Of the two bishops who control the church in this land, one (now dead) was a feeble old man, noted only for possessing in his house the fiercest fleas in all Mergawar. The other, however, is of a different stamp. Not that one counts him as precisely an ideal Prelate, seeing that he occasionally has to stop to spell a word in the service, and would be put to it to write his own name. However, in Kurdistan you are not in the twentieth century, but in the fourteenth—or perhaps the dark ages outright—and in those times Mar Dinkha of Tergawar might readily be paralleled in England. There was a Bishop Beaumont of Durham who made five or six shots at the word episcopalis in the reading of a formal document; and finally swore a round oath—said soit pour dit—and went on. Now we have often heard Mar Dinkha stumble, but we have never heard him swear!
There are better precedents for his lack of learning, too, than mediæval England can furnish. The “Apostolical Constitutions” (a fourth century composition) distinctly contemplate the existence of illiterate bishops as a very possible phenomenon. “If the bishop cannot write, he should be at least possessed of native shrewdness,” says the author of the compilation. Is not the age of Nicaea a good time for precedents, O purist in matters ecclesiastical? Mar Dinkha would pass the test proposed there; and his discipline, if of the roughest, is perhaps for that reason the better suited for his flock. Once he came to his friends of the Archbishop’s Mission with a request for a new pastoral staff. The old one (a stout stick of oak) had “become broken” over the back of a village qasha (rector) whom he found ploughing on Sunday![{192}]
In the year 1903 the chronic trouble among these disorderly elements blazed up in a notable conflagration. Grazing quarrels started it, as usual; but it must be owned that the hotheads among the Christians did their best to aggravate matters. They had a trick of ridiculing the differences between Shiah and Sunni among the Mussulmans, by labelling one dog “Ali” and another “Mohammed,” dressing them up as soldier and mollah, and then setting them to fight; and this might well have angered more peaceable people than their Begzadi neighbours. It was not surprising that a confederacy was formed to attack the guilty village of Mawana, which was then at open feud with its Christian ally of Balulan, and so appeared an easy prey.
If the men of Mawana had gone out of their way to provoke the quarrel, at least they fought it out stoutly. Finding how formidable was the confederacy against them, they gathered together—some fifty fighters in all—and went up in a body to the church of the village. There each and all kissed the cross, as a solemn committal of their cause to God, and then commenced the fighting. Though outnumbered seven to one they beat back four assaults in the course of seven days. “And in that time,” as they told proudly after, “not any of the houses of our village were burnt, save one; and that belonged to a man of the Protestants, who had refused to come and kiss the cross with the rest of us.” Still, as their cartridges ran low, the matter began to look ugly; for if the Kurds should ever be able to close, numbers must tell their tale.
On the seventh night of the siege help came unexpectedly. Over the hill lay the other Christian village of Balulan, just then at open feud with Mawana, and so without immediate concern in this quarrel. Still, as they heard of the siege, they began to grow more and more restive. Ablahad, the village deacon, at last gathered all the men together, told them that now they must forget the feud, and called for volunteers to go down with him and help their brethren. Soon he had as many as he wanted, a picked band, with all the cartridges they could carry. Old Bajan could not give them leave to go, but he carefully and ostentatiously looked[{193}] the other way; and the little party stole out that night to put their lives in hazard for their enemies.
The deacon knew his ground; and (strictly enjoining his men to hold their fire) he led them straight down upon one of the strongest Kurdish pickets. There was a challenge—and no reply. The sentry fired—and the startled picket sprang to their feet. It was the chance for which Ablahad was waiting! One shattering volley at close quarters disabled eight and twenty of the enemy. The Christians were through the leaguer, and entered Mawana without losing a man, and with their supply of cartridges intact.
Nor was this all their success; for so badly were the besiegers’ nerves shaken that (thinking the relieving force to be far larger than it really was) they raised the siege that night, and departed to their homes. “And when men arose in the morning and looked out, thanks be to God, the enemy had departed.”
Gallant shamasha Ablahad did not live long after his brilliant success. About a fortnight later he, with a party of Mawana men, was caught in a little isolated village by overwhelming numbers of Kurds. The Kurds, to their credit be it said (though fully aware of his recent exploit), offered him leave to depart in safety and honour as soon as they learned of his presence among their foes. Bedr Khan Beg himself, the leader of their party, came forward in person to bring the message before the firing began.
“We have no quarrel with you, shamasha; nor with Bajan your Lord. And we seek for none. Do you go your way,” he cried. “But for these men of Mawana there is blood between us and them and we must settle it here.”
“I thank you for your offer,” replied the deacon firmly. “But I am here with my friends, and I will see it out with them.”