Our dragoman in an instant is at his side, and with half-jocular but firm persistence, invites him to dismount. It is in vain that the sheykh invents excuse after excuse for going on. There is a neighbor in the village whose child is dead, and he must visit him. The consolation, Abd-el-Atti thinks, can be postponed an hour or two, Allah is all merciful. He is chilly, his fingers are cold, he will just ride to the next house and warm his hands, and by that time we can tell whether it is to be a good morning; Abd-el-Atti is sure that he can warm his fingers much better on our boat, in fact he can get warm all through there.
“I'll warm him if he won't come.” continues the dragoman, turning to us; “if I let him go by, the old rascal, he slip down to Assouan, and that become the last of him.”
Before the patriarch knows exactly what has happened, or the other dragoman can hinder, he is gently hustled down the steep bank aboard our boat. There is a brief palaver, and then he is seated, with a big bowl of coffee and bread; we are still waiting, but it is evident that the decisive nod has been given. The complexion of affairs has changed!
The people are called from the shore; before we interpret rightly their lazy stir, they are swarming on board. The men are getting their places on the benches at the oars—three stout fellows at each oar; it looks like “business.” The three principal reïses are on board; there are at least a dozen steersmen; several heads of families are present, and a dozen boys. More than seventy-five men have invaded us—and they may all be needed to get ropes ashore in case of accident. This unusual swarm of men and the assistance of so many sheykhs, these extra precautions, denote either fear, or a desire to impress us with the magnitude of the undertaking. The head reïs shakes his head at the boat and mutters, “much big.” We have aboard almost every skillful pilot of the rapids.
The Cataract flag, two bands of red and yellow with the name of “Allah” worked on it in white, is set up by the cabin stairs.
There is a great deal of talking, some confusion, and a little nervousness. Our dragoman cheerfully says, “we will hope for the better,” as the beads pass through his fingers. The reïses are audibly muttering their prayers. The pilots begin to strip to their work. A bright boy of twelve years, squat on deck by the tiller, is loudly and rapidly reciting the Koran.
At the last moment, the most venerable reïs of the cataract comes on board, as a great favor to us. He has long been superannuated, his hair is white, his eye-sight is dim, but when he is on board all will go well. Given a conspicous seat in a chair on the cabin deck, he begins at once prayers for our safe passage. This sheykh is very distinguished, tracing his ancestry back beyond the days of Abraham; his family is very large—seven hundred is the number of his relations; this seems to be a favorite number; Ali Moorad at Luxor has also seven hundred relations. The sheykh is treated with great deference; he seems to have had something to do with designing the cataract, and opening it to the public.
The last rope is hauled in; the crowd on shore cheer; our rowers dip the oars, and in a moment we are sweeping along in the stiff current, avoiding the boulders on either side. We go swiftly. Everybody is muttering prayers now; two venerable reïses seated on a box in front of the rudder increase the speed of their devotions; and the boy chants the Koran with a freer swing.
Our route down is not the same as it was up. We pass the head of the chief rapid—in which we struggle—into which it would need only a wink of the helm to turn us—and sweep away to the west side; and even appear to go a little out of our way to run near a precipice of rock. A party of ladies and gentlemen who have come down from their dahabeëh above, to see us make the chûte, are standing on the summit, and wave handkerchiefs and hats as we rush by.
Before us, we can see the great rapids—a down-hill prospect. The passage is narrow, and so crowded is the hurrying water that there is a ridge down the centre. On this ridge, which is broken and also curved, we are to go. If it were straight, it would be more attractive, but it curves short to the right near the bottom of the rapid, and, if we do not turn sharp with it, we shall dash against the rocks ahead, where the waves strike in curling foam. All will depend upon the skill and strength of the steersmen, and the sheer at the exact instant.