Refuse Going Out of Tetuan.
Walking into the feddan in search of information about her, every Moor or Jew only replied with shrugged shoulders and extended palms. Who could tell? She might come in at eleven, she might not. "Ift shallah" (Allah will show). As she had two hundred and forty tons of cargo to unload, the agents thought she might stay till the following day before starting for Gibraltar: on the other hand, the previous night had been a rough one, and it was quite possible she had passed Martine altogether, and did not intend to call for another fortnight.
It was a sunny morning: there was nothing to be said but "Mektub" (It is written), and nothing to be done except sit in the sun and await events, after the fashion of the brown figures in jellabs also sitting in the sun against the south wall of the feddan where it is highest and nearly always dusty.
Wandering up and down, Spaniards were to be seen in one café shuffling filthy cards and drinking spirits, while in another, behind a great vine which held in its arms a rustic trellis porch and seats, Moors lay on their elbows, tumblers of tea swimming in mint in front of them and long kif-pipes. A Riffi sat on a stool in the sun, leaning against the vine, nursing his gun; his single long black lock fell down by his ear, glossy and tied in a knot at the end. Next door a gunsmith was at work in his little shop sand-papering a gun-stock: a sheep was penned inside against the Great Feast, and more sheep in the grocer's beyond. On the opposite side of the great square a Jew was selling enamel ware to one of the five lady missionaries. Then meat came hurrying by, just killed outside the Mulberry Gate and still warm. Red-and-white shapeless carcases were balanced on a donkey's back, kept steady by a sanguinary Moor who sloped along behind: the donkey knew its own way well, across the wide feddan, down a narrow street, and into the meat market. Thither hurried the lady missionary to buy a joint. If cooked before it has time to get cold the meat is tender, otherwise it must be hung.
It did not seem long before the bell on the top of the Spanish Consulate rang out twelve o'clock. There was no sign of any steamer—the steamships agent had given her up; and not wishing our luggage to lie on the beach all night—for gumption was not one of the characteristics written on our pock-marked boy's face—we sent a messenger off on the two hours and a half ride down to Martine to summon him back.
About one o'clock, just as we were sitting down to lunch in Mr. Bewicke's room, the news arrived that the steamer was signalled. All doubt was at an end: we lunched complacently, allowed time for coffee and a button-hole out of the garden, mounted the mules, Mr. Bewicke his white pony; the gardener, Madunnah, following behind on foot, carrying our sticks and umbrellas, which burden was increased half-way through the city by a bracket, but lately coloured in garish tones, vermilion prevailing—it bled somewhat, but was to serve as a Christmas present at Gibraltar.
Over the cobbles, under the Gate of Wisdom, out on to the sandy track, and along the sea road we rode, the mules refusing at first to pass some sacks of grain which lay in the middle of the path waiting to go down to the beach. There is a gate tax on every loaded animal which passes under the Gate of Wisdom, to avoid which the sacks are carried just out of the city on men's backs, set down, and picked up in time by mules.
The first mile or so was not worse going than usual. Coming from the right by a trail which led across the river, a string of women bore towards us, bringing wood into the city from villages miles away—scrub off the mountain-side. Their rough heads were bound round with weather-stained coloured handkerchiefs: listless eyes looked straight out from under lined foreheads. On each side of their doubled-up backs protruded rough wood-ends—these kept in place by a rope over the shoulder, grasped in knotted hands above copper-coloured muscular arms. The bit of towelling round the loins, brushed by the wind, left bare a species of knees and legs, carved by two thousand years of toil into humanized Norman piers, buttressed with muscle, in which ankles have no lot nor part, which have carried and still carry unreasonable loads from childhood to the grave. These women walked in single file, as do the mules and donkeys. And this is partly due to the space which the wide bundles take up on each side, partly to bad paths, and partly to entire lack of initiative. Why should they strike out a line of their own, these "cattle" and "beasts of burden," as they call themselves? The old way comes easier.
Thus life has moved across Morocco, without deviation, down immeasurable years, and moves so to-day, along innumerable trails worn afresh by bare feet after every rain-storm, footprint into footprint, padded hard and smooth, narrow and polished.