On the sight of our letters from the governor of Shustar he made us very welcome—conversing through the medium of his secretary, who knows Arabic. Carpets were brought, and tea made—the most delicious draught we ever tasted in our lives—flavoured with orange and some acid fruit. The gallop has cured Wilfrid, and he says he shall not be ill again.
Our caravan having arrived, we have moved outside the town, for the ferraz-bashi’s house is not big enough to hold us all, and are encamped on a little mound overlooking the gardens which skirt Ram Hormuz. I wish I could describe the beauty of this place. Round us lie a few acres of green wheat, in which quails and francolins are calling, and through which a little stream of running water winds. Close by, on another mound, stands a beautiful little kubbr, the tomb of some saint, and on either side gardens half run wild, a delicious tangle of pomegranate, fig, and vine, with here and there lemon and peach, and groups of palm. The pomegranates now are in full flower, and so are the roses, and every thicket is alive with nightingales. It is nearly sunset, and groups of blue-gowned Persians are coming across the fields from the town, to wash and say their prayers at the stream and the kubbr. The town itself is half hidden in the gardens, but shows picturesquely through, backed by a range of crimson hills, scored and lined with blue shadows. We have been following the edge of these hills all the way from Shustar. They are the same which are supposed to hold the Shirazi robbers our Arab escort feared so much.
The position of the Arabs here is a miserable one. At war with these Shirazi, and pillaged by the Government which does nothing to protect them, they still cling to their little bits of cultivation wherever there is water near the hills. They are half the year nomadic, going south and west with the flocks, but in the spring return to the hills, plough up a few acres, and gather in a crop if possible before the tax-gatherer has found them out. The Persian Government is weak, and the garrison of Ram Hormuz is generally only sufficient for its duty of holding the town, but every now and then a reinforcement arrives from Ahwas or Fellahieh and then a raid is made under pretext of a collection of arrears, and horses and cattle are driven off in payment. This seems to be the plan throughout the province. We asked Abeyeh and the Khamis Sheykh who came with him to-day to our camp, why they put themselves into this government trap by coming to the hills, when they might remain unmolested in the plain, or go where they would. “It is the soil,” they exclaimed, “the soil which is so rich. Where should we find another like it?” Indeed, the whole of this side of Persia seems meant to be a garden. Unlike the plains of Bagdad, which never can have been cultivated except with irrigation, the land here grows crops as in Europe, watered by the rain from heaven. The range of Bactiari hills by attracting clouds gives it this rare advantage.
Ram Hormuz itself must have been a great city once. Its position at a point where several rivers meet, and at the foot of a gorge, leading through the mountains to Shiraz, makes it naturally a place of importance, but it is little more now than a market for the Bedouin tribes and a military station.
The ferraz-bashi has been very amiable to us, though, like everyone else, averse to our further progress in the direction of Bebahan. The road, he says, is most unsafe, every village at war with its neighbour, and he dares not send troops with us even if he had them. There is, however, in the town, a certain potentate of the district first to be traversed, one Mohammed Jafar, Khan of the village of Sultanabad, who can protect us if any one can. To him we are to be recommended, and perhaps he will go on with us to-morrow. Abeyeh and his men, alas, can go no further. They are Arabs, and honest men, and camel drivers, and we have bid them good-bye with regret. But the people further on are Persian, and Persian and Arabian are everywhere at odds. The idea is not agreeable of plunging into a hornet’s nest, such as the country beyond us is described to be, but there is no help for it; to return is impossible. Every day becomes more and more fearfully hot, and our only hope now is the sea.
April 16.—We are refreshed by a good night’s rest, such as we have not had since leaving Shustar. The ferraz-bashi called again this morning, walking out in the cool of sunrise, with a rose in his hand, to pay us his compliment. It seems to be the fashion among the Persians to go about with flowers, which they present to each other as polite offerings, and just now it is the season of roses. His Excellency informed us that Kaïd Mohammed Jafar would be ready to start for Sultanabad at the asr (about half past three), so we have made all our preparations for departure. Although the heat has been great, 96° at coolest, I have managed to make a sketch of Ram Hormuz, but nothing can do justice to its beauty. We have been more pleasantly received here, than anywhere else in Persia, and I feel sure we might make friends with the people if only we could speak their language. Travelling without knowing the language, is like walking with one’s eyes shut.
April 17.—Mohammed Jafar arrived soon after four, and immediately we started. It was of importance that no time should be lost, for we had a river to cross, the Jerrahi which comes down here from the mountains, and runs into the Persian Gulf, at Fellahieh. The country, till we came to it, was a difficult one for camels, being a very network of irrigation, with the channels crossed by treacherous little bridges. But the camels managed it all without accident. The river, of which we crossed two branches, flows over a bed of gravel, and was nowhere over our horses’ girths. The water very cold, with melted snow, so that a delicious breeze of iced air followed the current. It was now past sundown, and we were anxious to be clear of the inclosed ground, before it should be absolutely night; but the Kaïd, tiresome man, had made an arrangement with some friends at a little village beyond the river to dine with them, and then go on in the night, a plan which did not at all suit us. Indeed it was impossible for us, with our camels, to halt in such a spot, where we could not have prevented them trampling the standing corn, and where we should have been helpless after dark. So declining, as politely as we could, the hospitality offered, we left the Kaïd to take his meal with his four horsemen, and pushed on alone. A villager was sent to show us the way, for we were not a mile from open ground, and night was falling and every minute precious, and we were resolved to reach it if we could. Road, however, it soon appeared there was none, for to reach the village, the Kaïd had taken us away from the main path, and as it grew darker we got more and more entangled, in dykes and ditches. At one moment things seemed almost hopeless with us, a deep canal barring all further progress, and the villager who had brought us to this pass, profiting by the confusion, having run away. Fortunately Wilfrid perceived this flight in time, and riding after him fired his pistol in the air, and brought him back, when, under the compulsion of fear, he showed us where to cross. It was a poor ford, and some of the loads got wet, but beyond it we were on hard ground, and able now to wait in patience till the Kaïd and his men should come. Our shot seemed to have disturbed their feast, and we had not long to wait. Then we marched on in silence and utter darkness, but over a good road, till half-past one in this morning, when a loud barking of dogs announced our arrival at Sultanabad.
Here the Kaïd has a house to which he at once retired, leaving us to lie down in our cloaks, with our camels and horses, till daylight. He would willingly have invited us in, but we dare not leave our beasts and property, and now we have pitched our tent for the day, looping it up as usual, like an umbrella, to get every breath of air. When day dawned, we saw the Kaïd’s house on one side of us, with three big canora trees overshadowing its entrance, and a walled garden at the back of it; on the other side the village with its barley fields and splendid grass crops. The houses of the village, built of sun-dried brick, are in a cluster together, about two hundred yards from our mound; in front of them two or three black tents. The Kaïd’s house is of considerable size, and appears to contain several court-yards. Sultanabad is itself a poor, mean-looking place, but if Hajji Mohammed is to be believed, a very nest of brigands, any one of whom for one single kran would kill a man, a real stronghold of robbers, and as such keeping the neighbouring country in terror. But I don’t know what to think, for Hajji Mohammed believes every tale he hears, and the horsemen have been cramming him all the way along with stories of Mohammed Jafar’s exploits, to enhance their chief’s importance. How he does what he likes in the teeth of the government, who dare not punish him for having killed several of the Shahzade’s people only a couple of years ago, how only he and his Sultanabadis can travel safely on the Bebahan road; and one can hardly blame poor Hajji Mohammed for expecting us to lead him into mischief, for we have before done so, and he thinks us reckless of danger. He is always lecturing us on prudence, though he himself is an odd combination of caution and rashness; he once at a critical moment wanted to stuff his revolver into an inaccessible bag, merely because the strap of the belt belonging to it was broken; another time he would have given his gun to a stranger to carry, had we not prevented his doing so. We spent this morning drinking tea and eating eggs and butter and a kid, and spreading wet things to dry. Fortunately no serious damage has been done, and the fierce sun soon dried everything. A breeze sprang up, too, which helped the drying, and drove away the flies.
Hajji Mohammed was commissioned in the course of the morning to negotiate terms with the Kaïd, who had been already sounding the cavass as to how much money could be got from us. He has really done it very well, and arranged that at Bebahan we are to pay the Kaïd one hundred krans. The great man at first asked for an abba or a cashmere shawl, but here Hajji Mohammed seems to have spoken with proper firmness.
We want to start at half-past four, and ought to pack now, but the servants are dawdling over the remains of the kid; they will not move till they have devoured the last morsel. Besides, they have got several girths to mend before we can load.