April 10th.—We had another glorious row this morning before starting. A man who had gone to fetch the blacksmith, and found him not, demanded payment of two Tunisian piastres. The chaouch, suspecting that he never went at all, but concealed himself in the village, would not pay him. This brought on a collision. Sheikh Omer supported us; and so all the people of the other village took part against us. Two of them were armed, and some of us thought it advisable to load our pistols. At last, however, we pushed them away from the tent by force; and, in the first moment of indignation, wrote a letter to the Pasha about them. Hearing of this, they came to beg us not to send the letter, which was accordingly torn up by the Sheikh. My chaouch was the great actor in all this affair; and it was necessary that I should support him, even if he were a little wrong, otherwise he would have had no confidence in himself or us in cases of difficulty.
The Sheikh, who, as well as ourselves, has lost some little things during these days, gives the people of Mizdah a very bad character. In the scuffle, I noticed that they called him Fezzanee, which is used as a term of insult in these parts. "All the Fezzanees are bad people, and all their women courtezans," says my chaouch.
There is a large leopard reported to be abroad near the oasis of Mizdah. He escaped from Abdel-Galeel, who brought him from Soudan, and creates great terror among the camel-drivers. They say, with unspeakable horror, "The nimr eats all the weak camels!" He has already devoured two. He drinks in the neighbouring wady, where there is water six months of the year. During the remainder he is capable, they say, of doing without drinking.
CHAPTER III.
Leave Mizdah—Gloomy Country—Matrimonial Squabbles in the Caravan—"Playing at Powder"—Desert Geology—A Roman Mausoleum—Sport—A Bully tamed—Fatiguing March—Wady Taghijah—Our old Friend the Ethel-Tree—The Waled Bou Seif—Independent Arabs—A splendid Mausoleum—One of the Nagahs foals—Division of a Goat—March over a monotonous Country—Valley of Amjam—Two new Trees—Saluting the New Moon—Sight the Plateau of the Hamadah—Wady Tubooneeah—Travelling Flies—The Desert Hour—A secluded Oasis—Buying Barley—Ghareeah—Roman Remains—Oasian Cultivation—Taxation—Sand-Pillar—Arrangements for crossing the Hamadah—An Emeute in the Caravan—Are compelled to discharge the quarrelsome Ali.
We started for Mizdah, at length, towards noon, Sheikh Omer bringing us a little on our way, and, begging to be well spoken of in high quarters; and after passing the ruins of two Arab castles that frown over the southern side of Wady Esh-Shrâb, got into a gloomy country, exactly resembling that on the other side of the oasis, except that the strata of the limestone rocks, instead of being horizontal are inclined. The whole desert, however, wears a more arid appearance. Yet there were some lote-trees here and there, and a few tholukhs. The, traces of the aoudad were noticed; and the blacks, picking up its dung, smelt it as musk, saying, "It is very good." As I jogged on upon my camel, the oppressive heat caused me to sleep and dream in the saddle of things that had now become the province of memory.
More quarrels! The chaouches are boiling over again; they must fight it out between them. No doubt they are both correct in exchanging the epithet of "thief." Scarcely has the grumbling of these two terrible fellows died away, when the blacks are at it amongst themselves. He who has two wives gets hold of his blunderbuss, and threatens to blow himself to pieces. Nobody interferes; there is little public spirit in a caravan: so he consents to an explanation, saying sententiously, "My little wife is mad." The fact is, his two helpmates, one young and one old, are vastly too much for him, as they would be for most men. He moves along in a perpetual family tornado. The mother of the young one, a sort of derwish negress, is a tremendous old intriguer, and stirs up at least one feud a day. Quarrelling is meat and drink to her.
It would have been out of character had not Ali got up a little convulsion on his own account. One day, in the Targhee's absence, he took his gun to "play at powder," and using English material, succeeded in splitting the machine near the lock. When the Targhee returned, and found what damage had been done, he began first to whimper, and then working himself up into a towering passion, swore he would shoot the culprit. Scarcely with that weapon, O Targhee! When his excitement was over, I offered to make a collection among the people to indemnify him; but he shook his head, laughed, and refused. The gun was nearly all his property, and he had just bought it new at Tripoli.[2]