotes them as though
they were part of Al Koran.

Now and again, in some of the waste and stony places beyond Dukala's
boundaries, we come across a well, literally a well in the desert, with
husbandmen gathered about it and drawing water in their goat-skin buckets,
that are tied to long palmetto ropes made by the men of the neighbouring
villages. The water is poured into flat, puddled troughs, and the thirsty
flocks and herds drink in turn, before they march away to hunt for such
scanty herbage as the land affords. The scene round these wells is
wonderfully reminiscent of earliest Bible times, particularly so where the
wandering Bedouins bring their flocks to water from the inhospitable
territory of the Wad Nun and deserts below the Sus.

I note with pleasure the surprising dignity of the herdsmen, who make far
less comment upon the appearance of the stranger in these wild places than
we should make upon the appearance of a Moor or Berber in a London street.

The most unmistakable tribute to the value of the water is paid by the
skeletons of camels, mules, sheep and goats that mark the road to the
well. They tell the tale of animals beaten by the Enemy in their last
stride. It is not easy for a European to realise the suffering these
strange lands must see when the summer drought is upon the face of the
earth. Perhaps they are lessened among the human sufferers by the very
real fatalism that accepts evil as it accepts good, without grief and
without gladness, but always with philosophic calm; at least we should
call it philosophic in a European; superstitious fatalism, of course, in a
Moor.

[Illustration: MOORISH WOMAN AND CHILD]

The earliest and latest hours of our daily journey are, I think, the best.
When afternoon turns toward evening in the fertile lands, and the great
heat begins to pass, countless larks resume their song, while from every
orchard one hears the subdued murmur of doves or the mellow notes of the
nightingale. Storks sweep in wide circles overhead or teach their awkward
young the arts of flight, or wade solemnly in search of supper to some
marsh where the bull-frogs betray their presence by croaking as loudly as
they can. The decline of the sun is quite rapid--very often the afterglow
lights us to our destination. It is part of the Maalem's duty to decide
upon the place of our nightly sojourn, and so to regulate the time of
starting, the pace, and the mid-day rest, that he may bring us to the
village or n'zala in time to get the tent up before darkness has fallen.
The little man is master of every turn in the road, and has only failed
once--when he brought us to a large village, where the bulk of the
inhabitants of outlying douars had attacked the Governor's house, with
very little success, on the previous day, and were now about to be
attacked in their turn by the Governor and his bodyguard. There had been
much firing and more shouting, but nobody was badly hurt. Prudence
demanded that the journey be resumed forthwith, and for three hours the
Maalem kept his eyes upon the stars and cursed the disturbers of the
land's peace. Then we reached the desired haven, and passed unscathed
through the attacks of the native dogs that guarded its approaches.

The procedure when we approach a n'zala in the evening is highly
interesting. Some aged headman, who has seen our little company
approaching, stands by the edge of the road and declares we are
welcome.[12] Salam or the Maalem responds and presents me, a traveller
from the far country of the Ingliz, carrying letters to the great sheikhs
of the South. The headman repeats his welcome and is closely questioned
concerning the existing supplies of water, corn, milk, eggs, and poultry.
These points being settled, Salam asks abouts guards. The strangers would
sleep outside the n'zala: Can they have guards at a fair price? Three are
promised for a payment of about sevenpence apiece, and then the headman
precedes us and we turn from the main track to the place of shelter.

Instantly the village is astir. The dogs are driven off. Every wattled
hut yields its quota of men, women, and children, spectral in their white
djellabas and all eager to see the strangers and their equipment. The men
collect in one group and talk seriously of the visit, well assured that it
has some significance, probably unpleasant; the women, nervous by nature
and training, do not venture far from their homes and remain veiled to the
eyes. But the children--dark, picturesque, half-naked boys and girls--are
nearly free from fear if not from doubt. The tattoo marks on their chins
keep them safe from the evil eye; so they do not run much risk from chance
encounter with a European. They approach in a constantly shifting group,
no detail of the unpacking is lost to them, they are delighted with the
tent and amazed at the number of articles required to furnish it, they
refuse biscuits and sugar, though Salam assures them that both are good to
eat, and indeed sugar is one of the few luxuries of their simple lives.

[Illustration: EVENING ON THE PLAINS]

By the headman's direction our wants are supplied. The patriarch, with his
long white beard and clear far-seeing eyes, receives the respect and
obedience of all the village, settles all disputes, and is personally
and chickens cost about
fivepence apiece. If Salam, M'Barak and the Maalem were travelling alone
they would pay less, but a European is rarely seen, and his visit must be
made memorable.

Provisions purchased, the tent up, mules and horses tethered together in
full view of the tent, a great peace falls upon our little party. I am
permitted to lie at full length on a horse rug and stare up at the dark,
star-spangled sky; Salam has dug a little hole in the ground, made a
charcoal fire, and begun to prepare soup and boil the water for coffee.
The Maalem smokes kief in furtive manner, as though orthodox enough to be
ashamed of the practice, while M'Barak prepares plates and dishes for the
evening meal. Around, in a semicircle, some ten yards away, the men and
boys of the village sit observing us solemnly. They have little to say,
but their surprise and interest are expressed quite adequately by their
keen unfailing regard. The afterglow passes and charcoal fires are lighted
at the edge of most of the native huts, in preparation for the evening
meal, for the young shepherds have come from the fields and the flocks are
safely penned. In the gathering dusk the native women, passing through the
smoke or by the flame of their fire, present a most weird picture, as it
might be they were participating in a Witches' Sabbath. Darkness envelops
all the surrounding country, hiding the road by which we came, sealing up
the track we have to follow, striking a note of loneliness that is awesome
without being unpleasant. With what we call civilisation hundreds of miles
away, in a country where law and order are to be regarded more as names
than facts, one has a great joy in mere living, intensified doubtless by
long hours spent in the saddle, by occasional hard work and curtailed
rest, and by the daily sight of the rising sun.

The evening meal is a simple affair of soup, a chicken, and some coffee to
follow, and when it is over I make my way to the kitchen tent, where the
men have supped, and send M'Barak with an invitation to the headman and
his sons. The blessed one makes his way to the headman's hut, while Salam
clears up the debris of the meal, and the Maalem, conscious that no more
work will be expected of him, devotes his leisure to the combustion of
hemp, openly and unashamed. With many compliments the headman arrives, and
I stand up to greet and bid him welcome--an effort that makes heavy call
upon my scanty store of Arabic. The visitors remove their slippers and sit
at ease, while Salam makes a savoury mess of green tea, heavily sweetened
and flavoured with mint. My visitors are too simply pious to smoke, and
regard the Maalem with displeasure and surprise, but he is quite beyond
the reach of their reproaches now. His eyes are staring glassily, his lips
have a curious ashen colour, his hands are twitching--the hemp god has
him by the throat. The village men turn their backs upon this degraded
Believer, and return thanks to Allah the One for sending an infidel who
gives them tea. Broadly speaking, it is only coast Moors, who have
suffered what is to them the contamination of European influences, that
smoke in Morocco.

Like the Walrus and the Carpenter, we talk of many things, Salam acting as
interpreter. The interests of my guests are simple: good harvests,
abundant rain, and open roads are all they desire. They have never seen
the sea or even a big Moorish town, but they have heard of these things
from travellers and traders who have passed their nights in the n'zala in
times recent or remote, and sometimes they appeal to me to say if these
tales are true. Are there great waters of which no man may drink--waters
that are never at rest? Do houses with devils (? steam engines) in them go
to and fro upon the face of these waters? Are there great cities so big
that a man cannot walk from end to end in half a day? I testify to the
truth of these things, and the headman praises Allah, who has done what
seemed good to him in lands both near and far. It is, I fear, the
headman's polite way of saying that Saul is among the prophets. My
revolver, carefully unloaded, is passed from hand to hand, its uses and
capacities are known even to these wild people, and the weapon creates
more interest than the tent and all its varied equipment. Naturally
enough, it turns the talk to war and slaughter, and I learn that the local
kaid has an endless appetite for thieves and other children of shameless
women, that guns are fired very often within his jurisdiction, and baskets
full of heads have been collected after a purely local fight. All this is
said with a quiet dignity, as though to remind me that I have fallen among
people of some distinction, and the effect is only spoilt by the
recollection that nearly every headman has the same tale to tell. Sultans,
pretenders, wazeers, and high court functionaries are passed in critical
review, their faults and failings noted. I cannot avoid the conclusion
that the popular respect is for the strong hand--that civilised government
would take long to clear itself of the imputation of cowardice. The local
kaid is always a tyrant, but he is above all things a man, keen-witted,
adventurous, prompt to strike, and determined to bleed his subjects white.
So the men of the village, while suffering so keenly from his arbitrary
methods, look with fear and wonder at their master, respect him secretly,
and hope the day will come when by Allah's grace they too will be allowed
to have mastery over their fellows and to punish others as they have been
punished. Strength is the first and greatest of all virtues, so far as
they can see, and cunning and ferocity are necessary gifts in a land where
every man's hand is against his neighbour.

[Illustration: TRAVELLERS BY NIGHT]

The last cup of green tea has been taken, the charcoal, no longer
refreshed by the bellows, has ceased to glow, around us the native fires
are out. The hour of repose is upon the night, and the great athletic
villagers rise, resume their slippers, and pass with civil salutation
to their homes. Beyond the tent our guards are sleeping soundly in their
blankets; the surrounding silence is overwhelming. The grave itself could
hardly be more still. Even the hobbled animals are at rest, and we enter
into the enveloping silence for five or six dreamless hours.

       *       *       *       *       *

The horses stir and wake me; I open the tent and call the men. Our guards
rouse themselves and retire to their huts. The Maalem, no worse, to
outward seeming, for the night's debauch, lights the charcoal. It is about
half-past three, the darkness has past but the sun has not risen, the land
seems plunged in heavy sleep, the air is damp and chill. Few pleasures
attach to this early rising, but it is necessary to be on the road before
six o'clock in order to make good progress before the vertical rays of the
sun bid us pause and seek what shelter we can find. Two hours is not a
long time in which to strike tents, prepare breakfast,--a solid affair of
porridge, omelette, coffee, marmalade and biscuits,--pack everything, and
load the mules. We must work with a will, or the multi-coloured pageant in
the eastern sky will have passed before we are on the road again.

Early as it is we are not astir much before the village. Almost as soon as
I am dressed the shepherd boys and girls are abroad, playing on their reed
flutes as they drive the flocks to pasture from the pens to which they
were brought at sundown. They go far afield for food if not for water, but
evening must see their animals safely secured once more, for if left out
overnight the nearest predatory tribesmen would carry them off. There is
no security outside the village, and no village is safe from attack when
there is unrest in the province. A cattle raid is a favourite form of
amusement among the warlike tribes of the Moorish country, being
profitable, exciting, and calculated to provoke a small fight.

A group of interested observers assembles once more, reinforced by the
smallest children, who were too frightened to venture out of doors last
night. Nothing disturbs the little company before we leave the camp. The
headman, grave and dignified as ever, receives payment for corn, straw,
chickens, milk, eggs, water, and guards, a matter of about ten shillings
in English money, and a very large sum indeed for such a tiny village to
receive. The last burden is fastened on the patient mules, girths and
straps and belts are examined, and we pass down the incline to the main
road and turn the horses' heads to the Atlas Mountains.

FOOTNOTES:

[11] "There happeneth no misfortune on the earth or to yourselves, but it
is written in the Book before we created it: verily that is easy to
Allah."--Al Koran; Sura, "The Tree."

[12] This courtesy is truly Eastern, and has many variants. I remember
meeting two aged rabbis who were seated on stones by the roadside half a
mile from the city of Tiberias on the Sea of Galilee. They rose as I
approached, and said in Hebrew, "Blessed be he who cometh."




TO THE GATES OF MARRAKESH




[Illustration: THE R'KASS]




CHAPTER IV

TO THE GATES OF MARRAKESH

    In hawthorn-time the heart grows bright,
    The world is sweet in sound and sight,
    Glad thoughts and birds take flower and flight,
    The heather kindles toward the light,
    The whin is frankincense and flame.

    _The Tale of Balen._


If you would savour the true sense of Morocco, and enjoy glimpses of a
life that belongs properly to the era of Genesis, journey through Dukala,
Shiadma, or Haha in April. Rise early, fare simply, and travel far enough
to appreciate whatever offers for a camping-ground, though it be no more
than the grudging shadow of a wall at mid-day, or a n'zala not overclean,
when from north, south, east, and west the shepherd boys and girls are
herding their flocks along the homeward way. You will find the natives
kind and leisured enough to take interest in your progress, and, their
confidence gained, you shall gather, if you will, some knowledge of the
curious, alluring point of view that belongs to fatalists. I have been
struck by the dignity, the patience, and the endurance of the Moor, by
whom I mean here the Arab who lives in Morocco, and not the aboriginal
Berber, or the man with black blood preponderating in his veins. To the
Moor all is for the best. He knows that Allah has bound the fate of each
man about his neck, so he moves fearlessly and with dignity to his
appointed end, conscious that his God has allotted the palace or the
prison for his portion, and that fellow-men can no more than fulfil the
divine decree. Here lies the secret of the bravery that, when disciplined,
may yet shake the foundations of Western civilisation. How many men pass
me on the road bound on missions of life or death, yet serene and placid
as the mediaeval saints who stand in their niches in some cathedral at
home. Let me recall a few fellow-wayfarers and pass along the roadless way
in their company once again.

[Illustration: A TRAVELLER ON THE PLAINS]

First and foremost stands out a khalifa, lieutenant of a great country
kaid, met midmost Dukala, in a place of level barley fields new cut with
the _media luna_. Brilliant poppies and irises stained the meadows on all
sides, and orchards whose cactus hedges, planted for defence, were now
aflame with blood-red flowers, became a girdle of beauty as well as
strength. The khalifa rode a swiftly-ambling mule, a beast of price, his
yellow slippers were ostentatiously new, and his ample girth proclaimed
the wealthy man in a land where all the poor are thin. "Peace," was his
salutation to M'Barak, who led the way, and when he reached us he again
invoked the Peace of Allah upon Our Lord Mohammed and the Faithful of
the Prophet's House, thereby and with malice aforethought excluding the
infidel. Like others of his class who passed us he was but ill-pleased to
see the stranger in the land; unlike the rest he did not conceal his
convictions. Behind him came three black slaves, sleek, armed, proud in
the pride of their lord, and with this simple retinue the khalifa was on
his way to tithe the newly-harvested produce of the farmers who lived in
that district. Dangerous work, I thought, to venture thus within the
circle of the native douars and claim the lion's share of the hard-won
produce of the husbandmen. He and his little company would be outnumbered
in the proportion of thirty or forty to one, they had no military
following, and yet went boldly forth to rob on the kaid's behalf. I
remembered how, beyond Tangier, the men of the hills round Anjera had
risen against an unpopular khalifa, had tortured him in atrocious fashion,
and left him blind and hideously maimed, to be a warning to all tyrants.
Doubtless our prosperous fellow-traveller knew all about it, doubtless he
realised that the Sultan's authority was only nominal, but he knew that
his immediate master, the Basha, still held his people in an iron grip
while, above and beyond all else, he knew by the living faith that
directed his every step in life, that his own fate, whether good or evil,
was already assigned to him. I heard the faint echo of the greeting
offered by the dogs of the great douar into which he passed, and felt well
assured that the protests of the village folk, if they ventured to
protest, would move him no more than the barking of those pariahs. The
hawks we saw poised in the blue above our heads when small birds sang at
sunsetting, were not more cheerfully devoid of sentiment than our khalifa,
though it may be they had more excuse than he.

On another afternoon we sat at lunch in the grateful sombre shade of a
fig-tree. Beyond the little stone dyke that cut the meadow from the arable
land a negro ploughed with an ox and an ass, in flat defiance of Biblical
injunction. The beasts were weary or lazy, or both, and the slave cursed
them with an energy that was wonderful for the time of day. Even the birds
had ceased to sing, the cicadas were silent in the tree tops, and when one
of the mules rolled on the ground and scattered its pack upon all sides,
the Maalem was too exhausted to do more than call it the "son of a
Christian and a Jew."

[Illustration: THE MID-DAY HALT]

Down the track we had followed came a fair man, of slight build, riding a
good mule. He dismounted by the tree to adjust his saddle, tighten a
stirrup thong, and say a brief prayer. Then, indifferent to the heat, he
hurried on, and Salam, who had held short converse with him, announced
that he was an emissary of Bu Hamara the Pretender, speeding southward to
preach the rising to the Atlas tribes. He carried his life in his hands
through the indifferently loyal southern country, but the burden was not
heavy enough to trouble him. Bu Hamara, the man no bullets could injure,
the divinely directed one, who could call the dead from their pavilion in
Paradise to encourage the living, had bade him go rouse the sleeping
southerners, and so he went, riding fearlessly into the strong glare that
wrapt and hid him. His work was for faith or for love: it was not for
gain. If he succeeded he would not be rewarded, if he failed he would be
forgotten.

Very often, at morning, noon, and sunset, we would meet the r'kass or
native letter-carrier, a wiry man from the Sus country, more often than
not, with naked legs and arms. In his hand he would carry the long pole
that served as an aid to his tired limbs when he passed it behind his
shoulders, and at other times helped him to ford rivers or defend himself
against thieves. An eager, hurrying fellow was the r'kass, with rarely
enough breath to respond to a salutation as he passed along, his letters
tied in a parcel on his back, a lamp at his girdle to guide him through
the night, and in his wallet a little bread or parched flour, a tiny pipe,
and some kief. Only if travelling in our direction would he talk, repaying
himself for the expenditure of breath by holding the stirrup of mule or
horse. Resting for three to five hours in the twenty-four, sustaining
himself more with kief than with bread, hardened to a point of endurance
we cannot realise, the r'kass is to be met with on every Moorish road that
leads to a big city--a solitary, brave, industrious man, who runs many
risks for little pay. His letters delivered, he goes to the nearest house
of public service, there to sleep, to eat sparingly and smoke incessantly,
until he is summoned to the road again. No matter if the tribes are out on
the warpath, so that the caravans and merchants may not pass,--no matter
if the powder "speaks" from every hill,--the r'kass slips through with
his precious charge, passing lightly as a cloud over a summer meadow,
often within a few yards of angry tribesmen who would shoot him at sight
for the mere pleasure of killing. If the luck is against him he must pay
the heaviest penalty, but this seldom occurs unless the whole country-side
is aflame. At other times, when there is peace in the land, and the wet
season has made the unbridged rivers impassable, whole companies of
travellers camp on either side of some river--a silver thread in the dry
season, a rushing torrent now. But the r'kass knows every ford, and, his
long pole aiding him, manages to reach his destination. It is his business
to defy Nature if necessary, just as he defies man in the pursuit of his
task. He is a living proof of the capacity and dogged endurance still
surviving in a race Europeans affect to despise.

We met slaves-dealers too from time to time, carrying women and children
on mules, while the men slaves walked along at a good pace. And the
dealers by no means wore the villainous aspect that conventional observers
look to see, but were plainly men bent upon business, travelling to make
money. They regarded the slaves as merchandise, to be kept in tolerably
fair condition for the sake of good sales, and unless Ruskin was right
when he said that all who are not actively kind are cruel, there seemed
small ground on which to condemn them. To be sure, they were taking slaves
from market to market, and not bringing Soudanese captives from the
extreme South, so we saw no trace of the trouble that comes of forced
travel in the desert, but even that is equally shared by dealers and slave
alike.

The villages of Morocco are no more than collections of conical huts built
of mud and wattle and palmetto, or goat and camel skins. These huts are
set in a circle all opening to the centre, where the live-stock and
agricultural implements are kept at night. The furniture of a tent is
simple enough. Handloom and handmill, earthenware jars, clay lamps, a
mattress, and perhaps a tea-kettle fulfil all requirements.

A dazzling, white-domed saint's shrine within four square walls lights the
landscape here and there, and gives to some douar such glory as a holy man
can yield when he has been dead so long that none can tell the special
direction his holiness took. The zowia serves several useful purposes. The
storks love to build upon it, and perhaps the influence of its rightful
owner has something to do with the good character of the interesting young
birds that we see plashing about in the marshes, and trying to catch fish
or frogs with something of their parents' skill. Then, again, the zowia
shelters the descendants of the holy man, who prey upon passers in the
name of Allah and of the departed.

Beyond one of the villages graced with the shrine of a forgotten saint, I
chanced upon a poor Moorish woman washing clothes at the edge of a pool.
She used a native grass-seed in place of soap, and made the linen very
white with it. On a great stone by the water's edge sat a very old and
very black slave, and I tried with Salam's aid to chat with him. But he
had no more than one sentence. "I have seen many Sultans," he cried
feebly, and to every question he responded with these same words. Two tiny
village boys stood hand in hand before him and repeated his words,
wondering. It was a curious picture and set in striking colour, for the
fields all round us were full of rioting irises, poppies, and convolvuli;
the sun that gilded them was blazing down upon the old fellow's
unprotected head. Gnats were assailing him in legions, singing their
flattering song as they sought to draw his blood.[13] Before us on a hill
two meadows away stood the douar, its conical huts thatched with black
straw and striped palmetto, its zowia with minaret points at each corner
of the protecting walls, and a stork on one leg in the foreground. It cost
me some effort to tear myself away from the place, and as I remounted and
prepared to ride off the veteran cried once more, "I have seen many
Sultans." Then the stork left his perch on the zowia's walls, and settled
by the marsh, clapping his mandibles as though to confirm the old man's
statement, and the little boys took up the cry, not knowing what they
said. He had seen many Sultans. The Praise to Allah, so had not I.

[Illustration: ON GUARD]

By another douar, this time on the outskirts of the R'hamna country, we
paused for a mid-day rest, and entered the village in search of milk and
eggs. All the men save one were at work on the land, and he, the
guardian of the village, an old fellow and feeble, stood on a sandy
mound within the zariba. He carried a very antiquated flint-lock, that may
have been own brother to Kaid M'Barak's trusted weapon. I am sure he could
not have had the strength to fire, even had he enjoyed the knowledge and
possessed the material to load it. It was his business to mount guard over
the village treasure. The mound he stood upon was at once the mat'mora
that hid the corn store, and the bank that sheltered the silver dollars
for whose protection every man of the village would have risked his life
cheerfully. The veteran took no notice of our arrival: had we been thieves
he could have offered no resistance. He remained silent and stationary,
unconscious that the years in which he might have fulfilled his trust had
gone for ever. All along the way the boundaries of arable land were marked
by little piles of stones and I looked anxiously for some sign of the
curious festival that greets the coming of the new corn, a ceremony in
which a figure is made for worship by day and sacrifice by night; we were
just too late for it. For the origin of this sacrifice the inquirer must
go back to the time of nature worship. It was an old practice, of course,
in the heyday of Grecian civilisation, and might have been seen in
England, I believe, little more than twenty years ago.

Claims for protection are made very frequently upon the road. There are
few of the dramatic moments in which a man rushes up, seizes your stirrup
and puts himself "beneath the hem of your garment," but there are
numerous claims for protection of another sort. In Morocco all the Powers
that signed the Treaty of Madrid are empowered to grant the privilege.
France has protected subjects by the thousand. They pay no taxes, they are
not to be punished by the native authorities until their Vice-Consul has
been cited to appear in their defence, and, in short, they are put above
the law of their own country and enabled to amass considerable wealth. The
fact that the foreigner who protects them is often a knave and a thief is
a draw-back, but the popularity of protection is immense, for the
protector may possibly not combine cunning with his greed, while the
native Basha or his khalifa quite invariably does. British subjects may
not give protection,--happily the British ideals of justice and fair-play
have forbidden the much-abused practice,--and the most the Englishman can
do is to enter into a trading partnership with a Moor and secure for him a
certificate of limited protection called "mukhalat," from the name of the
person who holds it. Great Britain has never abused the Protection system,
and there are fewer protected Moors in the service or partnership of
Britons throughout all Morocco than France has in any single town of
importance.

If I had held the power and the will to give protection, I might have been
in Morocco to-day, master of a house and a household, drawing half the
produce of many fields and half the price of flocks of sheep and herds of
goats. Few mornings passed without bringing some persecuted farmer to the
camp, generally in the heat of the day, when we rested on his land. He
would be a tall, vigorous man, burnt brown by the sun, and he would point
to his fields and flocks, "I have so many sheep and goats, so many oxen
for the plough, so many mules and horses, so much grain unharvested, so
much in store. Give me protection, that I may live without fear of my
kaid, and half of all I own shall be yours." Then I had to explain through
Salam that I had no power to help him, that my Government would do no more
than protect me. It was hard for the applicants to learn that they must go
unaided. The harvest was newly gathered, it had survived rain and blight
and locusts, and now they had to wait the arrival of their kaid or his
khalifa, who would seize all they could not conceal,--hawk, locust, and
blight in one.

At the village called after its patron saint, Sidi B'noor, a little
deputation of tribesmen brought grievances for an airing. We sat in the
scanty shade of the zowia wall. M'Barak, wise man, remained by the side of
a little pool born of the winter rains; he had tethered his horse and was
sleeping patiently in the shadow cast by this long-suffering animal. The
headman, who had seen my sporting guns, introduced himself by sending a
polite message to beg that none of the birds that fluttered or brooded by
the shrine might be shot, for that they were all sacred. Needless perhaps
to say that the idea of shooting at noonday in Southern Morocco was far
enough from my thoughts, and I sent back an assurance that brought half a
dozen of the village notables round us as soon as lunch was over.
Strangely enough, they wanted protection--but it was sought on account of
the Sultan's protected subjects. "The men who have protection between
this place and Djedida," declared their spokesman, sorrowfully, "have no
fear of Allah or His Prophet. They brawl in our markets and rob us of our
goods. They insult our houses,[14] they are without shame, and because of
their protection our lives have become very bitter."

"Have you been to your Basha?" I asked the headman.

"I went bearing a gift in my hand, O Highly Favoured," replied the
headman, "and he answered me, 'Foolish farmer, shall I bring the Sultan to
visit me by interfering with these rebels against Allah who have taken the
protection from Nazarenes?' And then he cursed me and drove me forth from
his presence. But if you will give protection to us also we will face
these misbegotten ones, and there shall be none to come between us."

[Illustration: A VILLAGE AT DUKALA]

I could do no more than deliver messages of consolation to the poor
tribesmen, who sat in a semicircle, patient in the quivering heat. The old
story of goodwill and inability had to be told again, and I never saw men
more dejected. At the moment of leave-taking, however, I remembered that
we had some empty mineral-water bottles and a large collection of
gunmaker's circulars, that had been used as padding for a case of
cartridges. So I distributed the circulars and empty bottles among the
protection hunters, and they received them with wonder and delight. When I
turned to take a last look round, the pages that had pictures of guns
were being passed reverently from hand to hand; to outward seeming the
farmers had forgotten their trouble. Thus easily may kindnesses be wrought
among the truly simple of this world.

The market of Sidi B'noor is famous for its sales of slaves and
horses,[15] but I remember it best by its swarm of blue rock-pigeons and
sparrow-hawks, that seemed to live side by side in the walls surrounding
the saint's white tomb. For reasons best known to themselves they lived
without quarrelling, perhaps because the saint was a man of peace. Surely
a sparrow-hawk in our island would not build his nest and live in perfect
amity with pigeons. But, as is well known, the influence of the saintly
endures after the flesh of the saint has returned to the dust whence it
came.

The difference between Dukala and R'hamna, two adjacent provinces, is very
marked. All that the first enjoys the second lacks. We left the fertile
lands for great stony plains, wind-swept, bare and dry. Skeletons of
camels, mules, and donkeys told their story of past sufferings, and the
water supply was as scanty as the herbage upon which the R'hamna flocks
fare so poorly. In place of prosperous douars, set in orchards amid rich
arable land, there were Government n'zalas at long intervals in the waste,
with wattled huts, and lean, hungry tribesmen, whose poverty was as plain
to see as their ribs. Neither Basha nor Kaid could well grow fat now in
such a place, and yet there was a time when R'hamna was a thriving
province after its kind. But it had a warlike people and fierce, to whom
the temptation of plundering the caravans that made their way to the
Southern capital was irresistible. So the Court Elevated by Allah, taking
advantage of a brief interval of peace, turned its forces loose against
R'hamna early in the last decade of the nineteenth century. From end to
end of its plains the powder "spoke," and the burning douars lighted the
roads that their owners had plundered so often. Neither old nor young were
spared, and great basketsful of human heads were sent to Red Marrakesh, to
be spiked upon the wall by the J'maa Effina. When the desolation was
complete from end to end of the province, the Shareefian troops were
withdrawn, the few remaining folk of R'hamna were sent north and south to
other provinces, the n'zalas were established in place of the forgotten
douars, and the Elevated Court knew that there would be no more
complaints. That was Mulai el Hassan's method of ruling--may Allah have
pardoned him--and his grand wazeer's after him. It is perhaps the only
method that is truly understood by the people in Morocco. R'hamna reminded
me of the wildest and bleakest parts of Palestine, and when the Maalem
said solemnly it was tenanted by djinoon since the insurrection, I felt he
must certainly be right.

responsible to the kaid of the district for the order and safety of the
n'zala. Three men come from the well, each bearing a big clay amphora of
water that must be boiled before we drink it. One brings an ample measure
of barley, costing about four shillings or a little more in English money,
another bends under a great load of straw. Closely-veiled women carry
small jars of milk and hand them to their lord, who brings them up to
Salam and states the price demanded. Milk is dear throughout Morocco in
the late spring and summer, for, herbage being scanty, cows are small and
poor. Eggs, on the other hand, are cheap; we can buy a dozen for twopence
or its equivalent in Spanish or Moorish money,