The principal landmark in the Sapna valley is the town of Amadia; a city set on a hill indeed—perched on the summit of a great isolated knoll which juts out from the mountains behind it like a bastion from the curtain of a fortress. The slopes of this knoll are surmounted by a cresting of limestone precipice, so even and continuous round the whole circuit of the level summit that it looks from a little distance like a prodigious artificial wall. The place must have been a notable stronghold even in Assyrian{321} days, as a much battered bas-relief on the rock face by the main gate testifies: but the ramparts which Nature has given it were always sufficient protection; and, except at the two entrance gateways, no further defences were required. It is now but a group of mean hovels, no more than a rather large village; but it ranks in the Sapna valley as the metropolis of the country-side.

Amadia is the only seat of Ottoman Government in the neighbourhood; and for this reason it was in its vicinity that a “Station” of the Archbishop’s Assyrian Mission was established when it was desirable to find some centre reasonably accessible for the mountaineers of Tyari and Tkhuma. This establishment caused a most natural fluttering of the dovecotes in that respectable and old-fashioned neighbourhood. That the Kurds should feel eminently disgusted was only to be expected. Good respectable brigands as they were, and had been for generations, and having a vested interest in the perpetuation of conditions that made their ancient trade profitable; what else could they be expected to feel, at the advent of a Frank who was not only unraidable personally, but whose mere presence made it appreciably more difficult to raid others? Formerly if there had ever been questions about the appropriation of sheep (which did not happen often), it was always easy to persuade the kaimākām to do nothing, and report nothing. An Englishman, however, was in touch with his Consul, (accursed institution), and that Consul with the Vali; and Valis have a way of not sympathizing with a Kurdish gentleman’s necessities, unless you purchase that sympathy rather expensively.

Furthermore, there was the Roman Catholic bishop of the district; and he also objected (and again most naturally and rightly from his point of view) to the coming of an institution that might put backbone into the “heretical” church which he was in process of annexing gradually to the one true fold. We must own that his lordship’s methods of going to work in the matter were perhaps a little crude; but the fact is, that it is the grossest injustice to judge the modern East by a twentieth-century standard. If you{322} choose to go and live in mediæval times (somewhere in the thirteenth century let us say), you must not complain if the people act in fashion reminiscent of that age. It is best to cultivate a sense of historical perspective instead, and enjoy the picturesqueness of things.

The bishop in question was not a European himself, but a native of the country, and a member of the Chaldæan Church; and there is not the slightest reason for thinking that his tutors (the Dominican Fathers of Mosul) were aware of his rather mediæval methods. He would not be likely to report too definitely to them (if he had any direct correspondence with them at all, which is not probable) on the broad principle, familiar in that land, that there are things which a Frank can never be got to understand, and which for the sake of his peace of mind he had better not know! His immediate superior, the Chaldæan Patriarch, may have been better informed. He is an Oriental and so of an understanding mind; a vigorous mind withal, and not troubled with needless scruples.

It being then desirable to remove the intruding Englishman, his lordship’s first step was to request the Vali to issue an order to that effect, on the ground that the writer’s morals were so abominably bad, that the Kurds could not tolerate his presence. This attempt failed; the Vali taking the line that Kurdish morals were not his business, and that in any case he thought that even an Englishman could hardly make them worse than they were. We regret to say that his Excellency, having given this decision, went to lunch with the British Consul in order to share the ribald joke.

Foiled there, his lordship the bishop next appealed to the local Kurds. “If you allow that Englishman to settle there” he told them, “he will set the Government on to you, every time you go a-raiding; and you will never be able to rob a Christian village in peace and safety again.” Of course the fact was true enough; or rather, it was true that the foreigner would do his best to produce that desirable result, as far as the narrow limits of his power extended; and it was all to the good that the Kurds should{323} believe it. Still, as an Episcopal argument, it was odd. However, it is the general feeling of the East, that there is no stone too dirty to throw at your enemy; and that if you set a train for his destruction, there is never any risk of your getting hoist with your own petard. It is, after all, only the mediæval feeling, that it was quite fair to call in the devil to do your work, and then cheat him of his pay!

Another argument urged upon the Kurds by the bishop was that the coming of the English meant annexation in the near future. However, this “back-fired” sadly. Many Kurds, after inquiring if the tale was really true, exclaimed: “Glory be to Allah! Let us hope the English will be quicker about it than they sometimes are.” For a very fair proportion of the men in every tribe are really sick of the state of no-government around them. They are tired of disorder, more than tired of the Turk; and have discovered that raiding really does not pay in the long run. Good sport it is; but the outgoings are too heavy. No raids will pay for the up-keep of a large “following” for ever; and yet if you practise raiding, a large following must be kept up. So, unable to establish any sort of government other than the tribal themselves, they are disposed to welcome almost any change, or the intervention of almost any foreigner. Though, of course, however welcome a foreigner might be at first, he would be sure to get cordially hated later when the sweets of order palled in their turn.

Some Kurdish gentlemen were disposed to welcome the coming of the English for other and more personal reasons. Among these was a certain Agha Reshid of Ghara (a distinct man from his namesake of Berwar) whose fame as a murderer rivalled even that of the Agha of Châl. This distinguished man came to visit us one day, sadly scaring our household staff by the train that he thought necessary for his dignity; and perhaps for his safety also, for both the Government and his private enemies had designs upon him.

“Will you receive him, Rabbi?” said the servants, “he is the man who has committed fifteen murders himself.”

He proved, however, to be, like Lambro, “as mild a mannered{324} man as ever scuttled ship or cut a throat;” and after the usual compliments, disclosed his real business. “Could we see our way to registering him as a British subject?” The fact was, as he explained, that his enemies were getting quite troublesome to him now, over the crimes they said he had committed; and if we could oblige him in this, then he would be entitled to Consular protection, and that would give him a clean slate. As usual, in return for that favour he would cheerfully undertake the removal of any enemies of ours whom we named.

We could only regret our inability to do him the service asked, and explain that there was really nobody whom we wished to have murdered; a statement which in the light of our known relations to our neighbours was received with an incredulity that was courteous, but quite undisguised. In the interests of science, however, we had to put one further question. “O Agha, that thing which your enemies say of you concerning those fifteen murders; is it true at all?”

“O Effendim,” he answered coolly; “they were all of them my enemies but two. And one of them was a Jew who had looked at my womankind.”

We could not come to an understanding, but we parted the best of friends.[143]

As for the Christian villagers, they of course welcomed the arrival of what promised protection, and refused to believe any disclaimers of political power and aims. “Now we shall be able to send out our sheep to the far pastures,” they proclaimed. To do so previously would have been a mere invitation to cattle-raiders, which they would not have been slow to accept!

The person who was most to be pitied in the whole matter was the unfortunate Governor of Amadia. He had to veil under a decent show of politeness the disgust that he must have felt over the advent of a nuisance whom he was bound to protect; and a critic whom he could not turn out, or{325} altogether disregard. Further, all his Kurdish neighbours who desired the removal of the foreigner were sure that the governor could do it if he would; and that he would have done so, had he not been bribed in a contrary sense.

One can spare some pity for a poor man who finds himself losing his popularity with his friends for not doing what he would give his ears to do, if only he were able. Constant petitions were made to him to expel the foreigner; and when in a weak moment he tried to purchase peace by issuing an order to that effect, the impracticable Englishman not only refused to obey it, but appealed to his Consul; and so brought down on him a sharp reprimand from the Vali, and a reminder of the existence of the “Capitulations” and foreign privileges under them. Yet how was he to get that fact into a Kurd’s understanding?

Finding that the poor kaimákam was not to be moved, the neighbours thought of taking action themselves. A syndicate of them actually suggested a reward of £1000 to anyone who would abate the nuisance by removing the foreigner finally and absolutely from this world. Sundry gentlemen were willing to undertake the job; so at least local informants assured us. Maybe their fears spoke, but the thing has been done with British officers since. This syndicate, however, declined to produce the money till the job was done; and negotiations broke down on that point, leaving the Englishman with the satisfaction of feeling that he was at least rated quite decently high. It would have been a blow to his natural self-esteem had the price put on his head been a low one; but £1000 elevates one into an aristocratic circle, to a fellowship with Claude Duval, Ned Kelly the Australian, “the man Charles Stuart” and “the Nigger General who almost ruined old Virginny.”

Meantime, the British Consul in Mosul felt a little natural anxiety at these proposals concerning one of his charges, and communicated with a friend on the matter. This friend was that Abdi Agha of the Sindiguli Kurds mentioned earlier in this chapter, who was on the most amicable terms with all English, because his daughter had just been cured in the English hospital in Mosul. The Consul’s suggestion ran{326} much as follows. “See here my friend; you know those men of Amadia are talking wildly and making petitions. Could you, who have influence with them, give them a hint that they are knocking their heads against a stone wall? You know we none of us want to have trouble; but I shall be obliged to take serious notice if they go too far.”

“Certainly Bey, on my head and eyes be it,” said the obliging Agha; and this was the form in which the “hint” arrived. “O you men of Amadia! Dogs that you are, I hear that you are barking against my English friends. Know now that if you do not cease from this forthwith, I will rob every caravan of yours that goes down to Mosul!”

Application had been made at Constantinople for a firmān for the building of a mission house, and this business was proceeding with the leisureliness characteristic of Ottoman rule. A curious episode occurred during its progress. The British Consul of Mosul, having naturally left that oven during the summer, had come up to Amadia; and was there staying with the writer on the site of the future house, when a Servian gipsy appeared in the land. This was an old woman, who was unable to speak any one of the numerous languages current in Kurdistan, and communicated with the natives by signs only. The Consul’s kavass, however, was a Montenegrin, and through him we were able to communicate with her. She professed herself a skilled fortune-teller, and accordingly, more by way of challenge than anything else, she was asked to show her skill. She asked for anything that the Consul had worn, and having been given a fragment of an old neck-tie, cut it into shreds, strewed these on the surface of some water, and presently, after studying the signs, gave her verdict. “You have come up hither about the building of a large house on this spot, and there has been a great deal of opposition to it. However, you need not be afraid, for you have overcome it, and the house will be built and will abide.” About six weeks later came the news that the issue of the firmān for the purpose was practically secured.

Another curious instance of clairvoyance came to the knowledge of the writer in the same village. A child was{327} lost, and after searching for it in vain, the parents applied to a certain aged qashâ, renowned for his skill in kharashutha (magic) of all kinds. His method was to take a pebble from a running stream, and grind it to powder with certain prayers. Then a long series of names of localities was written on slips of paper, and these and the dust together were strewn on a basin of water taken from the running stream. Again prayers were recited, ending with the invocation, “give a perfect lot;” and the slip of paper that first floated to the side was taken. The place it named seemed impossible; for it was a pass between two high mountains, very difficult of access. Still the parents went up to search; and there sure enough was found the dead body of the child, who, in obedience to the mysterious law observed in several such cases, had climbed from height to height, when lost, till he sank exhausted.

A better position than Amadia for getting unusual knowledge as to the ways of life and thought in this remote land could hardly be imagined; particularly when, as was the case with us, medical practice was added to educational work. This was done partly out of philanthropy, partly because nothing is so efficient as dosing to take away prejudice! Weird complaints came to us for doctoring, as will readily be understood; and possibly the treatment they received would have been considered even weirder from a real doctor’s point of view.[144] Thus the village idiot came up one day to beg for a cure. He knew that he was mad, and he also knew the reason; namely that long ago an unscrupulous foe had put a donkey’s brains into his soup, and he had eaten them unwittingly, and had naturally gone crazy.

We thought of setting imagination to cure what imagination had created, by solemnly tying our friend down, making a small wound on his stomach, and then exhibiting some scrap of raw meat to him as the donkey’s brain, safely extracted. We have known of similar cases cured by precisely that method elsewhere; particularly a girl in Mosul{328} who was persuaded that she had swallowed a lizard, which was eating her up internally. She fully intended to die of it; but recovered perfectly on being chloroformed and being shown, on “coming to” again, a small cut on her own person, and a lizard in spirits! However, the patient in this case refused to submit to the operation, and perhaps it was as well; for one is rather playing with fire in executing such a scheme.

On another occasion, a Kurd came to one of our European staff, with a request to have a tooth extracted. The Frank, who had served some apprenticeship at that art, did his office deftly; and the Kurd, filled with gratitude, offered two mejids (seven shillings) as a fee. This was refused, as no fees were taken; and the patient was even more astonished. However, he was a Mussulman gentleman, and to receive a benefit without making return for it was unthinkable; hence if his next proposal was bizarre, at least the kindness was genuine.

“Look here, Effendim, you are a Christian, are you not? Well, when I get to Paradise, I shall have seventy houris. You will not have any where you are going; and I think I may spare you—two!”

An interesting corollary to the above proposition would seem to be that the market value of a houri is ³/₆ sterling, plus compound interest on that sum for say twenty years, which seems cheap.

Perhaps our most remarkable patient, however, was a poor fellow who was brought in by a deputation of the men of his village, with a request that we would cure him of the evil eye! If he looked at a crock of milk, it upset; if at a sheep, the wolf got it; if at a child, it was likely enough to tumble into the fire. They were quite fair about the matter, fully recognizing that it was the poor fellow’s misfortune, not his fault. Still, he was such a nuisance to all the neighbours, that it was to be hoped that English knowledge would cure him. Unfortunately, we had to own that there was nothing in the British Pharmacopœia that professes to deal with this form of trouble; and though we had, as a matter of fact, plenty of charms against the evil{329} eye in our possession (invocations of the Archangel Gabriel against “that light and vile daughter of perdition” with power to send it away “into the desolate land, where cocks crow not and foot of beast treads not, there to walk up and down in dry places, seeking rest and finding none”) yet we felt on the whole that it would not be proper to use these, and the deputation had to go away disappointed.[145]

Once, on a journey, we have known surgical aid demanded in rather menacing fashion. We had halted by a spring, when a party of Kurds, all fully armed of course, turned up from the opposite direction, and demanded of our servant who and what we might be. Hearing that we were English, the leader strode over to us at once, displayed a paralysed arm, and observed, “You have got to cure that.”

“That is quite beyond our power, we fear,” said we, “you must take that to the hospital in Mosul.”

“Well you know, I think you ought to cure it; because you did it.”

“We did it? We never set eyes on you before.”

“Well, if it was not you, it was your Consul; but you English are all one set. He did it when he was shooting at us.”

Our friend was, as we then understood, one of the gang who had, a few years previously, attacked a British Consul in this neighbourhood.[146] There had been a pretty sharp skirmish, of which this gentleman bore the token in a bullet that had cut the sinews of his right arm. The Consul gained great kudos in the affair; for he not only beat off his assailants,{330} but killed their leader, a man who had the reputation of being “proof” against shot and steel. Such reputations are almost as common in these regions now as they were in the highlands of Scotland in the seventeenth century; but (in spite of the local facilities) the possessors of such immunity are not held to have acquired it by direct compact with the Evil One, like Claverhouse and Dalziel, but to have been born with it in course of nature. Mirza Agha, the Kurd in question, certainly did his best to live up to his character; for though he received three wounds that would each have been fatal to most men (two in the head, and one in the body) he did not die until the fifth day after the battle.

This comrade of his was not disposed to take vengeance (as might perhaps have been expected) on all and sundry Englishmen for the loss of his arm. Having expressed his sense of what was befitting, and provided us with an instance of the survival of tribal responsibility, for which as students of history we were bound to be grateful to him, he went on his way and we saw him no more.

Gradually our relations with our neighbours improved. It is difficult to keep up malice against a man who provides good “English salt” (quinine); and thus folk became interestingly, but almost inconveniently, friendly. What ought one to do, when the wife of a Kurd, who has got into trouble with his Agha, asks for your intercession; and all the Christians in the neighbourhood, as well as the man’s own friends, assure you that the object of their prayer is a very good and charitable man, barring the fact that he commits murders occasionally? What is the really “fit and beautiful” in the following cause matrimonial, when the applicants come and throw themselves in the road at your horse’s feet, and declare that you are welcome to ride over them, but get up they will not, till you have promised them redress?

Jevdet, a worthy Kurd of Ghara (outlaw, of course, like every man in that happy Alsatia), betrothed his daughter Amin to a neighbour, Tewfik, in settlement of a debt owed{331} to the latter.[147] However, Amin rebelled and ran away to a worthy old man of Amadia, one Abd-l-Aziz, who is a sort of universal uncle to all the neighbourhood, and is at the bottom of most local intrigues. Abd-l-Aziz, resourceful man, thought that an alliance with the damsel’s family would be valuable; so he betrothed her at once to a nephew of his own, and reported her to her parents as “lost, and I don’t know where to find her.” Presently, however, Amin, being a lady, changed her mind—mollified by the news that Tewfik had actually spent the sum of £20 to get possession of her—and got a letter through to him somehow, begging him to come like a true lover, and rescue her from the consequences of her own actions. Under these circumstances Jevdet and Tewfik both came and threw themselves at the feet of the writer and the Consul, assured us that they had no hope save in Allah and ourselves, and begged for redress!

Yet of all the negotiations in which we were engaged, that which sticks most in our memory is the matter of Abdurrahman the Kurd, and the difficulty first of getting him into prison and afterwards of getting him out. Abdurrahman had the impudence to rob a messenger who was bringing down letters to us. He took everything except the letters themselves (which was courteous) and allowed the messenger to come wading through the winter snow to our house, clad in nothing but the envelope.

This was a thing that could not be allowed to pass, and we demanded the arrest and imprisonment of the thief, who was known to the robbed man. At first the governor professed inability to do anything in the matter, and did not see that any duty was incumbent on him. However, an appeal to the Vali at Mosul produced an order, and in due course Abdurrahman was lodged in the town gaol. “Get him imprisoned here, not at Mosul, Rabbi!” had been the advice of one of our servants. “It is no punishment to be imprisoned at{332} Mosul; they give bread to the captives there almost every day.” In more primitive Amadia your friends are at liberty to supply you; but if they omit that attention, you do not eat.

Abdurrahman had plenty of friends, so he did not fare badly in the prison; but when he had been there about a week, we received a message from the kaimakam. Would we mind saying if our thirst for vengeance was glutted yet? For if so, our victim might be released. We sent a reply to the effect that it was no case of private vengeance, but of the peace of his Majesty the Sultan; and that if, as we presumed, Abdurrahman had now served his full sentence, of course he could be released.

“Oh no,” replied the ever-courteous but bored Governor, “our wisdom was labouring under a misapprehension in this. As for the peace of the Sultan, his Majesty had not got any; and as for sentence, he had never even tried the man yet. In fact, he had been at some pains to explain to our victim’s relations (a fairly wild sept of Kurds) that it was not his fault that their kinsman was in durance, but purely the doing of that Englishman, who had insisted on it so.”

“Then release him with our blessing,” said we. “Ten days in the hole you call a prison is more than enough for a trifling indiscretion such as he committed.”

“Then please,” came the message in reply, “would we mind coming up to the town to sign a document to that effect?” It had been already prepared, and only needed signature, and a man of our wisdom would understand that this was necessary, and that in a civilized and constitutional land like Turkey, the formalities of law must be observed.

It seemed to us that no great formality could be needful for the release of a man who had never been tried; but presently we sacrificed a day’s work, rode up to the citadel and after the usual compliments asked for the necessary document.

“Well, for the document—it should be written at once. It was not indeed needful that we should sign it, or in fact that any should be written; but—well, as we were there—would we take it amiss if the kaimakam mentioned that he{333} had been suffering sadly from stomach-ache these days, and would be grateful if we would prescribe.” The rascal had calculated, quite correctly, that we should never trouble to come up just for his indigestion, but that if we knew that our victim was languishing in durance till we appeared, we were pretty certain to do so! The ingenuity of the “score” so delighted us, that the only revenge we took was to prescribe the nastiest medicine at our disposal; and so the document was drawn up, signed, sealed and delivered, and we went off home in the belief that the business was done now.

No such thing, however. The policeman, who presently came down to take up the medicine informed us that it was impossible to release our captive, for the sufficient reason that his Excellency had now been examining the case, and had come to the conclusion that he was innocent. Had he been guilty, all would have been well; but he thought that it was a case of mistaken identity, and proposed to keep poor Abdurrahman till the messenger could come down to swear to him. If that messenger came as soon as he was summoned (the very last thing he was likely to do) that would not mean a delay of more than a fortnight. And then the prisoner could be released—if innocent, on the ground that he had done nothing; if guilty, as having served his full sentence several times over!

On this, we frankly threw up the game, and sent word to the Governor that we were going off on a six weeks’ journey, and could not be heard of till its close. He might keep his prisoner, or ours, in prison till the crack of doom if he liked; or might release him at once.

Naturally, as soon as we were over the hill, he chose the latter alternative. Abdurrahman came out again; and he bore so little malice that on return we found a message from him awaiting us, to the effect that he would never have meddled with the messenger had he known that the man belonged to us; and that he would bring us the horns of the first ibex he shot that summer as a peace-offering. And so, in fact, he did, and we became very good friends.

Spirits of the mountain and plain beset the path of the{334} wayfarer in this land, as might be expected. Thus, Mosul plain is haunted by a fearful type of vampire, the “hiblabashi,” a satyr, half-man half-goat, who lures travellers from the path, and sucks their blood.[148] There is a tomb of one such at Aradin, a village in the lower hills, whence there issues at times a terrible gadfly, that infects all whom it bites with madness and hydrophobia. Mercifully, however, bane and antidote lie, as ever, side by side; for there is a sulphurous spring by the side of the tomb, and it has healing virtue for those afflicted in this way.

Belief in a vampire was, of course, practically universal at some period all the world over; and this is the only thing that the Montenegrin kavass mentioned above was ever known to fear, having had practically first-hand acquaintance with one.[149] There is, however, another sort of spirit that is more peculiar to this land; a type of “brownie” that haunts the sheepfolds, where the shepherds have often to keep lonely vigil and get into the frame of mind when men see all sorts of strange things. In one case, the pixy in question used to come and sit opposite to the shepherd by the watchfire, and exactly imitate his every action in dead silence. At last this supernatural companion got on to the shepherd’s nerves. He consulted a wise man, and was given advice that shows how recent in date the tale must be. He put a bowl of water on his side of the fire, and a bowl of paraffin on the other; and then, when the brownie came, he proceeded to soak his own clothes with the water. The being, of course, imitated him, and did not perceive the difference between water and oil. After a while, the shepherd took a blazing brand from the fire and applied it to his clothes, where, of course, it went out. The brownie did likewise, and found himself in a blaze; on which he jumped up and fled howling, being apparently material enough to feel fire. All the other spirits of mountain and river gathered at his call, and the shepherd began to fear that he had roused Elfindom in good earnest: but the scorched one, with{335} really magnificent fairness, declared that after all it was his own doing; and thereafter the shepherd was left unmolested of nights.

Still, of all survivals from early ages in this land, whether monumental, superstitious, or religious, none is more remarkable than the “Sacrifice of Noah.” It must be understood that no people here, save the Armenians, look on the great cone which we call Ararat, but which is locally known as Aghri Dagh, as the spot where the ark rested. The biblical term is “the mountains of Ararat” or Urartu, and the term includes the whole of the Hakkiari range. A relatively insignificant ridge, known as Judi Dagh, is regarded as the authentic spot by all the folk in this land; and it must be owned that the identification has something to say for itself. It is one of the first ranges that rise over the level of the great plain; and if all Mesopotamia (which to its inhabitants was the world) were submerged by some great cataclysm, it is just the spot where a drifting vessel might strand.

Whatever the facts, the tradition goes back to the year A.D. 300 at least. That date is, of course, a thing of yesterday in this country; but the tale was of unknown antiquity then, and is firmly rooted in the social consciousness now. In consequence, Noah’s sacrifice is still commemorated year by year on the place where tradition says the ark rested—a ziaret which is not the actual summit of the mountain but a spot on its ridge. On that day (which, strange to say, is the first day of Ilul, or September 14 of our calendar, and not May 27 mentioned in the account in Genesis) all faiths and all nations come together, letting all feuds sleep on that occasion, to commemorate an event which is older than any of their divisions.

Christians of all nations and confessions, Mussulmans of both Shiah and Sunni type, Sabaeans, Jews, and even the furtive timid Yezidis are there, each group bringing a sheep or kid for sacrifice; and for one day there is a “truce of God” even in turbulent Kurdistan, and the smoke of a hundred offerings goes up once more on the ancient altar. Lower down on the hillside, and hard by the Nestorian village of Hasana, men{336} still point out Noah’s tomb and Noah’s vineyard, though this last, strange to say, produces no wine now. The grapes from it are used exclusively for nipukhta or grape treacle, possibly in memory of the disaster that once befell the Patriarch.

Yezidi legend has it that the ark had a narrow escape of foundering during its voyage to Judi Dagh, and what would have befallen the race of man then? It bumped sadly on mount Sinjar, and sprung a serious leak in consequence.[150] Disaster was only averted by the promptitude of the Serpent, who wriggled into the hole, coiled himself into a ball on each side, and then pulled together tightly like a rivet to caulk the leak. There he remained till the voyage was over; whereupon Noah (with rather doubtful gratitude) sacrificed and burnt him at once. He must have left a brood behind him, to be the ancestors of the present stock; but he perished, and he got his revenge, for from his ashes came forth fleas. It is at least an unusual thing to find a story of any sort that attributes disinterested conduct to a serpent; and this legend can claim, at any rate, such support as is given to it by the great abundance of the insect referred to in the neighbourhood of this their original home.

An American sufferer once assured the writer of his conviction that in the course of ages, the very structure of the sandbank on which stands the town of Jezireh (just at the foot of Judi Dagh, and on the river Tigris) had been metamorphosed; and that it was now composed exclusively of flies, fleas, and fever microbes in approximately equal proportions! Experience, it must be admitted, makes one disposed to agree with him. The town is “more Lord of Fleas than any place in Kurdistan.”

And it is gratifying to find that the memory of this mythical personage is still preserved in the land where he wooed his{337} bride. Noah’s son-in-law (so we are told) was a giant of such prodigious stature that his attempt at “spoiling ta’ flood by drinking up ta’ water” may have had some initial success. Of course he could not get inside the ark, but he obligingly sat astride of it, and paddled it about with his feet. What became of him later the legend sayeth not. No doubt he carried off his wife to Scotland with him; and so passed beyond local ken.

Time passed gradually at Amadia, till even the leisurely Ottoman processes were complete, and the imperial firmān for the building of an “English house” at that centre was duly issued. All ill-feeling with our neighbours had practically died out before that date; and the last of it vanished with the document’s arrival, every Sanballat and Geshem in the neighbourhood coming to call, and to explain how delighted he personally had always been to have us there, and how it was only “those others” who stirred up bad blood. It is true that one more consistent man observed, on the occasion of the public reading of the formal charter in the diwan of the governor, “Poor Mohammed Reshid! He has to do whatever these Franks tell him”; but he prudently kept that remark under his breath.

A solemn festival marked the burying of the hatchet; after which the guests, having consumed more than one sheep between them, went home in procession with all the spoons of the household in their hats! This would have suggested at home that the wearers had dined not only well, but too well; but in Kurdistan it expresses no more than an unusual satisfaction with the banquet.

{339}

CHAPTER XVI

THE GRAVES OF DEAD EMPIRES

(MOSUL TO BAGHDAD)

The phenomenon wanders about in the freakish fashion that we associate with the American tornadoes, though it{340} never is dangerous, like them, from its mere pace and power. It will take one man out of a straggling party, or even a man on horse-back, while leaving his horse and his companion on foot unscathed.

A British Consul has told the writer how on one occasion, turning to speak to his kavass who was riding a few yards behind him, he suddenly felt the hot blast and smelt the sulphurous fumes; while the kavass collapsed, and fell from his horse as if he had been shot. Prompt attention and stimulants revived the sufferer on that occasion, but it was a narrow escape. Had he been alone he would have died past question.

Nobody seems to have investigated the matter scientifically, or to have compared it with like phenomena in other lands (such as Scinde for instance) where conditions are similar. It is really not surprising that the natives should put down the effect to a blow from a malignant “Jinn,” though one suspects that as a matter of fact the explanation is this. Sudden contact with the heated, sulphur-laden blast of the little whirlwind just “tips the balance,” and induces a stroke of heat-apoplexy in cases where the victim is already verging on that condition. Possibly the Sâm is a last legacy of the now quiescent volcanoes; for similar sulphurous eddies, of a far less violent description, were playing about the surface of the sea off the Riviera coastline for some time after the great earthquake at San Remo in 1887.

In Mosul the hospitable Consulate received us once more, while the keleg that was to take us down the Tigris to Baghdad was in process of construction. A keleg is probably one of the most ancient types of river craft in the world, and is built in this wise. First, a frame of light poles, much like hop-poles, is tied fairly firmly together with cord. This may be of any size, but a fair-sized one for a small party is perhaps twelve feet square. Next a number of sheep-skins, each taken from the animal with the minimum of cutting, and with all apertures firmly tied up, are fastened beneath that frame. A keleg of the size named requires about 100 skins. These are inflated by the lungs of the{341} kelegji, through a reed inserted into one of the legs of the skin; and the legs also form convenient points for attachment to the frame. Finally a few heavy logs, usually poplar or walnut trunks sawn in half, are placed side by side on the frame, so as to form a rough floor, and the craft is complete in all essentials. In our own particular case some further arrangements were made for comfort. A portion of the “deck” was properly floored with boards, and this portion covered with a hut made of reed mats on a light frame, large enough to contain a bed easily, and to serve as living-room during the day.

Such a craft is as buoyant as well can be; this one carrying six men with ease, beside a fair amount of luggage. Its method of progress is simply to drift down the fairly rapid current of the Tigris as far as is required. On reaching the destination, all the wood is sold for what it will fetch to the timber merchants, while the skins are deflated and packed on a donkey for transport up the river, for there is no means of towing the craft back against the stream. A pair of clumsy oars do what steering is necessary, and keep the vessel in the main current.

A raft voyage is probably the most absolutely restful mode of travel known, if only the wanderer is in no hurry to reach his destination; and that of course no genuine traveller ever ought to be. You go on, never hasting, never halting (unless a strong wind happens to pin you to one bank for a while), and the river must get you to your destination at the last. As to dates there is a pleasing uncertainty; but we may say that from Mosul to Baghdad the quickest voyage ever known was two days and a half, and the longest fourteen.

Naturally, you provision your craft for the voyage before starting, getting all that you desire in Mosul; and it may be noted here that for cooking purposes the writer has found nothing better than a “Primus” stove. Ports of call where you can reprovision are not numerous, but they do exist.

For one desiring a rest-cure the method may be recommended confidently. You lie on your camp bed under the{342} shade of your grass hut, watching the shore slide past your sleepy eyes. If the heat grows too great, your servant dashes water over the grass matting, and you are cool. Is fruit your desire? He emits a doleful howl, which is answered from the bank, and presently a nude cultivator turns up alongside, buoyed up on the inflated skin on which he has swum out, and towing a large melon from one of the gardens that line the river, which conveniently floats just awash. Is a bath desirable? You strip and slide off the edge of your keleg, taking a sheep-skin to act as buoy, or pillow if you like. You swim for as long as you feel inclined, or drift down while the craft keeps pace with you. You are in the land of the lotus eaters on a keleg voyage—but you had better take a few books to read!

Altogether the writer fully sympathizes with the feeling of a Chaldæan bishop, who was scandalized at discovering that a certain Dominican Father held himself excused from observing Lent during a voyage of this kind “because he was on a journey.” “Why, good gracious,” said his lordship, “he might as well claim exemption from fasting in Paradise!”

It must be owned that there is not much in the way of scenery in this portion of the river. If you want that, you must go to the upper reaches of the Tigris, and travel from Diarbekr down to Mosul, threading the great gorges en route.[151] There you will get magnificence, and it may be excitement too; for there are rapids in the defile, and kelegs have been known to be wrecked in them. Mesopotamia does not give you mountains. Still, there is one stretch of fair scenery (though not a gorge to be compared with the canons of Tyari), where the “Jebel Makdul” crosses the river, and a fine stretch of dull red cliff, relieved by a wide streak of grey alabaster, lines the bank for some miles. Here stands a fine old stronghold, much resembling one of the Rhine castles, the “Kalat-el-Bint,” or Maiden Castle. Shortly after, you pass a sulphur spring, which is not an{343} uncommon thing in the land; still, it is not often that you find one so odoriferous as to awake the peaceful slumberer in mid-stream!

Somewhat lower, the lesser Zab joins the Tigris, descending from a city that we visited at one period of our wanderings in the land, and of which we include a picture.

This is Kirkuk, a town which contains, in its present name, one of the few memorials of the old Seleucid rulers. It is a contraction of “Karka d’Bait Seluk,” the “Citadel of the house of Seleucus.” As a city, it is far older than the kingdoms of Alexander’s successors, for it stands on one of the largest and most ancient of “tels”; and the traveller may “acquire merit” by visiting the mosque where are the tombs of Shadrach and Abednego. Meshach, the guide will tell you, is there too, but the site of his grave has unfortunately been forgotten.

The mosque of the picture, however, is not that of the tombs, but the tekke, or hermitage where dwelt the most famous character of modern Kirkuk. This was a Kurdish Sheikh of such surpassing sanctity and zeal for Islam, that Abdul Hamid used to correspond with him in a private cipher; and was accustomed to ask by telegraph for his prayers, whenever he was meditating anything exceptionally black.

Normally, the banks of the river are high, or at least appear so in autumn. No doubt the river is often bank full in springtime when the snows are melting, and its pace is then materially faster. Generally the only feature on the shores are the primitive irrigating machines, the “sakkiyehs,” a type that cannot have altered very much since the days of Abraham. They consist of nothing but pits sunk in the high bank down to water-level, and communicating with the stream, so that there is always water in them. A skin bucket is lowered into the pit and dragged up again by a cord passing over a pulley; and an ox walking to and fro on an inclined plane supplies the motive power.

Two or three days below Mosul the river passes by one point of great interest; the mounds of Kala Shargat, once Assur, the sacred city of Assyria. These are now being{344} excavated and examined thoroughly by German savants of the Deutsche Orientalische Gesellschaft. As seen from a little distance, the place has no very exciting appearance. It rather resembles a group of exaggerated sandhills, rising at one point into a blunt pyramid, the “Ziggurat.” In spring the plain is covered with flowers, but all these have vanished long before autumn, and the colour of the whole is that of pale brown paper; the only scrap of green being the rather discouraged-looking garden at the side of the house occupied by the excavating staff.

Here hospitable and kindly gentlemen receive the traveller most warmly, and we have the opportunity of seeing German perseverance at work on a most congenial task. Their method is undeniably thorough, and suggests unlimited resources. You have a set of mounds before you, covering perhaps twenty acres or more, and rising to a height of about eighty feet. A light railway is laid down, running well out into the desert; and the whole of those mounds, or something like it, goes through a fine sieve, and is carried off into the wilderness and dumped. When a pavement is reached in this process, that level is cleared absolutely, and everything worth preserving is preserved, with careful plans showing the position in which it was found. Then that pavement is broken up, and progress made to the next level; and so the work is continued till virgin soil is reached.

Assur, it would seem, was a shrine long before “Assyria went out of Babylon and builded Nineveh.” There are unmistakable signs of a Hittite occupation before them. It was news to the writer that this people had ever penetrated so far to the east and south. When the place fell into Assyrian hands it became their great sacred city; so that almost every king of whom there is record seems to have felt bound to leave there some mark of his reign. Even the latest of the line, Sinsariskun, who ruled for a few weeks only before the Medes stormed Nineveh, and who perished in the flames of his palace, has done some building here. Hence there is a series of at least seven temples on the site; though in each case the lines of the original foundation were{345} faithfully followed, and are preserved above ground now in the Arabian “kala” which occupies the ground. This “kala,” by the way, cost considerable trouble to the excavators. Occupying the site it did, it had to come down if the most important portion of the work was not to go undone; but it was a terrible business to secure that result. The wretched place figured in formal reports as a complete modern fortress of the highest strategical importance; and permission to dismantle it was only given at last on condition of rebuilding it afterwards, exactly as it was before. As this cost something under £100, an inference may be drawn as to the character of the “fort.”

The temple is of the ordinary “Semitic” type, and so follows the same general plan as Solomon’s at Jerusalem, and the larger one at Baalbek. That is to say, there was an inner shrine, or cella, into which normally none could enter, and a naos before it corresponding to the “holy place” at Jerusalem. Outside the temple was a series of “concentric” courts, of irregular shape, and probably varying degrees of sanctity, each one lower in level than the one within it. One of these contained the great altar for sacrifice, and the tank for ablutions. The altar was approached (again as at Jerusalem) by a sloping ramp and not by steps. “Thou shalt not go up by steps unto Mine altar”—a device probably meant to facilitate the leading up of the sacrificial beasts. The whole is of mud brick; stone, or even burnt brick being only used for ornament; and the tank mentioned was made watertight by a thick lining of asphalt, still in situ. If the temple has not yielded any such sculptures as have been found in the palaces of Nineveh and Khorsabad, many minor antikas have come to light there; and perhaps the most interesting was a fine model of a flash of lightning, in gold, and about a metre in length. This was no doubt the ex voto offering of some great man in old days, but no inscription was found to explain it. Its discovery caused great excitement in Turkish official circles, report having necessarily been sent by the Ottoman commissioner who is supposed to superintend the excavation. Stories circulated of the finding of a{346} “great treasure of gold”; which was, of course, exactly what most people believed the Franks to have been digging for all along. Accordingly two regiments were dispatched to the place, one from Mosul and one from Baghdad, to receive the treasure and escort it duly to some Government headquarters. Naturally, no difficulty was made about the surrender; for the Germans were under pledge to put all articles that they found in the Museum at Constantinople, and had not the least intention of breaking their word. One wonders, however, by how much the cost of moving say, 1200 men for ten days’ march, exceeded the intrinsic value of a thin strip of gold, about thirty-eight inches long!

The temple of Assur and the king’s palace there form, as is usual, a sort of royal quarter of the city, and stand together at one edge of the great mound. They look out over the plain to the “summer temple,” whither the images of the gods were solemnly conveyed every year, when the heat became too much for their comfort in their regular residence. This was a great portico or enclosed garden rather than a temple, and was apparently stone built, which is a rarity in this land.

Perhaps the most striking feature of the excavations, after the great temple itself, is what the excavators call “the Oriental Pompeii.” This is the old town, of date similar to the palace; and therefore going back to about 1000 B.C., though it was inhabited long after the fall of the Assyrian Empire. It is interesting to see how, in every detail of the planning of the houses, the arrangements common in Mosul to-day reproduce this early period. Perhaps the streets in the older city are rather better paved and drained than in the modern one, but that is almost the only difference. We will allow, however, that some progress has been made in such a matter as the disposal of the bodies of the dead. Good folk in Mosul are more than a little casual about this as it is; but they do have graveyards. Their ancestors in Assur put the dead under the floors of the living rooms, and often with scarce six inches between the top of the great pot that served as coffin and the level of the room. They may, as suggested, have sealed up that particular room of {347}the house; yet even so——!

Bidding farewell to our hospitable hosts we drifted on down stream, shooting in the process a few very mild rapids. The behaviour of a keleg in such places is perhaps a little startling to a nervous person; though as a matter of fact its safety lies in its eccentricity. Being composed of nothing but a multitude of separate skins, tied onto a very flexible frame, it twists and wriggles and “hogs and sags” in a manner most bewildering to the stranger on it, though it always comes out well into smooth water at the end. It is however, somewhat startling to be awakened at night by what seems a most unusually complicated earthquake.

Other kelegs appear as we descend. Even in the present thinly populated state of the country, they are fairly numerous, and must have been far more so when the “Ten Thousand” marched up the eastern bank of this river. Indeed, they must have been so familiar, that it is a matter for surprise that the Greeks feared to make use of them, when it was a question of how to cross the Tigris with their baggage; particularly as they had at least one man in the army who was bred to their use. Still, they shrank from the unfamiliar, and preferred to abandon all their plunder and take to the hazardous passage of the mountains.

Tekrit, another city of vast antiquity, was reached and passed. This was a place of some importance in the ecclesiastical history of the land, as having been a stronghold of the Jacobites against the dominant Nestorian Church. It also marks a change in the geography, indicated by a change of kelegji. By law of that ancient brotherhood, the river falls into three stretches, and each man must stick to his own portion—Diarbekr to Mosul, Mosul to Tekrit, or Tekrit to Baghdad. This custom does somehow correspond to some subtle alteration in conditions, though we cannot trace how or why. But the fact remains that below that point the cattle develop humps, which they do not affect elsewhere; and that the traffic on the river is conducted not only in kelegs, but also in ghufas, which are not to be seen higher up.

A ghufa is, if anything, more ancient than a keleg, for its type dates back to the flood, if not to the times before it;{348} and the Babylonian “deluge tablets” seem to picture Shamashnapastim (the equivalent of Noah), as navigating a gigantic ghufa of 140 cubits diameter. The craft is nothing but a wicker-work coracle of palm basket-work, circular in shape, but “pitched within and without with pitch” instead of being provided with a hide covering. In size it may be anything from the dimensions of a clothes’ basket up to twenty or twenty-five feet in diameter, according to the size of the palm-spathes that form its ribs. It can hardly be capsized, and can carry enormous weights; but it is difficult to steer without practice, a novice tending to go round and round in a circle of small diameter.[152]

Ghufas are hardly seen above Samarra, which is some fourteen hours below Tekrit, for the source of the bitumen with which they are pitched is near to the lower city. Samarra is itself historic enough, though it only appears in Western history as the scene of the action in which Julian fell. As a shrine and ziaret of the Shiah Mussulmans, however, it is second in sanctity only to Kerbela itself; for it is the burial-place, not indeed of the two grandsons of the Prophet, but of many of their comrades who fell beside them on the day of the “battle of the ditch”; and a magnificent mosque covers their bones.

To an antiquarian, however, there is something at Samarra of far greater interest than anything of either Roman or Mussulman history; for there stands the only ziggurat or Babylonian temple tower that has not been ruined in the lapse of centuries. By some fortunate freak of fate, the great pyramid, with its spiral ascent to the summit, was preserved when worship ceased in the temple below. It went on as Zoroastrian fire-temple; and subsequently as minaret to{349} the great mosque which Harun-l-Rashid built at its foot. That has gone now, and only a square of ruinous wall remains; but we owe some gratitude to the Abbassid, who was great enough to revere the monument of an older day.

So the monument has been preserved to our own time, and stands still with its brick casing practically intact. It must be beyond comparison the oldest tower in the world, for Samarra was one of the earliest of Babylonian shrines.

This site is, we believe, the one which the German excavators have decided to examine next, as soon as their work at Kala Shergat, which is now rapidly approaching completion, shall be finally done; and we understand that a preliminary survey, and perhaps a little experimental digging, has given them the right to hope for a harvest of most exceptional richness. One must trust that the proximity of the mosque will not hinder their work.

Slowly the last stage of the journey is accomplished, for the river current becomes gentler as it approaches the great delta of the two rivers. Hereabouts the capital of the country has stood since time began, though it has changed its place and name again and again. Date groves appear on the shore in place of melon gardens; and flocks of big pelicans (called “water-sheep” locally) gather on the sand-banks, accompanied by the only type of kingfisher which is quakerishly serious in his garb. Both above and below, his cousins flaunt magnificent metallic hues; but in the reaches above Baghdad he keeps to a simple black and white livery. Finally, “Baghdad’s walls of fretted gold” are seen in the distance, and the keleg has to be exchanged for a ghufa, for facility of shooting the bridge of boats.

Baghdad is civilization once more; a town that boasts hotels and European shops and costumes, besides being a railway terminus at present, to which trains may possibly attain in the future. Also it is a steamer port, being the highest point on the river to which the boats of Messrs. Lynch, which connect this place with Bassora and the open sea, are permitted to ascend.

We may see trains at Baghdad in a few years, but the engineers who are constructing the railway keep it{350} enveloped in mystery now, and allow no man to approach without an order from the Governor-General of the town. One assumes there is good reason for this, though it is not obvious what harm anyone could do by looking at the steel sleepers.

Baghdad is considered thoroughly Oriental, and may appear so to the traveller who makes his entrance to Mesopotamia this way; but to one coming from the interior it has a flavour of new Turkey, semi-reformed, and unimproved. The big street that runs right through the town, to stop short at the garden wall of the British Consulate, is by way of being a parable of young Turkey, that started out with magnificent projects but without weighing the difficulties in the way, or its own powers of overcoming them. In this particular case, the Vali of the town, anxious to set about his improvements, proposed to drive a road through the gardens of the British Residency, without with your leave or by your leave; regardless of the fact that the street, if desired, could be taken with equal ease by another route, where he would have found the British authorities ready to co-operate and assist. When the Consul protested, the road-makers were told to go on and carry out their orders; and only the ominous presence of a sepoy sentry on the top of the wall they proposed to demolish made them hold their hands. It was a reproduction in little of the British sentry who promenaded the Pont de Jena at Paris when Blucher proposed to blow up that offensively named structure. To pull down a wall was nothing, but to knock down the sentry was a more formidable thing.

It is melancholy, however, and suggests the presence of a malevolent demon, when you see high-minded men set on carrying out lofty aims in such a way that they must fail, and that their own best friends are unable either to save or to help them. That has been the bane of Turkey since her revolution, coupled with an invincible ignorance of the truth that phrases will not clean pigsties.

Baghdad is the necessary starting-point for a pilgrimage to Babylon; and there are facilities for the expedition, in that the place lies only just to one side of the road to Kerbela,{351} whither go Shiah pilgrims every day in scores. Hence carriages are easily to be got, with relays of beasts on the way, and a start in the late afternoon will bring the traveller to Babylon in time for breakfast next day.

These conveyances are rude wagonettes, provided with springs in plenty, and drawn by four mules or horses harnessed abreast. The seats provided are merely hard wooden slats, narrow and uncomfortable, and the European is not advised to make use of them. A long cord passed from side to side across the carriage, so as to make a sort of hammock on which a camp mattress may be placed, is far preferable, and enables one to lie at ease all the night through. Whether one will get much sleep is questionable. The road is a mere unmetalled track, and the horses go at a brisk hand-gallop, taking all irregularities as they come; so that the carriage is apt to play “cup and ball” with its contents all the way. However, a halt from 10 P.M. to 2 A.M. affords a welcome respite.

Still if the European cannot sleep, the native is of a superior type. Our assistant driver passed most of the journey rolled up in a ball under the feet of his superior on the box. There, though apparently in momentary danger of tumbling off under the wheels, he snored without interruption, under conditions that might have kept the Fat Boy wakeful and alert, never stirring save at the halts, and perhaps not being really roused even then. It is certain that he got off, took the collars from one set of animals and put them on to the next; but the act seemed absolutely mechanical and somnambulistic, and when it was accomplished he rolled into his place again and snored once more.

With the dawn we were making our way through a gap in that great wall that so struck the imagination of Herodotus, and which still runs like an abandoned railway embankment across the level plain. One must question, however, whether the great structure was really (as the “Father of History” tells us) built of burnt brick throughout, “laid in bitumen, and bonded with reeds at every thirty courses.” Faced with that material it probably was; but it certainly{352} has the appearance of being built, like most of the houses of the town, of unbaked mud.

Germans as hospitable as their compatriots at Assur received us at Babylon, and showed what they, working on the same thorough plan as their comrades, have uncovered of the greatest city of the ancient world.

Three great mounds, or sets of mounds, cover the ruins of Babylon, viz. Babil, Kasr (the palace mound), and Amran. It is the centre one of these that is now being excavated; though what has been uncovered is little but the foundations and basements of buildings, or in many cases nothing but the “matrices” from which every single burnt brick has been removed. The city has been used as a brick-quarry for centuries, Baghdad and various other towns being built almost entirely from this material; and it is a rather melancholy reflection that, when the Germans have finished their work, it is most probable that every brick they have uncovered will follow the others in the course of a few years. No matter how deep they bury them, they will be dug up, for good burnt building material commands its price in a city like Baghdad. One must get what consolation one can from the fact that at least good and accurate plans of the whole will be available.

All the buildings of the central mound are uncovered now, presenting to the casual visitor the appearance of a mere bewildering maze of brickwork, in which it is very easy to get lost, though all is clear enough to the expert eyes of the guide. Practically all that has been found is of the date of Nebuchadnezzar; for only one building above ground is the work of his father, Nabopolassar, and the most systematic borings have found nothing below.

At first sight it is strange that a city which was ancient in the days of Abraham should have no monuments older than those of a man who came very late in her history, and was in fact a sort of Louis XIV of Chaldaea; but there is an historical explanation of the fact. Babylon was utterly destroyed by Sennacherib of Assyria at about the time Rome was in building, it being the intention of that ruler that no man should dwell there more. This was his punishment{353} for the series of rebellions against his authority, stirred up by that Merodach Baladan of Chaldaea, whose ambassadors make one transitory appearance in the Book of Kings. The awe which the whole world felt at this destruction of the most ancient and venerable of cities is reflected in the words of Isaiah: “Babylon is fallen, is fallen; and all the graven images of her gods He hath broken unto the ground.”