CHAPTER V
Why curse? Mektub. (It is written.)
In spite of the attentions of Amanda, as December drew on and the weather showed no signs of clearing, we began to hanker after a week at Gibraltar, which should combine Christmas and the purchase of camp outfit for use when the rains passed over. It was not difficult to tear ourselves away from the fonda; for it became less easy to tolerate the proximity of the old Spanish band-master, with his bad tobacco and long-winded stories; nor were our landlady and family over-refined. We had not come to Morocco to live amongst the scum of Spain: could Tetuan be swept clean of the Spanish element, it were better for it. In fine, amusing and even interesting though our quarters had been for the time, circumstances pointed towards a move into others, the interval being spent in a run across to Gibraltar.
The steamers which call at Martine, down on the seashore, and bring goods to be carted up to Tetuan, six miles inland, are as mysterious as they are rare. One is supposed to call on alternate Tuesdays, weather permitting; another occasionally calls in the intervening weeks; none come direct from Gibraltar, though all are supposed to go straight back there after touching at Ceuta. But there are many buts. Worst of all, the river at Martine has formed a bar, and Martine is a "bar port": this prevents landing in a strong wind.
We pinned our faith upon the Tuesday boat, not realizing its uncertainty; for if the boat had not enough cargo on board to make it worth while her calling, or if she had too much and time was short, or if the weather was bad, she had no hesitation in missing Martine and Tetuan out of that fortnight's round altogether.
We did not want to ride forty-four miles to Tangier with the "roads" in the state they were, even if it had been practicable; nor almost as far and a worse track to Ceuta: either would have meant sleeping a night in the fondâk up in the hills, or in a Spanish lodging-house of doubtful repute: therefore we planned to go by boat from Martine, engaged rooms for a week in Gibraltar beforehand, and, with the optimism born of ignorance, doubted not but that we should get away on the steamer.
Packing up overnight and breakfasting at eight, we were soon ready to mount our mules and ride down to the shore to catch our boat. It was a matter of two and a half hours from Tetuan down to Martine: the track need not be described—this speaks for itself. Our luggage, tied with complicated rope-knots, was judiciously balanced upon one mule, and we had said good-bye to Amanda and family when a message arrived from the steamships agency to say that the steamer was not in.
After taking counsel, however, the luggage was dispatched down to Martine; a muleteer badly marked with small-pox climbed on the top of our worldly goods, and the mule jogged off: we would follow when the steamer was sighted.