Chapter VI

Leaky Tents—Beni Aamer—Hospitality of villagers—Sea of mud—Storm—Camp
attacked by robbers—Perils of darkness—Curious rocks—First view of
Fez.

_Camp near Fez,
Friday, 16th April 1880._

Rain fell very heavily on Wednesday night at Zeggota, but the trench round my tent did its work well, and no water flowed in under the walls, notwithstanding the slope upon which they were pitched. These double-roofed tents, several of which we brought over from Gibraltar, are, although issued by Government, really perfect in their way, and the rain, the effect of which we at first rather dreaded, has now quite a soothing sound as it patters down at night close to one’s face. With the Sultan’s tents, of which we have several, the case is different; their large size and dark handsome linings are a great protection against the sun, but they leak hopelessly, and the big single-pole one occupied by Lady and Miss Hay is no exception to the rule. This serious inconvenience is, however, only one of the many great discomforts borne uncomplainingly by the two fair members of the Mission—discomforts which would have driven most English ladies back to Tangier before they had got two marches out of it.

Close to our camp at Zeggota was a beautiful spring of cold water, which came bubbling up bright and pure out of the hillside. The medico and I walked there after breakfast, as he wanted to fill some bottles with it for the purpose of mixing drugs and potions for the relief of suffering Marocco. Our road lay in a southeasterly direction, and a ride of an hour and a half brought us to the foot of a gorge on the right-hand side of the road, nearly at the head of which, and about two miles from where we halted for luncheon, was perched the village of Beni Aamer before mentioned. Directly opposite it, and on the same level, was another village, a sort of counterpart of Beni Aamer, but which had not been visible from Zeggota, being situated a little below the crest of the intervening hill. The whole ravine was filled with the most luxuriant olive groves, a welcome sight for people who had not seen a tree, with the exception of those round the Saint houses, since leaving the neighbourhood of Tangier. A little below our halting place, and at the point where a stream crosses the road, stood a solitary palm tree, which, from its rarity, has found a place as a landmark in Tissot’s map. While luncheon was getting ready some of us started, with two soldiers as escort, Miss Hay as interpreter, and Síd Búbakr as cicerone, to visit the village of Beni Aamer. It was a really pretty road up to it through the olive grove, with gardens here and there on either side, and a small vineyard, the grapes of which find their way to the markets of Fez. The people of these two villages, who come of an aboriginal (or brebber)[28] stock which has intermarried with Arabs, are—so the Síd told us—a prosperous and well-to-do set, making a considerable revenue out of the oil they extract from the olives; but since the Governor of Fez, under whose jurisdiction they come, found out that they were raising their heads above their neighbours, he has caused a heavy sum of money to be levied upon them, or, as they expressed it themselves, “came and ate them up.”

The immediate approach to the village lay over a slippery ledge of rocks, upon which several of the horses nearly, and one (Herbert White’s) quite came to grief; so we had to dismount and lead them. On arrival at the gate we found assembled a good many people, who had been watching our ascent; and Síd Búbakr, on asking if we might ride in, was told that the headman had been sent for, and that we must wait for him. The view from the plateau on which the village stands was magnificent; below and around us lay the olive groves, while ranges of sloping hills extended, line upon line, as far as the eye could reach, the background of all in the far distance being the snow-capped tops of the Atlas mountains. After waiting a few minutes the sheikhs of the village came out; tall, stalwart-looking sons of the mountain they were, fair as Europeans, and very little trace of the Arab about them.

The Síd having explained who we were, and also who he was, the Sheikhs made us welcome to the village, and following in their wake we rode in single file under the massive archway. The street, if such it could be called, in which we found ourselves, led from this gate to another entrance farther up the hill at the top of the village. The houses on either side were mostly in ruins, though the mosque which we passed (but did not even look into, not feeling at the time very sure of our position) seemed in good repair, as were also one or two smaller buildings. The place, however, was in such an indescribable state of filth that we had difficulty in picking our way, and little time, moreover, to look about us. The centre of the road was too deep in mud and other abominations even to ride through, so we followed our guides along a sort of path on the extreme edge; this, however, was not particularly good going, and having just avoided a small but suspicious-looking hole at the foot of the wall, I heard a spluttering and noise behind me, and saw one of our party standing in the mud pulling at his horse’s head, which was the only part of the animal visible above ground. He soon managed to struggle out again, having changed his white coat for a dirty brown one; the hole into which he had slipped being an eccentricity of Moorish architecture, or some sunken vault of a ruined house. Arrived outside the other end of the town, we held a sort of council of war, our chief object being to get home without partaking of the hospitality which was now being pressed upon us. We even took the Síd into our confidence, but he decided against us, so we saw there was no escape. We could not, in any case, return outside the town, as we wished, there being a lion in the path in the shape of a Saint house, past which our unhallowed persons could not be allowed to go. We therefore returned through the gateway, and bearing away to the right, passed along a rather cleaner part, with one or two shops on either side. Arrived at a gloomy archway in a covered passage, we dismounted one by one, and, entering, found ourselves in an almost totally dark court, the odours in which were not of sanctity; our guides then took us by the hand and led us to a corner where there was a hole in the wall, through which having crept with difficulty, we came to the foot of a very steep and dismal narrow stair, up which in Indian file we were invited to climb. It was, in truth, a strange entrance to a gentleman’s house, and augured badly for the style of visitors our host was in the habit of receiving, or rather of protecting himself against. Was it an ambuscade for us unfortunate infidels, and did the hearts of some of us beat loud as the thought of the Jew burned in the market-place of Fez a few months back occurred to us, besides many another tale of Mussulman fanaticism and cruelty? But no, the cheery voice of the Sheikh at the head of the stair reassured us, and certain silvery tones sounding just over our heads stimulated our curiosity. As soon as we reached the upper story we were led through a kind of patio to an inner chamber opening on to it, and through a door on the left, leading to the top of the house, we saw disappearing hastily the houris whose voices we had heard from below. The room we found ourselves in was provided with cushions placed on the encaustic tiles of the floor; and as soon as we were seated our host besprinkled us plentifully with rose water, then, after burning some incense in a silver dish, brought it round to each of us. The Síd had assured us we would get off with tea, but until its arrival we were much afraid that something more solid was in course of preparation. Accompanying it, however, was a large basket of bread with a pile of fresh butter, weighing at a guess about six pounds. The Moors have a peculiar, albeit simple, method of serving out such delicacies; breaking off about a quarter of one of the flat scones or rounds of bread, they plunge their right hand into the mass of butter and clap a piece about twice the size of a hen’s egg on to the bread, which is then given to you to get through as best you may; if you are at all slow or backward in doing so, another edition of the same proportions is forced upon you, and so on _ad nauseam_. It was past twelve o’clock when we arrived at our third cup of tea and second hunch of bread and butter, and, lusting as we were after the flesh pots of the camp—we had intended returning there to luncheon—it was hard to feel ourselves becoming momentarily, though involuntarily, less and less able to contemplate that meal. Just as our forbearance (to say nothing of our stomachs) was tried to the uttermost, and as we were rising to depart, a dish of steaming hot meat was brought in; but against this we stoutly took our stand, protesting with our hands upon our hearts, or a little below that organ, that the limit to our power of consumption had been reached. The astute Síd Búbakr bearing us out in this assertion, the dish was taken outside to our two soldiers, whom we saw doing ample justice to it, and fully appreciating our want of appetite. We now stated our wish to return to the halting-ground, urging the anxiety the Bashador would be feeling on our account, and other cogent reasons. A new difficulty arose, however, out of which even Síd Búbakr could not help us; it seemed that there were two kings of Brentford, and that, having honoured the house of one of them, the other would be humbled to the dust if we did not visit him too. Seeing there was no help for it, we acquiesced with what cheerfulness we might, and, passing out, were rewarded with another glimpse of some of the ladies of the establishment, whose curiosity to see us overcoming their shyness, they pressed forward to the head of the stair, their faces—one a very pretty one—peering over each other’s shoulders to take a parting glance. The lane outside was densely crowded by the villagers, who were much excited at the news of a party of Christians being in their Sheikh’s house; but we managed to get on foot to the next stopping-place, which was pretty close. Here much the same ordeal was gone through, except that the bread, freshly baked for us and steaming hot, formed a slippery foundation for the inevitable lump of butter crammed on to it, thereby increasing the difficulty of graceful manipulation not a little. The room in which we were seated for this second tea-party was in the centre of the house on the ground floor, a rather gloomy apartment, round the sides of which were placed gigantic clay jars; they were used, as far as I could make out, for keeping olive oil or corn, though from their size and shape the suggestion of one of the party that they contained the bodies of our host’s deceased wives seemed not improbable. We were allowed to decamp from here as soon as we had got outside the regulation third cup of tea; and the amount of bread and butter we had disposed of having effectually put luncheon out of the question, we rode quietly and resignedly back to the halting-place, where our lengthened absence had created some uneasiness.

This visit of ours to Beni Aamer was really very interesting, bringing us, as it did, into contact with the Moor where he shows to the greatest advantage, viz. in his own house. The more one sees of these people, the more one appreciates their charm of manner and the entire absence of anything approaching to awkwardness or _mauvaise honte_. Our hosts here, for instance, were as perfect gentlemen in their way as one could meet with anywhere; and certainly, had they exhibited either vulgar astonishment or any like sign of ill-breeding, one could readily have excused them. With the exception of ourselves no Christian had ever entered the village before, and the populace showed their astonishment by pouring into the streets and covering the tops of the houses that lined our route. The Sheikh of the village, however, presided over his tea-tray with as much composure as if he had been entertaining half-a-dozen Arabs instead of the five Christian men, and, what must have been much more trying, the one Christian lady of our party. In the streets, too, though the most unmixed surprise,—and, in the case of a few women and children, terror,—was manifested at our appearance, there was no rudeness or jostling; those who disapproved of our presence merely keeping in the background, scowling at us, and muttering curses as we passed. The men are, in most instances, much better mannered than the women, and Miss Hay experienced rather rough treatment at the hands of the ladies in the first house we went to. They had invited her on to the roof to see the view, and after nearly tearing her clothes to pieces to see what they were made of, one young lady of twelve or fourteen called out, “Let us throw the Nazarene down from the roof, and see what will become of her!” which suggestion, however, was fortunately not carried out. At the other house, on the contrary, a pretty attention was shown her by the head of our host’s harem, who came into the room to receive her, and led her to the upper end of it, where there was a door opening into another room. She then seated herself behind the door, and remained during the séance, saying, “I thought you would feel strange among so many men alone, so I came to meet you, and will not leave you all the time.” The full value of this can only be appreciated by those who know the stringent regulations by which the discipline of the harem is conducted, and from which this was, of course, a decided departure. By the time we started, the fact of our presence had been noised abroad, and the crowds round our horses and along the roofs had much increased; the Sheikh and his friends accompanied us to the gate, and Síd Búbakr thus expressed to them our thanks:—“I am asked to convey to you the thanks of the Christians for your hospitality; they rode up here merely to see your village, but you have shown them the hospitality of the Arab, and they will always bear the memory of your kindness written upon their foreheads.”

I was a little surprised at Síd Búbakr making use of the word “Arab,” as our entertainers were evidently of Berber, or aboriginal, extraction; however, as the term “hospitable as an Arab” is proverbial here, I hope they took it for a compliment.

We got into camp at Mikkès that afternoon at four, an escort of seventy regular cavalry, the first besides our permanent escort that we have seen, being stationed some miles out on the road to meet us. They are a fine body of men, and their movements, and manner of performing the lab el barôd, are very different from those of their provincial brethren. The ground on which the tents were pitched was as muddy and ill-chosen as it could possibly be. It is at the bottom of the chain of hills through which we have been marching, and is composed of a glutinous sort of clay. This substance, after taking a few steps in it, attached itself in such quantities to our boots, that one’s gait resembled that of a cripple whose lower extremities are paralysed, or of a fly just emerged from the treacle-pot. The ladies were carried into the dining-room tent on chairs, and Sir John waded proudly in with goloshes on; but, except for the purpose of proving the excellence of these expedients, I can conceive no other reason for the choice of this ground, especially as the adhesive nature of the soil had been proved on a former occasion.

I shall not soon forget the night we spent there. First of all we experienced the most violent storm of wind and rain we have had during the march, and while this was at its height the robber tribe of the Beni Mtír came down from the hills to attack the camp and carry off the horses. Altogether, we had reason to congratulate ourselves on a twofold escape from death,—first by drowning, then from the bullets which whistled about the camp, for the sentries, kept awake by the rain, were on the _qui vive_, and fired upon the robbers; while the escort, called to horse, scoured the neighbourhood, but, owing to the darkness, without effect. What concerned me more nearly was, that just before composing myself to sleep I noticed, by the light of a flickering candle which was out of my reach, and which was going to be allowed to die a natural death, that my tent-pole was considerably off the perpendicular. Taking into consideration the hurricane that was blowing outside, and the consistency of the soil into which the tent-pegs were driven, this phenomenon was alarming, to say the least of it. I jumped out of bed, and by the expiring light of the candle anxiously surveyed the pole from every point of view, but from none would it appear otherwise than as a miniature edition of the leaning tower of Pisa. The water, however, was at this time descending in sheets, and mindful of the Slough of Despond with which we were surrounded I adopted the tactics of the ostrich, and going back to bed blew out the candle, so that the offending pole should no longer warn me of a fate I shuddered to contemplate.

Notwithstanding all these perils of darkness, the night passed away without accident, except that at 2 A.M. the servants’ tent was blown down. I deeply sympathised in my valet’s melancholy recital of their sufferings, but hope the accident may serve to make him more careful in looking to the safe pitching of mine, as I must have narrowly escaped a similar catastrophe.

The little plain of Mikkès presented a humid and sad appearance in the morning; the tents were soaked and almost black with rain, and a sheet of water overspread the foundation of mud below. A high hill overhung the camp on the south-west side, the rocks on which, apparently of a tertiary limestone formation, seemed to have been subjected, at a not very distant period, to volcanic action, which had caused them to assume the most fantastic appearance. Large circular patches, like the filled-up craters of extinct volcanoes, dotted the hillside, and these, shiny but sombre in the rain, all helped to form a gloomy background to the scene, as our horses, sliding and struggling along, bore us away from this sea of mud.

To-day’s march we were told was to be only two hours, and Fez would not be visible till the following day. The march, however, turned out to be nearly five hours, and just as we turned off the road to gain our camping-ground, the walls and minarets of the Sacred City came into view, shining out clearly, about five miles off, in the strong light of the afternoon sun.

The camp to-night is pitched close to the Wad el Fas, a tributary of the Sebú, and is about as well-chosen a site for malaria as yesterday’s was for discomfort and wet clay. What with the rain, which has been harassing us of late, and the stupidity of Hadj Hamed (or whoever is responsible) in pitching the camps in such ill-favoured spots, I think most of us are pleased to be nearly at our journey’s end for the present. Our native servants and camp-followers seem to more than share our feelings in this respect, and as soon as they came in sight of the hills round Fez called loudly on the patron saint of the city—“O Mulai Edris, bring us soon to Fas! O Mulai Edris, help us with forage for our mules! O Mulai Edris, we are near home again!” with other and similar ejaculations.