There was no room for us to lodge that night in the Agha’s castle. The place was already more than full with the Sheikh’s train and the Agha’s household. Accordingly his Holiness presently dismissed us, coming again to the stair-head to do so, and sending a gentleman cateran to guide us to a house in the village which he had ordered to be reserved for our use. Here he came next morning to see us a little before daybreak, to make his adieux on departure, and to return (as he phrased it) the call which we had made on him the night before. This was, however, only a formal call, and lasted a very few minutes. He was anxious to start his day’s journey, and soon rode off towards the Oramar ferry with his picturesque ruffians in his train.
We did not start for another hour. We had first to consume the breakfast which our host the Agha had brought down for us; and, moreover, as all the Sheikh’s train had got to be transported across the river, it would obviously be at least an hour before the ferry was available for our use. Furthermore the Agha could urge that we had no cause whatever to hurry. We were bound for the little village of Erdil, reported only a three hours’ journey; and we had much better wait “till the sun had got into the valley” and had warmed up the frosty air a little so as to make riding more pleasant. In the alternative he suggested that we had better not go at all, because the road was infamous, and riding absolutely impossible. “Horses couldn’t go, and mules couldn’t go, and Englishmen couldn’t walk.” But we were pledged to visit Erdil, so we[{148}] over-ruled this objection. Moreover, we felt it highly impolitic to admit that there was any place in existence where “Englishmen couldn’t walk.”
Erdil is a tiny derelict Christian village situated in the Oramar valley a little above its confluence with the Zab. All the surrounding villages are inhabited by Kurds and Moslems; and as from year’s end to year’s end it is hardly ever visited by any outside Christian, Rabban Werda had begged us earnestly at least to give it a call. Moreover we might make discoveries. Erdil was reputed to possess some “old books” which it was willing to show to Rabbi Dr. Wigram, and had sent us one Ibrahim, an Erdilite, who promised to lead us to the cache. “Old books,” in ninety-nine cases out of one hundred, are apt to prove not worth the seeking. But a scholar would never forgive himself for missing the hundredth chance.
The Oramar river is a noble stream, not inferior to the Zab in volume, gushing forth from a grim rocky portal which notches the Zab’s mountain wall. We were assured that no European had ever yet traversed its gorges; and the assertion is certainly corroborated by the fact that the best map of these regions leaves this corner perfectly blank. In view of the repute of the road we felt half inclined for an instant to leave our animals at Suryi, and call again for them on returning. But we thought this would be too great a temptation for even a friendly Agha, and finally resolved to take them along.
Crossing the Oramar by the ferry, and keeping up the left bank of the river, we entered almost immediately a magnificent rocky ravine. On either hand rose gaunt and tawny precipices fully two thousand feet in altitude, scored all over their upper faces with the lines of the contorted strata, and thinly clothed near the bases with gnarled and stunted oak scrub. A deep, green, rapid river filled the whole of the narrow invert, and this channel was thickly cumbered by a selection of some of the very largest boulders that we have ever seen. Apparently there are many deep pockets just behind the faces of the precipices; and the water collecting in these, splits away the outer wall when it[{149}] freezes, and sheds the gigantic fragments into the chasm. Not a few of these fallen masses must have been as big as the Marble Arch.
The pathway did not belie the report we had heard of it at Suryi. It scrambled along the steep bank above the river; narrow, broken, and half strangled among blocks of fallen stone. Three times that morning we had to unload the mules, hand the packs across the obstructions, and load again on the further side. Our red-turbanned cateran, who still led us, would pause now and then in the pathway, indicating the landscape at large with a flourish of his arm like a showman, and regarding us with a triumphant grin. But whether he wished to express his admiration of the romantic scenery, or his appreciation of its defensive capabilities, or merely to apprise us that Erdil lay absolutely on the summit of everything—as in fact it did—we were not quite able to decide.
This gorge was a few months later the scene of a notable exploit, achieved by the Sheikh of Barzan at the expense of those hostes humani generis the Heriki Kurds. This horde of wandering robbers, the bane of all settled communities, are wont (as already related) to migrate each spring and autumn to and fro between Mosul and Urmi. They can travel by several routes; but all routes converge upon one point—the “Bridge of Rocks” over the Zab a little above Suryi. Here the Zab, as it issues from the mountains, is throttled (like the Wharfe at Bolton) into a narrow crack between shelving slabs of rock. The slabs are deeply undercut, and the depth of the crack must be considerable; for at one point, where a big rock table rises in mid current, the great river can be crossed in two strides!
Here the Heriki always pass over, at a point where the width of the river is about twenty-five feet. They build a bridge for themselves every spring, and it lasts till the next winter floods. This is the sole piece of honest and useful work which is ever achieved by those incorrigible plunderers; and out of it accordingly a remorseless Nemesis has fashioned “a whip to scourge them.” Here the Government posts its troops when it wishes to collect their taxes; and if they[{150}] have injured any of the Sheikh of Barzan’s villages, he exacts compensation here.
Now the previous autumn, on their downward journey, the Heriki had lifted two or three thousand sheep belonging to some Christian villages. The villagers appealed to the English, and the English to the Government; but of course there was not the least chance of obtaining any redress. The following spring, however, when the Heriki were nearly due again, we received a visit from the Sheikh of Barzan, who himself (though he did not say so) seemed to have a crow to pick with the tribe. “See here, Effendim,” he argued; “the Hukumet can never get those sheep for you. We know they haven’t got troops enough to get their own taxes this year. Now supposing it were suggested to the Vali that I should be appointed to collect those taxes. Perhaps it is even possible I might get back some of the sheep.”
The Effendi shrugged his shoulders, and did not think much would come of it; but the astute old Vali of Mosul saw the humour of the notion at once. It was quite true he had given up hope of getting the Heriki’s taxes. He even anticipated difficulty in getting the Sheikh of Barzan’s. This scheme would lubricate the bearings most admirably in both directions: and the Sheikh was appointed tax-collector pro hac vice by return of post.