The author addressed the two following letters to the Daily Chronicle and the Saturday Review when detained at Kintafi. The freedom which he now enjoys having brought with it a form of mind more fitting to an ideal captive, he now doubts whether he would not have done better to have addressed his two letters to the Record and the Rock. Nevertheless he publishes his letters, hoping that an intelligent, and no doubt idealistic public will discern in them that resignation, trust in a higher power (as Turkey), hope, charity, or whatever is proper, that in such circumstances ought to have been found in such letters.
“Thelata el Jacoub, Kintafi,
“Atlas Mountains,
“22nd October, 1897.“The Editor, Daily Chronicle, London.
“Sir—It appears that like St. Paul I am destined to be in prisons oft. Whilst endeavouring to cross the Atlas into the almost unknown province of Sus, I was arrested by the Governor of this province on October 19th, and have been detained here on various pretexts ever since. To-night one of our followers is to gird up his loins, tighten his turban, take his staff in his hand, pull up the heels of his shoes, testify to the existence of the one God, and strike across the hills to place this ‘copy’ in the hands of the British Vice-Consul at Mogador, about two hundred miles away.
“Though we are civilly treated, our position is the reverse of pleasant. We are allowed to walk about, but we cannot go far from our tent, and we have no idea why we are detained. I spare you any remarks on the flora and fauna of the district, for Inshallah, I propose to inflict them on a harmless and much book-ridden public. I merely state briefly that this house, an immense castle built of mud, is situated in an amphitheatre of hills, all capped with snow, and that a brawling river, the Wad N’fiss, runs past our tent; goats wander in the hills, tended by boys wild as their ancestors, whom Jugurtha led against the Romans. Horses and mules are driven down to drink by negro slaves, prisoners clank past in chains, knots of retainers armed with six-foot guns stroll about carelessly, pretending to guard the place; it is, in fact, Arcadia grafted on feudalism, or feudalism steeped in Arcadia. The call to prayers rises five times a day; Allah looks down, and we sit smoking cigarettes, waiting for you to turn your mighty lever on our behalf.
“For my companion in adversity I have a Syrian Christian, who acts as my interpreter, and who writes this for reasons known to you. Should Britain fail us, we hope that that great prince, the Sultan Abdul Hamid (God hath given him the victory), will send his fleet to our assistance, for, as we know, each of his Christian subjects is as a portion of his heart.
“Things look a little serious, as we are quite uncertain how long the Governor may keep us here. Therefore, I hope that this may go into your best edition, and be the means of making the Foreign Office act at once on our behalf, if we are not released.
“Yours faithfully,
“R. B. Cunninghame Graham.“P.S.—Pray assure the public that we shall steadfastly refuse to abjure our faith.”
Having thus done all in my power to invoke the protection of the Nonconformist Conscience (powerful amongst the noble Shillah race) for myself, and that of his Sultan for Lutaif, I recollected a business engagement, and wrote the following letter to excuse myself for non-completion of contract. I have ever held contracts as the most sacred of all the affairs of life.
“Thelata el Jacoub, Kintafi,
“Atlas Mountains,
“22nd October, 1897.“The Editor, Saturday Review.
“Sir—It will, I fear, be impossible for me to review the work called the Canon, about which I spoke to you. I hope, therefore, that you will place it in competent hands, for it is a well-written and curious book. You know that, as a general rule, I am reluctant to undertake reviewing, but in this case I should have been glad to make an exception to my usual practice.
“Before reviewing a book, I like to place a copy of it upon my table, and, after looking carefully at the outside of it, peruse the preface, glance at the title-page, read the last paragraph, and then fall to work. On this occasion, title and last paragraph, even the preface (which I understand is worthy of consideration), are beyond my reach. Not to be prolix, I may explain that for the last four days I have been a prisoner in the Atlas Mountain, at the above address, and that there seems no speedy prospect of my release. For details see the Daily Chronicle, to which I have addressed a letter, with one to our Ambassador at Tangier, which will, I hope, arrive some day, for when night falls our messenger is to endeavour to cross the hills to Mogador, our nearest post-town, some two hundred miles away, and to inform the Consul of our case.
“I am, Sir, yours faithfully,
“R. B. Cunninghame Graham.”
APPENDIX C
The following article appeared in the Saturday Review, and may serve to show one of the elements of difficulty against which I had to contend. Quite naturally, the country people thought that I was a filibuster.
The Voyage of the “Tourmaline.”
The southern province of Morocco—that which extends from Agadhir-Ighir to the Wad Nun—is called the Sus. Hanno is said to mention it in his famed Periplus. The Romans knew it vaguely. Suetonius may or may not refer to it when he speaks of a rich province below the Atlas; but his work is lost, and what remains comes down to us through Pliny, who himself laments the Romans took so little trouble to explore the coast. Polybius wrote of it; but what Polybius knew about the Sus is left so vague, that renowned, grave, arm-chair geographers have almost come to blows about it, as men of literature have done as to the whereabouts of Popering-at-the-Place.
Pliny certainly saw the lost writings of King Juba, and in them he met the word Asana. This Asana is conjectured (again by wise and reverend men) to have been “perhaps” Akassa, the Berber name of the Wad Nun. So that the ancients do not help us much to any knowledge of the Sus. Marmol and Leo Africanus talk of the province; but neither of them saw it, though Leo penetrated to Tamaglast, a village near Marakesh, supposed by some to be the hamlet now called Fruga. Thus little was known about the province, although travellers from Europe, as Arab writers tell us, visited the capital Tarudant, coming by Agadhir, during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, for purposes of trade.
All sorts of legends thus sprang up about the place: demons inhabited it; a mountain spoke; magicians not a few lived near the Wad Nun; La Caba, the daughter of Count Julian, who brought the infidel to Spain, was buried in Tarudant, as the legend says; and everything throughout North Africa, strange and miraculous, occurred in Sus. Rich mines were there—gold, silver, and “diamont,” iron, tin, and antimony, with manganese and copper; the people were the most honest, wildest, wisest, and most ferocious in the world; great ruined castles, known to the natives as “Kasbah el Rumi,” were dotted here and there, though who the “Romans” were no one could tell, but probably they filled the place of the “Moros,” who, as is well known, built all houses, towers, and buildings, of whatever nature, which exceed a hundred years in age throughout all Spain.