So, thinking on the Tolba, our spirits rose, and we determined to send Ali to the nearest house to buy provisions. Lucky we did so, for it provided us with a square meal which we were destined not to enjoy again for several days. It appeared, the N’Zala once passed, that a sharp descent of some three hours led into the plain beyond. There, according to Mohammed el Hosein, the people were all armed and very warlike; and the road to Tarudant led through the main streets of several villages. He did not look forward to much risk in passing them, but thought there might be a chance of falling in with robbers by the way, who naturally would rob a Moor (they being Berbers) quite cheerfully, and would without doubt kill any Christian whom they came across, not being restrained by fear of the authorities, as are the people in the settled parts of the country across the mountain. However, Mohammed el Hosein finished up always by saying, “We are in Allah’s hand; but leave it all to me, for if danger should occur it is not for nothing I am called the cleverest muleteer upon the southern road.” And as he spoke his little Shillah eyes sparkled like live coals, his thin, black, pointed beard wagged to and fro, and his face and muscular arms twitched and contracted as he shook with laughter in the enjoyment of the joke. To deceive anyone is always pleasing to a Moor (sometimes to Christians also), and to take in a town and pass an infidel upon it as a Sherif from Fez appeared to him the greatest piece of humour of his life. To our enquiries as to what was best to do if, in a village, I was recognised, his answer was invariably the same, so that at last I did not bother him, seeing him confident, and feeling almost certain in my mind the worst was past. Ali returned laden with bread and mutton, eggs and fruit, and we sat down to eat our last repast in freedom in the jurisdiction of the Kaid of Kintafi, whom Ali told us lived like a Sultan, and that he had had to wait full half an hour with other travellers before being permitted to purchase food.
Lunch over, we got on the road in great good humour, and for an hour crossed a bare stony plain, till, winding round a little hill, we came suddenly into full view of a deserted house on one side of the road, and about half-a-mile away upon the right an immense castle surrounded by gardens, woods, and cultivated grounds, and with the river El N’fiss flowing just underneath the walls. Mohammed el Hosein knew the place well, and said it was called Talet el Jacub, the summer residence of the Kaid el Kintafi, the governor of the province that we were journeying through. “Please God, he is not on the look out for us,” he said half laughing; and as he spoke a messenger came running to meet us, his clothes tucked into his belt, bare-headed, and a long staff in one hand. We took no notice, and he overtook us and asked where we were going, and Mohammed el Hosein replied, “Towards God’s land,” an Arabic retort to an inquisitive enquiry on the road. The messenger retorted, “This is no laughing matter, a man came to the Kaid’s house this morning and said he had heard there was a Christian on the road disguised as a Mohammedan.” Luckily all this passed in Shillah, and the speaker scarcely knew as much Arabic as I myself. I called up Swani and told him to tell Mohammed el Hosein that I was going to see Basha Hamou, at Tarudant, and that I had not time to call upon the Kaid, as I intended to camp that night in Sus. The man looked at me, at Swani, and at Lutaif, who spoke to him in Arabic, and he said, “Then you are not Christians?” to which Swani replied, “No, burn their fathers;” and the messenger, after profuse apologies, returned towards the castle at a dog-trot.
Who now so certain as ourselves of our arrival at Tarudant? We agreed the Kaid will stop all passers-by and lose much time, and in five hours at most we shall be past his jurisdiction, and it is not in the Sus that he will follow us, even should he discover his mistake.
So we spurred on quite merrily, laughing and talking of the rage the Kaid would fall into when he heard some day how near he had had the Christians in his hand. Past walnut woods, through thickset of scrub oak, by gardens into which the water ran through trunks of hollow trees, upwards steeply ran the road, passing by hedges thick with brambles and dog roses, giving a look of Spain or Portugal, and every step we went we laughed at the discomfiture of the foolish Kaid.
After an hour of steep ascent over the shoulder of a mountain called Tisi in Test (Hill of the Oaks), we struck a steep staircase of rocks, and Mohammed el Hosein said, “In an hour from here we shall pass a castle by the roadside, it is the guard-house of the Kaid, and from thence to the N’Zala is but half an hour. Once there, in a few hours you will see the tall towers of the mosques in Tarudant.” So we determined (it was then about one o’clock) to push on without eating and sleep in Sus. The steep ascent proved steeper than any we had passed, but we cared nothing for it, knowing we were so near our goal.
At last we neared the castle by the roadside, no one seemed stirring near it, and we were just about to pass the gate when a loud shouting just below us made us turn our heads. To our amazement we saw our friend the messenger accompanied by several well-armed men, bounding up the steep road like an Oudad (moufflon), and shouting, in Shillah, in a voice to wake the dead. Men rushed out of the castle and ran for their horses, and the messenger arrived just as we were about to pass the door. We stopped, and putting on an air of quiet citizens, alarmed upon the road, asked what the matter was, although we knew. Men rushed and seized our animals, called out “Arrumin!” that is, “The Christians!” brandished their guns, fingered their daggers, and for a moment things looked ugly. I sat upon my horse hardly quite catching all that was said. Lutaif expostulated and Swani, calling on Allah, asked the Sheikh, who now had come out of his house, and stood waiting till some one brought him his horse, if he looked like a Christian. “No,” said the Sheikh, “you appear to be a cursed sailor from the coast, accustomed to sail upon the black water, and to consort no doubt with Christians.” Swani looked as if he would have liked some private conversation with the Sheikh near Tangier, but prudently said nothing, and the Sheikh turned to Lutaif and asked him who he was. Lutaif replied, “A Syrian and a Taleb, and the attendant of this gentleman,” pointing to me.
“Then,” said the Sheikh, “this is the Rumi,” and, turning to me, said, “Is it not so, or will you swear you are a true believer?” Swearing is easy if you possess a language pretty well, but difficult in “petit nègre,” and so, knowing we should be taken back before the Kaid and then found out, I answered “Yes, I am the Christian,” and began to feel my horse’s mouth ready for what might come.
As Allah willed it nothing occurred beyond a little shouting, and some rather tempestuous brandishing of guns, and threatening looks. The Sheikh, who by this time had got upon his horse, rode up to me and looked me in the face. I said, “Have you ever seen a European before?” but his Arabic was at an end, and the rest passed in Shillah between Mohammed el Hosein and the man sent by the Governor.
It appeared the messenger had gone back to the castle and told the Kaid we were not Christians, and that I seemed a reputable man, riding a good black horse. On that the Kaid exclaimed, “Black horse, I was told the Christian bought a black horse in Amsmiz, so after them at once with four or five armed men;” and to teach him circumspection and lightness of foot, had him well beaten before he sent him off. A guard of men advanced and took our bridles and began to lead us back, as downcast a company as you might see upon a long day’s march. I felt like Perkin Warbeck going to the Tower, and rode quite silent, but cursing under my breath, whilst, as I take it, the loud jokes which passed in Shillah were most amusing to our captors, though I feel doubtful, even had I understood them, that they would have amused me in the least. One ragged tribesman tried to snatch my gun, which I had borrowed from the Consul in Mogador, but I kept hold of it and told him that if it no longer belonged to me it was the Kaid’s, and I should tell him of the theft. Nothing takes better with the Arabs and Berbers than an answer of this kind, and when he understood it the man grinned like a baboon and said he was no thief. I had my own opinion about this, but thought it wise not to disclose it, and at that moment a heavy storm of rain swept down from off the hills and wet us to the skin. We now began to press our animals, and the escort bounded like goats beside us, one of them trying to prick my horse with a long knife to make him kick. The headman, seeing the joke, promptly struck him across the head with a thick stick, the blow being enough to have stunned a European, but which did not seem much to annoy him, and he trotted along just like a hound who has received a cut from the second whip for running a false scent.
In about three-quarters of an hour we did that which had taken us two hours to come, our animals rushing down the steep paths in the heavy storm, and the escort shouting and cursing like demoniacs. We plunged into a wood, crossed a flooded stream, rode through a field of standing corn, and, crossing the maidan [141] before the castle, came to a horse-shoe arch. Assembled before the entrance was a crowd of armed retainers, loafers, herdsmen, travellers, and all the riff-raff who, in Morocco, haunt the dwellings of rich men. Boys, and more boys, oxen, and goats, and horses, all pressed into the gateway and the dark winding passage, to escape the storm. Loud rose the cry of “Christians, sons of dogs.” I thought, in the dark passage, that the occasion seemed quite favourable for some believer to strike a quiet blow for Allah’s sake.