Chapter XII: The Return Journey

At dawn on Saturday, November 23, Kaid Maclean and I had left the Sultan’s camp some way behind, and were hurrying as fast as our sturdy mules allowed in the direction of home. A long march lay before us, over some 300 miles of desert and mountain, and winter had now set in. I had purchased a pony and native saddle at Tafilet; but riding was by no means a pleasure, for I was yet weak and ill. The cold was intense, and we longed for sunrise, even though we knew that in a few hours we should probably be complaining of the heat.

We did not follow the same road as I had pursued in coming, but struck more directly to the north from the Sultan’s camp at Dar el baida, passing through the low range of barren hills near that spot. Then a few miles of desert, and the main stream of the Wad Ziz, here known as the Wad Tizimi, from the oasis it has just left at this spot. The sun rose, and in the bright morning our spirits increased. The scene was pretty enough; for although we were in sandy stony desert, only a mile or so away to our right lay the palm-groves of Tizimi, and here and there the yellow walls of a _ksar_ were visible.

Our party was a large one; for quite a number of soldiers accompanied Kaid Maclean, some of whom were mounted, while others rode the pack-mules on the top of the baggage, and it was evident from their chatter and laughter that one and all were overjoyed at escaping from the dust and dreariness of the _mahalla_, to say nothing of the fact of the scarcity of food there. Kaid Maclean was the bearer of special letters to the various Governors and Sheikhs on the road, and we looked forward, if not to luxury, at least to being able to obtain food enough.

From Tizimi we skirted the southern end of the small oasis of Mulai Brahim, and caught a glimpse of the white-domed tomb of the saint amongst the palm-trees. Then desert again until we struck my old road near Fezna, having crossed the Wad Gheris shortly before. The river here presents a very different appearance to what it does near Tafilet, for there are none of the steep cliffs of clay or wide channels at this portion of its course, as it hurries along over stones and boulders in a shallow bed through the desert valley. A few reeds and scraggy oleanders line its banks. The stream was strong, and we had to get the mules across with care, lest they should be carried off their legs by the current and soak our luggage.

Then on again, until, leaving Tiluin behind, the weary plain of Maghrah opened out before us. We pushed on fast, for the afternoon was well on, and at dark arrived at Ul Turug, weary with our twelve hours’ ride.

We pitched the tent outside the _ksar_, and sent a soldier with the Sultan’s firman to interview the young Kaid, who had recently been appointed. He met with no happy reception, and came back hurriedly and in considerable fear with the message that they had no provisions to give us, and that a “Christian’s” portion was powder and shot, and not food. However, later on the young Kaid came in person, and was tolerably polite, though the aspect of his retinue was by no means friendly, and we were glad of the protection afforded us by an old hag of a Shereefa, very dirty and in rags, who declared that a divine mission had been ordained her to guard our persons. She seemed much venerated in the place, and was altogether a good old soul, though quite mad; and so friendly were her attentions that she raised a sheep from somewhere and brought it to the Kaid—much to the joy of our hungry men.

As soon as the natives had retired she announced that we were by no means safe, and also that it was her intention to sleep in our camp, as her presence would protect us from danger. This she did, under the flap of the tent; and very glad we were of the old lady’s presence, for the reports the men brought us were by no means reassuring. Our guard, sufficient to protect us on the road and well armed, would have been of no use in a general attack of the natives, and we were grateful indeed to the old lady whose insanity had taken so useful a direction.

In our conversation with the young Governor, when we hinted to him the results that would ensue if he refused to take notice of the Sultan’s commands that Kaid Maclean should rest in peace and security, we discovered the reason of his altogether neglecting the terms of the firman, or _daira_ as it is called in Morocco. He, it appears, had paid a visit to the _mahalla_, and been presented by the Sultan with a suit of clothes, the customary gift of the country—and the _kaftan_, or coloured garment of cloth, had been missing. For this oversight in his Majesty’s gift he had almost turned rebel, and although Mulai el Hassen himself only a few nights later was to camp at this very spot, he absolutely disregarded his written orders. The fact of the _kaftan_ is worth narrating, as it gives an insight into the turbulent character of these wild Berber people. Yet in carriage and manner, though by no means friendly, they were gentlemen all over. We struck camp about 3 A.M., and the sun rose upon us after we had crossed the bleak hills, and were proceeding west towards Ferkla. Once more I admired the palm-groves of Milaab and the picturesque situation of the village of Igli, dominating the mouth of the valley where the Wad Todghrá enters Jibel Saghru from the plain.

On issuing from the hills our road varied to that I had already taken, and we passed to the south of the conical hills I mentioned in describing my journey, near the settlement of Islef, a picturesque little place of a few _ksor_, with some gardens and running water in the vicinity. The natives all turned out to see and talk with us, and the presence of the soldiers, and the fact that we were ready to purchase a few of their red, black, and white _kanderas_, or shawls—part of the costume of the women of Aït Atta—kept them in a state of tolerable politeness, though their curiosity was unlimited, Kaid Maclean’s mackintosh cloak receiving enormous attentions, being stroked and pinched and examined and ejaculated on by the whole crowd.

At Ferkla we were well received, the Governor, who expected the Sultan in a few days, knowing better than to disregard his lord and master’s orders, for the oasis was already in bad odour at Court on account of the murder of a couple of soldiers who had been sent there as Imperial messengers only some few months before. More than this, it was at Ferkla that the tent and property of the Sultan’s uncle, Mulai Othman, had been found. This old Shereef, who had been sent to settle some intertribal warfare, and collect taxes due, a year or two before, from some of the Berber tribes nearer Fez, had been treacherously murdered, and his guard annihilated by the tribe of Aït Shokhman, whose chief, Ali ben Yahia, a sort of king amongst the Berbers, had been equally treacherously captured by the Sultan a month earlier and sent a prisoner to Marakesh. The very day that I had left that city he had arrived in chains. It was no doubt for these reasons that the Governor of Ferkla received us with a show of welcome, and supplied us with ample provisions from the store awaiting the arrival of the Sultan and his army. We camped on a level piece of ground near one of the canals that, running from the Wad Todghrá, supplied a portion of the large oasis with water. This canal near here more resembled a swamp, and when, before dawn, we were obliged to ford it, was covered so thickly with ice that my donkeys took several steps before the coating broke under their weight. Yet it was running water, and well sheltered by palm-trees.

From Ferkla we crossed the weary plain of Seddat; but on reaching the Wad Todghrá near the south of the oasis of that name, forded it there, about a couple of miles north of Imin Erkilim, and continued up its right (west) bank, camping for the night near the large village of Taurirt. The latter part of the ride along the river’s banks was a charming one, and presented as picturesque scenes as could be imagined anywhere. Amongst the groves of palms ran the river, and its fall being steep, it had in many spots been banked up by the natives, in order to raise its waters to the level of their irrigating canals. In these places it formed large deep pools, out of which it tumbled in no mean waterfalls to the level of the stream below; and the entire route was enlivened with its splashing and the groaning of the millwheels it turned as it passed on its way.

We reached our destination before sunset, having passed almost immediately before a market-place, with the same beehive-like domed stalls as I had seen at the great market of Mulai Ali Shereef at Tafilet. We found the Kaid of Demnat, under whose jurisdiction this portion of the Sahara nominally is, encamped quite close to us, and we had no difficulty in obtaining provisions. Although there are nominal Kaids and Governors over all this portion of trans-Atlas Morocco, it must by no means be thought that they hold any jurisdiction, nor would the above-mentioned Kaid have even been able to visit Todghrá had not the Sultan been approaching. Even in his little town of Demnat, on the other side of the Atlas, his position was never secure, and on the death of the late Sultan last June (1894) his house was razed and he himself murdered.

The cold of a night was intense, and our men suffered much. Even in the excellent tent of Kaid Maclean, with every possible invention to keep out sun and frost, we had the greatest difficulty in keeping warm. The early mornings, too, were miserable, when, while the camp was being struck and the mules laden, I would crouch over the remnants of a small fire and try to warm myself. It was always too cold to ride, and we used to give our horses to the men to lead while we stepped out as fast as our legs would carry us over the level plain. At sunrise matters mended, though even at noon the heat was not severe, and on one if not two occasions we saw ice in exposed positions unmelted at mid-day, though no doubt the temperature then was above freezing. Yet the rays of the sun were sufficient to warm our chilled bones, and the process of thawing as he rose higher into the sky was indeed pleasant.

This was the longest march we made, for after going continually—with but half an hour’s rest for lunch—for thirteen and a half hours, we drew rein near the _zauia_ of Aït bu Haddu at Dads. I at once sent Mohammed to the _zauia_ to announce my return to the old Shereef, and collect the baggage and mules we had left behind.

Here it was colder than ever. The fig-trees, which had all been in leaf on my previous passing through, were now bare, and even before we could get the tents up they were coated with white frost, while every canal, no matter how fast it flowed, became ice.

I saw nothing of the old Shereef, for no doubt it would not have suited his purpose to be seen visiting Europeans, especially when I was one of them. Happily so dark was it when we arrived, and so cold, that our camp attracted no attention, and as we left before dawn my presence was never discovered, so that probably to-day at Dads I am remembered as a pious Moslem. There were no signs of Mohammed and my mules when we left the next morning, but we could not delay, so leaving them to follow, we set off.

Soon after noon we camped at Imasin, making only a short stage, as our animals and men required rest, and to allow of my mules overtaking us, which they did before the camp was fully pitched. Very glad I was to see my scanty baggage again, and my two good mules, that we had passed off on the roads as the property of the old Shereef; for my strength was still sufficiently shaky to render riding, especially on a Moorish saddle, no pleasure, and I could now look forward to a comfortable seat on a good strong mule. My poor pony, too, was none of the best. I had found but scant choice at Tafilet, and the poor thin little fellow was all I could procure. In spite of every care and attention, he died a few weeks after my arrival in Marakesh; as did one of our poor little donkeys, on the very day we arrived at Saffi, whence he had started some four months before. The end of the latter was most pathetic. He was ill, and I hired a special man to lead him quietly to Saffi; but within a few miles of the town, just at the spot where he could obtain his first view of his native city, he was taken with violent hæmorrhage and dropped dead. A good little beast he was, and we mourned his loss, and had him buried with every decency. My other donkey I left in good hands, for the missionaries in Marakesh took him from me, and I knew no better home could be found for him than in their care. It was with many regrets that I parted from him, though at our last interview, so young and full of corn was he, he did his best to put an end to my existence with his heels. I forgive him, for he had accompanied us, sharing with us the lack of food and the heat and the cold, for nearly 700 miles of weary mountain and desert. The poor one who died at Saffi, having started from that point, had almost completed 1000 miles when death overtook him.

We found Imasin a poor enough place, and had no little difficulty in purchasing our provisions, though here we found a luxury in quantities of walnuts, which our men as well as ourselves enjoyed. So poor were the people that when Kaid Maclean gave them some of the very walnuts they had sold us to eat, they were most grateful; and the fact that we did not bargain over the price, but gave them what they asked—it was small enough—gained us their friendship, and good fellows these wild Berbers seemed to be. They came and guarded our camp at night, and sat there in the cold, though even they, who seemed scarcely to feel either that or heat, shivered.

It was here I said farewell to the Dadsi who had been my _zitat_ from Dads to Tafilet. No words that I could write would do him justice. Honest, faithful, adventurous, and sympathetic, he had been the cheerer of our spirits when we were weary with marching, the diplomat who had guarded me from discovery as we passed along, and had helped to nurse me when I was sick. Good, trusty soul, may you meet with all the blessings you deserve!

From Imasin to Askura was again a shorter march than usual, but there was no choice of where we were to stay, for beyond Askura lie some fifteen miles of weary desert—the Sebaa Shaabat—before reaching the next inhabited district, Ghresat. We camped near some large tamarisk-trees, a few hundred yards from the palatial residence of a Sheikh, who sent men to guard the camp at night.

Passing Ghresat at mid-day the following day, we reached Agurzga before dark, and pitched below one of the great _ksor_ that crown the eminences of rock high above the river. Here, too, much poverty exists; but the people were good, kindly souls, with apparently no thoughts of murder or robbery, and intent only on selling us almonds and walnuts, and examining our weapons, a few shots from a revolver fired in quick succession causing almost a panic.

Great was their amusement in recognising in me the poor ragged Shereef who had passed through a month or so before, and heartily we laughed together over the deception. I was of course still in Arab dress, and they had not failed to remember my face. They showed no signs of annoyance or anger, nothing in fact but intense amusement, and a certain amount of admiration for my venturesomeness. Only one or two spoke Arabic, the rest nothing but Shelha. One old man, the wit of the party, could not get over the fact of my returning in a new character, and remarked, “I have always heard Tafilet was a terrible place. How bad it must be when it changes Shereefs into Christians!” and then added, fearful that his joke might offend, “After all, the Christians are the best; they buy our walnuts and our almonds and pay for them, and Shereefs want everything for nothing.” There is no doubt we created a good impression in Agurzga, the few cups of tea the men drank with us being a luxury some of them had never tasted before; and when I absolutely sought out the poor people who, when they had believed me to be a Shereef, had brought me supper, and paid them for it, their surprise and joy knew no bounds. Their last words were, when we left the next morning—spoken in broken Arabic—“_Arja; Allah ijibna er Rumin._” (“Come back some other time—God bring us Romans”—_i.e._, Europeans.)

From Agurzga we followed the old road, obtaining the glorious view of the Atlas peaks, which I have already described, as we crossed the mountains above Tiurassín. But we did not stop there, pushing on over the ford of the Wad Marghen, to the great _kasba_ of the Kaid of Glawa at Teluet. It had long

been my desire to see this celebrated stronghold of the Atlas, which evokes such expressions of astonishment from the natives who pass it; but even my ideas—formed on local descriptions—underrated what I saw, for not only is the building of enormous extent, but is constructed of large blocks of well-squared stone, which give the place at once an appearance of great strength, and render it unlike any other _kasba_ or palace I have seen in Morocco. The castle consists of a group of centre buildings of great height, and not unlike the Tower of London in form, while around it cluster a number of castles and dwellings of every shape and size, but all big, the whole being surrounded by high walls, guarded with towers. Unfortunately I obtained no measurements of the building or its great courtyard within, for though we camped outside I ventured to enter its precincts, for its courts are common to all who care to do so.

Evening was fast approaching, and already the sun was hidden behind the mountains that shut in the valley on the west, and a bitter cold wind blew over the little plain of Teluet. Nothing more dreary or majestic could be conceived than the great castle, frowning with its towers and buttresses, seen against a background of torn mountain-peaks and snow.

What an awful spot to live in! for the Kaid’s house and the surrounding villages are snowed up in winter, and in summer the heat in the little valley, encircled as it is on all sides by high mountains, is said to be intense.

The Kaid himself was absent, but we were entertained by his _khalifa_, or deputy, who came to the tents with a little retinue of men and drank tea with us. Hardy fellows they seemed, these Berber mountaineers, with their tall thin figures and handsome weather-beaten features, and good-natured enough too, one and all ready to laugh when we abused their climate and their mountains. They seemed to feel the cold but little, if at all, and scarcely wore an atom more of clothing than in summer-time, and even then it is scanty enough.

The _kasba_ is said to contain some marvellously good Moorish work, one chamber of the Kaid’s, we were told, being particularly beautifully decorated, but owing to his absence we saw none of this.

The night was a stormy one, the wind howled and roared down the valley, and though we were a little sheltered by the _kasba_ walls, it found its way in bitter gusts into the tent. At sunset it was freezing hard, and this low temperature, with almost a hurricane as well, at an altitude of only a few feet under 7000 above the level of the sea, was no joke. But we kept our spirits up. Only a slight descent to make, and a stiff climb of 2000 feet, and we would reach the summit of the pass, to descend to civilisation and warmth.

By daylight we were well on our way, and the sun had not risen very high in the sky when Kaid Maclean and I had clambered to the top of the mountains. Contrary to all expectation, it was quite warm, for the wind had died away, and the bright sun and our exercise had thawed our bones. Far below us we could see our caravan toiling up, the men shouting to the mules to urge them on the difficult path.

I lay down near the same rock as I had rested under on my journey two months before; and as I looked upon the desolate scene of range after range of barren mountain, that had stretched out before me unknown and unexplored, and over and through which I had now threaded my way, and returned safely, I confess I felt some elation at my success, but no regret at leaving these inhospitable regions. Yet I feasted my eyes on the grand surroundings, for it was my last look of the wild country that lies south of the Atlas.

Our mules caught us up, and in a minute—merely half-a-dozen steps—we began to descend, and the view was hid. Far more cheering, however, was that before us; for, although rugged and barren and snow-scattered in our more immediate neighbourhood, beyond lay the richly wooded valley of Zarkten, and far away in the distance—a peep between the mountains—the open plains beyond.

We hurried on, stopping nowhere, and reached Zarkten at sunset, after a long and weary march. So intense was the cold that in one sheltered spot a waterfall had frozen, and hung from the edge of the cliff above in a wonderful fantastic collection of immense icicles.

At Zarkten we found the temperature higher, though it froze during the night, and it was bitter enough when we rose by candle-light and set off upon our way. There was much less water in the Wad Ghadat than when we had ascended the valley, and we were able to make our way for some considerable distance along its course, thereby saving frequent tedious ascents and descents. We lunched at the ruined bridge of Tugana, and instead of turning to the left, continued to follow the course of the river. Signs of a warmer climate were everywhere visible. Vines, pomegranates, and olives peeped up from over hedges of aloes and prickly-pear and canes, while the laurustinus, arbutus, lentiscus, and several kinds of firs were welcome indeed after the bare peaks of rock. The river flowed quickly on its course, here in rippling eddies, there in deep green pools, and nothing could be imagined more charming than our road. The warmth revived us; our men sang and laughed as they strode along, and every one was in the best of spirits. Nearing Sid Rehal, our destination, we turned to the right from the valley, and pursued a shorter road. With what pleasure it was that from the hill-tops we looked down upon the little white Moorish town, with its mosque and tomb, its gardens, and the white house of the Governor of the district, can be imagined, for it meant so much—safety, warmth, and food, all three of which had been absent over the entire road. We finished up with a gallop, for I had mounted my pony to make a more respectable entrance, and a few minutes later we were drinking tea in our camp, which had preceded us while we lunched. How warm it was, and how plentiful were chickens and eggs, and green tea and sugar, and everything the heart of man could desire in Morocco, to say nothing of the fat sheep the Kaid sent us!

But one recollection that is not one of pleasure do I have—that it was my last camp in the company of Kaid Maclean, for his way lay north across the plains of Shauia, while mine diverged to the west to Marakesh, and it was a sad moment when the next morning I said good-bye—happily not for very long—to the man who had so befriended me. With the cold we experienced I could never have tramped the long road home from Tafilet alone and without shelter, ill as I was; but fortune had favoured me, and in my hour of need I had found unexpectedly the kindest and best of friends. I doubt if he, any more than myself, will ever forget our meeting at Tafilet, and our long journey back together.

Some nine hours’ travelling the following day brought me to Marakesh, and that night I spent feasting and listening to music in the house of my old friend Sid Abu Bekr el Ghanjaui; for he made my safe return the excuse for a dinner-party, on such dimensions that I was almost as likely to come to grief from excess of food as I had been of dying of starvation. Seated in the pleasant warmth, on great piles of cushions, with steaming dishes of every luxury that the city can furnish or skilled cooks prepare, it was little wonder that I enjoyed myself, or that we laughed heartily as I narrated to my kind host and his genial guests my adventures on the road.

I remained some three weeks in Marakesh, for I was still weak from my illness, and much needed the rest. A pleasant time it was, spent in idleness, strolling in the bazaars, or picnicking in gardens.

Meanwhile the Sultan was approaching, leading his great army by the same route as we had followed, and in cold still more intense. No pen could describe what must have been the suffering of man and beast, nor can any reliable account of the loss of life be obtained, except that it was very large. Snow fell as they reached the Glawi Pass, and men and mules and camels died in numbers, frozen to death, while the Berbers stripped the bodies of clothes and rifles.

I saw the Sultan’s entry into Marakesh—his last entry into any Moorish city—and for days after half-starved men and beasts crawled into the town, lame and sick, the remnants of the great camp I had seen at Tafilet. I questioned many of those who came in, and their tale of suffering and hunger brought tears to one’s own eyes as well as theirs. Yet in justice be it said, the Sultan and the Moorish Government did all in their power to alleviate their sufferings by doling out supplies of food; but with a disorganised commissariat, of which probably a third of the baggage-animals had been frozen to death, fallen over precipices, or broken their legs on the bad mountain roads, it was but little.

From Marakesh I returned to Saffi, where again I was most hospitably entertained by Mr George Hunot, H.B.M. Vice-Consul, and a few days later found a small steamer going direct to Gibraltar.

Three days later I was back in Tangier again, after an absence of four months, to be laid up there for weeks in bed, my health temporarily completely giving way after the strain I had put upon it. But kind care and skilful nursing brought me round, and I no sooner recovered than the spirit of travel came upon me again, and I spent March and April in a most pleasant journey to my old haunts of Wazan, Fez, and Meknas. A couple of months later the news arrived at Tangier of the Sultan’s death, and I left hurriedly for Fez, travelling day and night, and in that city, with the exception of a week or two at Meknas, I stayed until August. Of the events that took place during that period a short description must be given; for although the account of my journey to Tafilet is now completed, the death of Mulai el Hassen and the succeeding crisis owe their origin to the Sultan’s expedition to that spot, for it was the effects of his long and weary journey that caused his end.