CHAPTER IX
Travellers’ troubles—A corner of the desert—The mirage—Dangerous wadies—Lunch in the desert—A “blind” guide—The clerk to the sheyûkh—A milestone—Kalʿat Esdein—Thirst—The uplands of Gilead—Search for water—A Bedawy camp—Terrific thunderstorm.
Long before dawn on Monday morning all was bustle and stir in the camp. We hoped to reach Jerash that evening, but the most conflicting accounts were given of the distance, varying from three days to one long day. The usual road runs west to Derʿat, where it turns southward by way of Remtah. A line direct, across a corner of the desert, is shorter by perhaps fifteen miles. This we proposed to take. In that wide empty land, with never a house, haunted by roving Beduw, a guide was absolutely necessary. With difficulty one was found who had traversed the way before; but he would go only on condition that a friend should also go, to accompany him home again. We were not yet to start, however. A vendor of antiquities entrusted certain old coins, seals, etc., to our cook, who himself did business in that line, in the hope that we might buy. A few purchases were made; but when it came to giving back the remainder, a seal, or stone from a signet ring, was missing. On this, of course, the owner put a fancy price. Imagine a company of pilgrims on their knees, turning up stones and groping in the dust as earnestly as rag-pickers on a heap! The toil was fruitless. The cook was told that suspicion attached to himself; and that if the seal were not forthcoming, the owner should have his price, the same to be duly deducted from the cook’s wages. With an injured air that plainly meant “What shall we hear next?” the worthy ʿAbdu resumed his search, and soon sprang to his feet with the lost seal in his hand. Throwing himself down, he kissed the ground, then casting his eyes upward he fervently exclaimed, el-hamdulillah, “Praise be to God!” The owner seemed least pleased of all. Tying up his treasure in the corner of a napkin, he marched sullenly away, grieving doubtless over ʿAbdu’s provoking luck.
At last our guide strode off before us, leaving his companion to fetch the muleteers, who, we hoped, might pass us at lunch. We struck the Roman road which runs to the south-west, not that which leads more to the south, past Umm el-Jamâl to Kalʿat ez-Zerka. The pavement on these great highways is hard on the horses’ hoofs. The track used to-day almost invariably lies alongside the road. Crossing a shallow vale, we entered a vast plain, covered with tufts of wiry grass. The beautiful iris was here also in plenty. The view offered little variety save on the horizons. Salchad, Jebel el-Kuleib, and the dark range of which they are part loomed away on the north-east. Northward lay el-Lejâʾ and the mountains that overlook Damascus. The white splendour of Hermon filled the north-western sky. A light haze half-concealed the hills of Jaulân and the highlands of Galilee, but nearly due west we could see the round head of Tabor. Before us lay the wooded hills of Jebel ʿAjlûn, the land of Gilead, while the plain stretched away to the south-east, desert-wards, as far as the eye could reach.
Several times during this desert ride we saw the mirage—now as waving trees, now as dimly outlined houses, with the sheen of water near. Happily we had supplies of water with us, and so were spared the torture these fleeting visions bring to the weary and the thirsty. The mirage is often seen in the plain of el-Bukaʿ, or Coele Syria. One most perfect and beautiful I saw in the neighbourhood of Tell Hûm, from a roof in Tiberias. It proved to be a picture of Tiberias itself, with ruined castle, broken walls, white-domed mosque, and palm trees, photographed upon the mists some nine miles away.
We crossed several little wadies in which the water from winter and spring rains had not quite dried up. The passage of these “brooks” is not always free from danger. The soft soil goes to thick black mud, when saturated with the water of the stream. Several of our party had narrow escapes from accident, the horses sinking to the saddle-girths, and struggling through only with desperate efforts, very unsettling to the riders. In the deepest and broadest of these hollows we found a green-carpeted meadow, with a few Bedawy tents. The moment we came in sight a woman ran out to meet us, with hospitable welcome, bringing a large dish of buttermilk, from which we drank heartily and were refreshed.
At this point I was some distance behind the party, detained in digging a root from the hard soil. On the north of the wady lay a rough hill, strewn with great boulders. Galloping up, I saw two figures with long guns dodging behind the rocks, furtively glancing in my direction, and clearly making to intercept me in the wady. A few steps farther, and they caught sight of our party, who fortunately were not very far away. They at once turned and made off to eastward, so sparing me what might have been at least an unpleasant brush with Arabs in search of plunder. Probably they were of the company at whose tents we met such kindness. The man who will lay down his life to protect you when you have passed under his roof may think you “fair game” if he finds you in the open.
This wady we passed early in the day, and thereafter we saw neither stream, fountain, nor cistern through all the long burning hours. Coming to what looked like an old burying-ground in the middle of the plain, we halted for lunch, and waited for the muleteers. Two hours passed before the “baggage train” appeared, from which we judged that they had lost their way. Anxiety on their behalf could not blind us to the almost certain futility of any search. Our decision to wait in the somewhat conspicuous position we occupied and give them a chance to find us was amply justified by the result. With hands and face protected from the sun as best might be, we stretched ourselves on the earth, and perhaps all indulged in the luxury of “forty winks.” As time wore on, some sought entertainment in trials of strength, agility, and skill—this last by shooting balls at a stone set up a hundred yards away. The shot, even with a smooth bore, was not alarmingly difficult; but when the stone toppled over, the Arabs who were with us stood amazed. They might have done as well themselves, but had not dreamed of Franjies shooting straight. There is an impression abroad that Franjies are on the whole rather helpless people, able perhaps to read and write. But these are despicable attainments, save, indeed, when the former may guide to the discovery of hid treasure!
Our baggage-men had wandered, much against their own will and judgment, yielding to the head-strong ignorance of the man told off to guide them. When his incompetence was plainly manifest, with contemptuous anger they dismissed him, some bidding him hold by his mother until he could walk alone, and others suggesting that perhaps his wife needed him about the house. Then trusting their own instinct, which, in these “sons of the highway” approaches genius, they proceeded to find the road for themselves. The long delay, however, destroyed all hope of seeing Jerash that night.
Soon after starting again we were joined by a bright, talkative youth, who told us he was at work among the Beduw. He knew the various tribes and their locations, and was familiar with most of the country. He came from el-Judeideh, the summer station of the Sidon American Mission, which overlooks Merj Aʿyûn, the ancient “Ijon,” from the north-west. This village supplies many of the brave, light-hearted fellows who drive their hardy beasts with the necessaries of life through all parts of the land. Most mukaries (“muleteers”) have a wholesome dread of the Lower Jordan Valley, but the men of el-Judeideh may be seen there almost any day, swinging along with careless ease, as much at home as on the slope of their native mountain. This youth was accustomed to visit these parts every spring, acting as Kâtib (“Secretary”) among the Bedawy chiefs, at the time of division and arrangement of flocks. He assisted at bargains, wrote out contracts, registered numbers, etc.; for these barbarous sheyûkh, while holding it infra dig. for an Arab to write, quite realise the value of “black and white” in a bargain. He busied himself for some months, passing from tribe to tribe, and with advancing summer turned again to his upland home. He assured us that Jerash could not be reached that night, and urged us to turn aside with him to a great Bedawy encampment, where we should find heartiest welcome and plentiful entertainment. We lived to regret our refusal; and, after all, we must have slept within an hour of the spot he indicated—probably with a smaller branch of the same tribe. Our guide vowed that water would be found on the edge of the plain, so we judged it best to push on straight towards our goal. The lad bade us gaily farewell, put spurs to his steed, and galloped away towards a black patch at the base of the hills to westward, where no doubt stood the Arabs’ “houses of hair.” A curl of smoke over an apparently ruinous village away to the north-west was due, our guide said, to the presence of Circassians, a number of whom had recently taken possession and were attempting to cultivate the surrounding soil. If any men could succeed, they should have a good chance. We shall meet them again at Jerash.
PALESTINIAN SHEPHERD AND FLOCK
Amid a confused heap of hewn stones by the wayside we found a broken column with a few fragments of Greek letters. It had served as a milestone in ancient days, but could no longer yield information as to the way. Nothing else arrested attention till we neared the edge of the waste; then we were drawn to the left by a strip of green and the music of many frogs—both indicating the presence of water. Water we found, indeed, but so little of it and so vile, that not even the thirsty animals would touch it. We came upon two huge reservoirs, with never a drop in either. They stand one above the other in the side of a gentle slope, carefully cemented, sides and bottom, a flight of stone steps leading down into each. From certain marks around, we thought they might have belonged to a system of baths. On the hill above the reservoirs stands an old fortress, Kalʿat Esdein. Still well preserved, all save the roof, which is gone, is a building to the east, which may have been a church. A large cistern within the court raised our hopes, only to dash them again. It was quite empty. The fortress must have been of considerable strength, built, as it is, round the top of a little hill, commanding the pass by which we entered the country of ʿAjlûn.
We were tempted to halt here for the night, contenting ourselves with dry fare, but the sight of our thirsty animals panting beside us, their great eyes seeming to plead with us for water, moved our compassions, so we set forward once more, although the sun was already low in the west, and darkness comes without warning in these lands. Some of us went in advance, hoping to find some wady where little pools might still be left, or a spring under some green wooded hill. Separating, we searched the country on either side of the pass, taking what bearings were possible, so that we might not lose the caravan, which wound along painfully below. Hill after hill was scaled and valley after valley traversed, with ever the same result. The shadows were falling thick when at last we struck a well-beaten track, which we knew must lead to an Arab camp. The rest of our party we saw on a hilltop behind us. The mukaries with the baggage were a long way back. With no one to guide them, they were sure to wander in the night that gathered over us, the darkness deepened by great black clouds, that soon covered all the sky. As the cook rode a powerful mare, it was hinted that he might return and guide them past certain tempting openings. The poor man almost shivered himself out of his saddle, a picture of abject terror. There was nothing else for it, so I pushed forward my weary horse, marking the hilltops against the sky. Some distance along the valley I heard the music of the bells that hung tinkling round the necks of the baggage animals, and guided by this, by and by came upon the mukaries, moving cautiously for fear of ruts or holes in which the mules might stumble. There was room enough for anxiety, but no trace of it was seen in these fearless, happy-spirited children of the mountain—no anxiety save what was excited by the condition of a comrade who had fallen sick by the way. The kindness shown to the sick youth, by these strong-limbed but tender-hearted men, was most touching. They had an extra animal, which they rode by turns, to rest their feet a little during the journey. This day and succeeding days every man of them cheerfully gave up his “turn,” that their fevered companion might ride all the way. It is hardly doing them justice to say that they gave it up cheerfully: they never seemed to think of it at all. Just as they came forward it was found that the sick lad, in his weakness and weariness, had let something fall a good way back. The big-hearted fellow who had been walking beside him gave the others certain charges concerning him, and without even a look of reproach, dived away into the shadows to search for it. Giving the advancing party instructions as to the way, I stood to act as a landmark, to guide the gallant Mousa on his return. The Bludân men, reared in the bracing air of Anti-Libanus, are among the finest specimens of the Syrian people. Independent, manly, yet withal respectful, ever showing to advantage in difficulty or danger, their tender solicitude for their unfortunate comrade did more to win our hearts than all their more showy qualities.
Standing alone in the bottom of that thickly wooded vale, distant objects already faded from sight, the hilltops themselves hardly distinguishable against a sky that grew ever darker, flocks of vultures fighting for places in the branches of trees near by, apparently unused to fear in that solitude, I was not sorry to hear, at last, the footfall of the returning Mousa. As we started forward together, a bright flame leapt from the top of the highest hill before us. In the red glare we could almost see the figures of our friends as they piled on the fuel. The idea of the fire was excellent. The cook made the suggestion, and fell to work with frantic energy, tearing up roots, pulling down branches and heaping them up to burn, as if he hoped the flame might scorch the reproach of cowardice from his accusing conscience.
ARAB CAMP IN MT. GILEAD
Guided by the fire, we soon rejoined our companions on the hilltop. The doctor, meantime, had found an Arab encampment, and returned to lead us thither. His cheery voice rang out of the darkness, calling us to follow him. It was only the voice we could follow, as we never saw each other again until we gathered in the ruddy light of the Bedawy fires. We came long after sunset, committing thus unwillingly a breach of desert etiquette. But the Arabs easily understood our plight, and soon great draughts of delicious warm milk were provided. There is no better restorative than this, after a fatiguing and anxious day. But our excitements were not over yet. Great drops of rain slid down through the darkness, as if the clouds perspired supporting their own weight. Warning drops they were: we rushed up our tent before the shower came which they heralded. Under its roof we all took refuge until the mukaries had pitched a second tent; then we separated for the night, to make the best of circumstances—sleeping on chairs, or stretched on the canvas of our camp-beds, covered with anything that came to hand.
Silence as of death had fallen over the mountains; not a leaf stirred in the trees around us; sheep and oxen huddled closely together beside the hair houses of their masters; and the clouds hung dark and threatening, like birds of evil omen poised in the sky above us. The darkness overhead was cloven as by a flaming scimitar, and out rushed a stream of living fire, that spread for a moment over the hills like a curtain of gleaming light, to which every particular leaf responded with individual glitter. The thunder roared and bellowed through all that empty land, like the mingling of the tornado with the voice of many waters. The earth shook as if the very hills were being hurled headlong in divine displeasure. The rain fell in torrents, and beating on the taut canvas of our tents, served to increase the uproar. It is impossible to exaggerate the grandeur of the scene. Not till then could I fully appreciate the majestic realism of the famous old song of the thunderstorm, Psalm xxix. Surely it was after witnessing a storm like this that the Psalmist penned these marvellous descriptive verses:
The voice of the Lord is upon the waters:
The God of glory thundereth,
Even the Lord upon many waters.
The voice of the Lord is powerful;
The voice of the Lord is full of majesty.
The voice of the Lord breaketh the cedars;
Yea, the voice of the Lord breaketh in pieces the cedars of Lebanon.
He maketh them also to skip like a calf;
Lebanon and Sirion like a young wild-ox.
The voice of the Lord cleaveth the flames of fire.
The voice of the Lord shaketh the wilderness;
The Lord shaketh the wilderness of Kadesh.
The voice of the Lord maketh the hinds to calve,
And strippeth the forests bare.—Psalm xxix. 3-9.
As one reads, all seems to pass before him again in unparalleled grandeur. In the midst of a scene like this, how completely one is cast back upon the Lord Himself.
Once we could distinguish no interval between flash and crash, and one of our company experienced a strange thrill passing through his body. Mercifully we were preserved from serious injury. Sitting there among the mountains, the worthy theatre of that awful display, the poor Beduw near us crouching in abject fear beside their trembling flocks, one could realise the comfort of the reflection with which the poet concludes his song:
The Lord sitteth as King for ever.
The Lord will give strength unto His people;
The Lord will bless His people with peace.