Matti came in early next morning, and with porters we took away the goods and deposited them in the new house, where we found two or three buyers of my merchandise waiting. These chose the skins of “run” they desired, and having at last settled a price which gave me a profit of some twenty-five per cent., we repaired to the shop of one of them to have the goods weighed by a public weigher. When we arrived that functionary was not forthcoming, so I installed myself in the grocer’s shop, high up above the raisins, almonds, walnuts, and spices that he sold, and smoked cigarettes while he vended and attempted to carry on a conversation with me in Persian, of which he knew a little. It had often been a mystery to me how a retail grocer made his money; but now, being a wholesale dealer in an article he sold retail, I saw the game, which he was frank enough to display. His scales were not of the fairest, to start with, and when weighing, he would, when possible, leave in the pan the heavy wooden spoon with which he ladled out the grease. If a large amount were required there would be a haggle over the price, and the buyer probably got his purchase at a reasonable weight, but the small buyer who came for a few ounces was invariably defrauded, either by the calculation of the price, which he probably could not work out, or by the deficient amount given him. And so with three shahis worth of raisins, or the kran’s worth of almonds, which the grocer handed to the buyer in a long spoon which reached the remotest basin without necessitating his moving. In no shops in Kurdistan, except the drug and spice sellers, is anything wrapped up, and this habit makes a handkerchief the most essential part of a man’s gear. To buy in the bazaar one goes provided with at least three handkerchiefs, if the mixing of dates, meat, and fruit in one handkerchief is to be avoided.

Hama at last found a weighing man, who appeared with an immense steelyard supported upon a long pole, to carry which two porters had to be called, each with an end upon his shoulder. The weights were entered in a little book, and the names of the buyers, sellers, and material under them. We then made up the account, and having paid the weighing fee, half each, settled down to counting out twelve hundred krans, in two-kran pieces, a process that took half an hour, with the examination for bad and cracked coins. This done, we left, with expressions of esteem on both sides, the money wrapped in the ever-necessary handkerchief.

We banked it with Matti, who locked it with the rest of my money in his iron box, and then we sent for “kebab”—scraps of meat cooked over charcoal—and with these and bread, made what is called the “merchant’s lunch.” All the afternoon I sat outside the office making the acquaintance of the Kurdish merchants round about. One of these, a certain Hama Ali, spoke Persian extremely well, and was very proud of having been to Kashan in Persia, where he had unsuccessfully attempted to trade against a ring of Persian merchants; and while cursing their business astuteness, praised their nice manners and hospitality, and that to a Sunni, who is hated among the Persian Shi’a.

The evening meal was a frugal affair of boiled rice and meat, and a cucumber or two procured for me in the bazaar by the old dame of the house; and an hour after eating I turned in upon the stones of the courtyard, that being the coolest place, for the nights were stuffy.

Early in the morning I received a visit from the old Mustafa Beg, Mudir Effendi, my companion in the caravanserai on my first arrival at Sulaimania. He expressed genuine pleasure at seeing me again, and stayed for an hour or two, drinking the morning tea. He lamented, as always, the lack of his appointment, which he could not take up, and cursed the ill-luck that had transplanted him from Tripoli in Africa to Sulaimania. He had learned no Kurdish, had found no new friends, and passed his days as he had done before, visiting the official Turks, sitting in the post-office, and dining at the shaikhs’ house. His old fingers, white and well-kept, trembled so much that he could barely sew on the buttons of his garments, a task he was continually engaged upon; and his pride, that kept him respectable and clean, necessitated his getting up in the night to wash his own garments in the caravanserai cistern, for he could not be seen doing such work, nor had he, indeed, another change of raiment.

He was somewhat avaricious, I discovered, for he had enough cash to purchase more clothing, and at length I gained his consent to buy the material for another shirt and trousers, so we repaired to the bazaar. My costume of those days, in town, was one which gained some respect for me among others, and should, perhaps, have lessened my own for myself.

I wore an old pair of pyjamas under the dressing-gown I had adopted in Kirkuk, and a good abba thrown over these gave me a peculiar appearance, which apparently passed among the Sulaimanians for distinction.

In the bazaar we spent a long time before the old man could decide what quality of white cotton to buy, and a great curiosity was roused among the shopkeepers as to who he could be, for he made himself conspicuous by his arrogance and his loud tones of an Arabic, so different from the dialect of Bagdad, the only Arabic known to Sulaimania. So while he haggled, I accepted the invitation of a Kurdish shopman on the opposite side of the alley, and joined him in a cigarette, answering his questions as a return for his hospitality. The vociferating old man caused him some amusement, as it did the others; and his ignorance of their native Kurdish bent them the more upon driving a hard bargain, for he bore the mark of the Turk, and was to be detested accordingly.

At last, however, he completed his purchase, and we came back to the house and arranged with a sempstress found for us by Baji Raihan, the old woman of the house. For the sum of nine “baichu” (or about ninepence) we arranged with this rakish girl, with the big turban cocked over one eye, to sew the shirts. It being noon by now, we lunched in the upper portico, and the old man left for the caravanserai, while I, in the custom of the country, lay down to sleep for an hour or two.

In this way several days passed. Each morning or afternoon I spent at Matti’s office, chatting to the idle merchants, for the Hamavands held the road and no business was done. Habib Badria, who was reckoned as one of the more progressive of the Mosul Christians, and who, in token of the fact, had discarded the Christian turban for the fez, delighted to talk of Europe, and would hold great discussions as to the possibility of his making a living in Paris—the aim and end of his desires. After a while he displayed a great interest in municipal affairs, and would converse for hours about motor dust-carts, underground drains, and such things, never dreamed of in Sulaimania till he heard of them from me. It was a hard task to convince him that London was bigger than Paris, and he regarded it as even a little unmannerly to hint at such, while he obviously forgave me for exaggerating about a nation of which I was a subject; for though I was known as Ghulam Husain the Persian, I had taken care to spread the fact that I was a British subject, to avoid annoyance at the Turks’ hands.

Mustafa Beg as a rule avoided the Christians, and though perfectly friendly towards them, did not consider it quite compatible with his dignity to be seen sitting with them. He had almost remonstrated with me on the subject, but he checked himself as he observed with an unction I do not think hypocritical, “Well, well, you say your prayers like a good Muslim, for I have seen you many a time, and what harm if an infidel give you entertainment?”

The old man came each morning for his tea and cigarettes, and the idea struck me one day to ask him if any of his Turkish acquaintances would like to purchase a Mauser pistol I possessed. He inspected the weapon, and taken with its neat appearance, promised to do his best. In the afternoon he returned, and apologising for coming at an unseemly hour, said that he had not succeeded in finding a purchaser for my pistol, but had discovered a new friend for me. He went on to describe how he had enlarged upon my merits and knowledge of Persian and French to the mudir, or director of the Military School of Sulaimania, an affair run by the Government, and attended by the sons of the Turkish officials in Sulaimania and of a few of the Kurds employed in the local government. This individual Mustafa Beg was extremely anxious for me to meet, and urged me to accompany him to the school, where the mudir lived all day, although lessons ceased at 11 A.M. in this warm weather, having commenced at 6 A.M.

The school was upon the outskirts of the town, in a high enclosure. Half of this formed a pretty garden, and the rest a playground, while the building itself was but a row of neglected rooms along one wall. The European style of culture and education supposed to be imparted to the pupils was evidenced by a high horizontal bar, the sign of gymnastic exercises never performed. Over the doors were the signs “Birinji,” “Ekinji,” “Uchinji,” “Durdinji,” and “Baishinji”—first, second, third, fourth, and fifth classes. At the edge of the garden strip was a large tank of clear water, and above it a canopy of boughs had been made, to form what the Kurds call a “chardaq.”

Here upon a high bench sat the Mudir Effendi, a fat little man duly decked with tin stars and strapped trousers, an insignificant Turk of Sivas, who spoke no language but his own, if a few words of French be excepted. A younger man was seated near him in a chair, playing with his sword, and he was introduced to me as the “Ekinji Mu’allim,” or second in command of the school. His linguistic accomplishments included a slight knowledge of Persian and Arabic, and a good knowledge of Kurdish, for he was a native of the Kirkuk district. The mudir received me very graciously, not being able to refrain, however, from the Turkish habit of showing an overwhelming inquisitiveness as to my nationality, reason for coming to Sulaimania, what I was doing, and anything else he could think of to afford a question. Mustafa Beg, however, made capital of his queries, and made them the occasion of an eulogy of my accomplishments, adding as a final and convincing proof, that I had lived several years in London, and had seen Bombay, Constantinople, and Teheran. These qualifications immediately gave me a position, and having readily answered some schoolmaster questions as to the population of London and Paris, and the strength of the British Army, I was admitted to terms of the greatest friendship. The little man had never been nearer to Constantinople than Smyrna, and like all Turks in the uncongenial climate of Kurdistan, lamented his presence there. He was good enough to compliment me upon my knowledge of Kurdish, a tongue he confessed he could never acquire, and besought me to teach him Persian and French. Being a military man, his thought ran upon matters martial, and his questions soon came round to the subject. He could not comprehend how a State like England could possibly hang together without compulsory service, and expressed the greatest surprise that I could have escaped it. What upset him more than anything else was the obvious fact that without military service no man in Turkey could carry his “tezkere,” a document all must have, and without which the subject is liable to suspicion and annoyance, and he failed to see why a British subject, not being liable to service, could possess one. In fact, he lamented the system which only gave a passport to the subject when he travelled in certain foreign lands, and considered such a lack of control over the individual to be a lively cause of anarchy and rebellion. After partaking of tea, and some Regie cigarettes which he produced specially for my benefit, we made our excuses and asked permission “to be excused.” As I was about to leave, a note arrived from Hama, who was at Halabja, and its contents caused me to go down to search for Matti, whom I found in the bazaar.

Hama had gone to Halabja soon after I had come to Sulaimania, to receive a large consignment of “run” which I had contracted to buy. The transaction had been one common enough in these parts. Under the guarantee of Mansur the Christian I had advanced to one Makha, a Jew (with the fiercest red head I ever saw on any one), a sum to go out into the highways and byways of Kurdistan and purchase gradually of the Kurds, who had been storing up the precious oil as they prepared it, waiting the advent of such a buyer. So having arrived at Sulaimania I had to send Hama back, for the time was near when the Jew should return, and my man must be there to receive the merchandise and arrange transport. Hama, however, had not liked the idea of going to Halabja empty-handed; like all Kurds who have come in contact with trade and business, he was keen to experiment. So after a consultation with Matti and Habib Badria, the former of whom did not quite like the idea, it was arranged that he should take with him a load of shoes and a few odd things, for sale to the shopkeepers of Halabja. Accordingly, before he left we went to the shoemakers’ bazaar. Here is a long street with wide and deep booths on either side, occupied entirely in the manufacture of shoes. These are of three designs: a red leather shoe turned up to a blunt point, a black one of the same shape, and a female shoe, a slipper with only a toe-cap ornamented with steel beads, and a long high heel—which is added only after the shoe is bought, and which is put on by a man whose trade it is to perform only this part of the shoemaking business.

Here in one of the shops we took seats and waited while the shopman collected from his neighbours’ and his own stock a sufficient number of shoes. In order that dispute might be lessened to a certain extent, a Christian was called in who, being not of our religion, might be assumed to be free from prejudice against, or favour for, any one of us. He tested the shoes and examined them, and through him we conducted all the negotiations. As each pair of shoes had to be bargained for, the process took some time. Custom, too, demanded that a certain formality should be observed. The owner would first mention a fancy price, and to save time the other holders would, instead of arguing, solidly ejaculate the phrase, “Warra la khwaru!” (“Come down!”), repeating it till almost the right price was reached, when the arbitrator would step in, and after a short argument would settle a price about midway between the buyer’s and seller’s figure, and which both were bound to accept. In this way, in the space of five hours, we purchased some fifty pairs of shoes, and having paid the money, Hama carried away all the footgear in a sack. These, with a sample of cigarette papers and a dozen rosaries, made his stock, and he left next morning.

I now had a letter from him, and from Mansur. The former told me of his successes with the shoe-selling, which had, while not great, been satisfactory, and the latter attempted to explain why Makha the Jew had not returned from Juanru with the “run.” Matti was rather inclined to regard my efforts with disfavour, and would, I think, have tried to dissuade me, for he knew that I was not experienced in trading. Habib, on the other hand, was extremely keen that I should open an office in their caravanserai, and in this he was strongly seconded by one Antoine, a merchant of twenty years’ standing in Sulaimania, and two bankruptcies during that time, a feature of Oriental trading which sometimes betokens considerable acumen and astuteness rather than commercial inaptitude. Antoine was a buyer for certain merchants in Bagdad and Mosul, and when I made his acquaintance, was purchasing gum tragacanth. Now I, too, was quite willing to buy tragacanth, but he had become alarmed, and had managed to form a small ring which had little difficulty in shutting me out. I attempted even to make Antoine act as broker for me, and in an interview when Matti was present as witness, forced a promise out of him, but he repudiated it afterwards. Yet he would constantly come along as I sat outside Matti’s shop, and in his queer Persian exhort me to buy skins, or wheat, and affirm that he had made great profit in deals. He had a younger brother who assisted him, a big honest lad, who stood rather in fear of him and his wily ways. For years he had been in close touch with the Musulman merchants, and was considerably disliked by his co-religionists on account of his habit of doing business on Sunday—a day which the Arab and Chaldean Christian observes as strictly as is done in Scotland, and passes in as dull a way.

Matti also was assisted by a younger brother, a somewhat surly fellow, but good-hearted enough, and to him fell the task of cooking their food on the verandah outside the office. For these Chaldeans of Mosul live day and night in their rooms, which are office and home combined; and such men as Matti and Antoine had existed thus, in what we should call a small dark cellar full of merchandise, for two decades. In normal times, that is, when business was good, and passage after dark in the streets not dangerous, the Christians divided themselves into messes of five and six, each taking turn to cook; but now, with the general insecurity forbidding intercourse between Matti’s caravanserai, the Khan-i-’Ajam, and the caravanserai where the other merchants lived, and the terrible depression in trade, they had all retrenched, and with the exception of Matti and Habib, who still kept up the habit, each did for himself; and Habib might be seen every other day watching a sizzling pot anxiously while he sold cottons, or leaving a heap of half-prepared stuffed cucumbers to attend to a Kurdish buyer.

As often as they could induce me to stay, I would dine with Matti and Habib, but at first Matti had been very diffident, and had, in order to satisfy himself upon a certain point, ordered some lunch one day when I was present, and invited me to join. I had refused, but he continued to press, and I continued to excuse myself till at last he sighed, and said with signs of a little chagrin:

“I thought you were a liberal-minded Musulman, and would not consider me unclean, but I see that it is true that the Persians are more particular than the Sunni, and will not eat with a Christian.”

The good man seemed so hurt in thus explaining himself, and it was so extremely ill-bred on my part to refuse and slight a man who did so much for me, that I speedily denied this bigotry, and dipped my hand into the dish with him, to his considerable satisfaction.

After this he would have had me dine every night with him, and was extremely difficult to refuse, but it would not have been politic for a Muslim, even though a Shi’a and no follower of the tenets of the Sunni Kurds, to become known as one who fed with Christians, and I restricted myself to feeding once a week with them. The Kurds have no scruples, for the caravanserai keeper, one Hama, a native of Aoraman, a bovine creature who served the Christians very faithfully, had the habit of consuming the considerable residue of their great meals.

I was surprised at first at the enormous quantities they ate at dinner. At sundown the caravanserai would be closed, and benches placed round a patch of garden they had made in the courtyard. On the benches, cushions and thick mattresses were arranged, and here Matti, Antoine, and Habib, the seniors, took their places, divesting themselves of their heavy turbans and loosening their waistbelts. They were usually joined here by a Bagdad Jew, a great handsome fellow, who kept everyone in a good humour by his jokes. Then the cry would go out, “Jib ul piala,” and the younger brothers would bring forth each a little glass bottle, wrapped about with a damp napkin to keep the contents cool. As darkness fell, the same younger brothers, who performed the menial jobs, spread a carpet upon the courtyard floor and a coloured table-cloth upon it. As soon as the eatables had been turned out upon dishes the elder brothers left their couches, and squatting round the dishes, all set to work in the earnest fashion typical of Eastern diners, saying little till the meal was finished. The quantities of meat these Christians ate excited my wonder, and caused me to remark upon the fact to them. Habib, who always professed a knowledge of European thought and ideas, rather scorned me, for he accused me of having appropriated the European fallacy that unless a man took exercise he should not eat much meat, and he pointed out the futility of the argument by drawing attention to his and Matti’s excellent health and condition.

Dinner was finished half an hour after sunset, and after a short interlude of conversation most of the company would sleep, to rise with the sun in the morning. One or two nights I slept there on one of the courtyard benches, but the sandflies were so numerous that I preferred my own roof, where there was usually a cool breeze.

One morning I was seated in my little upper room, upon my carpet, writing, when the courtyard door was thrown open and Mustafa Beg, accompanied by half a dozen Kurds, entered, and at my invitation ascended.

They all came crowding into the little room, and Mustafa Beg invited a youth to the highest place. The others took places anywhere, and two stood at the doorway, being servants. The old man introduced the lad as Sayyid Nuri, son of Shaikh Ahmad, a prominent member of the hated family of Shaikhs. Now, in Sulaimania a man who has escaped the notice of this family thanks Heaven, and prays for continued freedom from their acquaintance. Equally the day is accursed that one of the family discovers the unfortunate. It had been the boast of the quarter, too, that up to the present no shaikh had set his foot in its streets, for it was a respectable business quarter, well guarded, and too alert to be surprised by the night attacks of the shaikhs’ roughs and robbers. Well did I know that the advent of Sayyid Nuri here would disturb the peace of the “mahalla” and make myself unpopular, for none were distrusted more than those whom the shaikhs treated in a friendly manner.

Sayyid Nuri himself was a mean but sharp-looking youth, a type of the mixture of Turkoman and Kurd that is found in Sulaimania, for he had the bravado look of the latter and the scanty moustache and long, wavy nose of a certain section of the former. He rustled in silk, and wore fine cotton socks. In his belt was stuck a huge knife, and a revolver dangled in its case from under his zouave jacket. Still, for all his unprepossessing appearance, for a member of the family from whom arrogance and all that is objectionable was to be expected, he was very polite.

Mustafa Beg seemed to think that, in bringing him there he had done me a great service, and sat beaming upon both of us, and listening to the Kurdish around him. The lad spoke excellent Turkish, for, as he explained, the family had plenty of dealings with the Turks. When he found that Mustafa Beg had not been wrong in describing me as a Persian, he was delighted, for all he desired to do was to air his knowledge of that language, which was not excessive.

From the first, however, he could not control his inquisitive nature, which led him to handle everything and turn over the most obvious things with a query as to their use. From somewhere he had heard that I was a doctor, and as ill-luck would have it, I had arranged in the room—which I had fondly imagined to be private—a row of nine or ten small bottles, containing a few medicines I had accumulated on my passage from Constantinople. These he saw at once, and reaching up, pulled them down one by one, examining and smelling them, and with the inspection of each, grew more convinced that my denials were but lies, and that I could cure as well as another. Mustafa Beg, however, came in here to my rescue, by asserting that he knew me not to be a doctor, although I possessed some knowledge of the science. This hardly satisfied Sayyid Nuri, so he took a couple of purgative pills, and two of calomel that I added, saying that he would try them, and would know afterwards whether I was a doctor by the quality of the purgative!

Then he found one of the red india-rubber sponges which are so common nowadays, and which had somehow escaped loss during my journeyings. This quite upset him. Its use he appreciated at once, for I pointed out that it was used in the bath for washing and rubbing the skin. But by chance he smelled it, and the odour of rubber that it gave out so disgusted him that he left it alone at once. But what he had come to see was the Mauser pistol, and to keep him quiet, for he hopped around the room overturning all my papers and books, I produced it. The weapon, however, did not meet with the favourable reception I had hoped, for he said he had seen and possessed one before. He found a fine pastime provided in a charge of dummy cartridges given by the sellers, with which to practise manipulating the weapon without danger. His companions were ignorant of their harmless nature, and watched with interest his movements. Having loaded, he cocked his pistol and covered the man who sat opposite him, amusing himself by making him move this way and that to be out of aim. Mustafa Beg regarded these operations with dismay, and evidently thought that Sayyid Nuri having trapped an enemy in another man’s house, was going to kill and leave him there and let his death lie at my door, and he besought him in tones of earnest appeal to put down the pistol. His companions, seeing he did not desist, also joined in the protest, and he put it down, and then proceeded to enjoy the astonishment that followed his explanation of the nature of the cartridges.

Having exhausted the joke, he was at a loss for something to do, and explained his miserable existence, for he pointed out that as son of Shaikh Ahmad he had more money than he could spend—which was perfectly true—and was bound down to Sulaimania. He sighed for Kirkuk and its big, busy bazaars, and its proximity to Bagdad, which was his first aim, and stood in his eyes the first city of the world. His questions regarding Constantinople were few, and made more from a sense of thoroughness in his queries than a desire for information, and he thought it but a poor place compared even to Mosul. It took a long time to satisfy him as to the reason of my presence in Sulaimania, and I saw he did not believe that I was only remaining a short time, nor that my aim was the commerce in which I was engaged; for to him a merchant was inseparable from his office, and a man who spoke European languages and possessed medicines was obviously there for some other reason.

To my immense relief I at last got rid of him. Old Mustafa Beg had himself not anticipated the annoyance that would result from his visit, and was, I could see, very penitent and regretful, for in his own way he was jealous and did not wish others to be free of the house, a futile hope in Sulaimania, where the unmarried man who refuses free permission of entry to all and sundry is regarded as a lunatic, or an excessive evildoer who would conceal the actions that must be necessarily wicked because done behind closed doors.

The neighbours’ protests against the visits were not long in coming. The old house-dame had been out at one of their houses and returned with a long complaint from several of them, the gist of which was that if this was the company I preferred I had better go elsewhere to enjoy it, for the advent of a shaikh in a quarter was the forerunner of all evil. Opposite to our house, however, a certain merchant lived, whose wife was one of the ancient family of the Hakkari religious chiefs, and bore the man’s title of “Khan” that indicated her lineage. She was thus related to the shaikhs themselves, and I resolved to appeal to her when occasion should arise. So I kept a look-out for her husband, and when he arrived, called him in. He was a pleasant man, much respected in the quarter, and kept up the tradition of the Kurds that the stranger must be protected. I explained to him the circumstances of the visit, and he promised to send his wife to the shaikh house if the lad came again, and tell them that his presence was not required in the quarter. He lost no time in clearing my character of the blame that had attached to it, and took the most effective means to do so, for as it was sunset, and the women were spreading the bed-clothes behind the “chikha” or mat screens on the roofs, he ascended and announced in a loud voice that Ghulam Husain was more sorry than they at the visit, and had called him to witness his displeasure, and request his assistance in preventing any annoyance to the quarter. His emphatic utterance and assertion of going surety for my good intentions called forth expressions of gratitude from the people around, and I saw that by my action I had gained in their estimation.

In the bazaar and coffee-houses there was but one topic of conversation these days—the Hamavands. We heard rumours of their intention to raid Sulaimania, and at nights their riders came openly to the shaikhs’ house to receive their orders. Once or twice they actually looted a few houses on the west side of the town. Not a soul dared venture forth. Matti used to tell me of happier times when the Christians and Kurds too used to go outside upon the low hills and spend days in the cooler air picnicking to the accompaniment of music—and I suspected, in the case of the Christians, too much ’araq. But now, to venture outside the fringe of houses upon any except the north-east side was to court robbery, if not destruction. And then the futile talk of the “ta’qib,” or punishment that was to be dealt out to the tribe! We heard reports—and these seemed true—of regiments of soldiers from Anatolia and Mesopotamia collecting at Chemchemal, and judging from letters coming from Mosul and Bagdad, we were able to keep a check upon rumour, and ascertained that there were in reality some three or four thousand military, foot and “mule-riders,” gathered there—to extinguish a couple of hundred rough horsemen. All these troops were kept idle by the Mosul authorities to wait for a commander, and as long as funds from the shaikhs poured into the Mosul Vali’s pocket, the commander was kept engaged in pressing business elsewhere, and the Hamavands redoubled their audacity, actually raiding Chemchemal itself and killing some soldiers.

Meanwhile the state of the district was becoming worse, for travellers were threatened not only by roving parties of Jafs and Hamavands, but by the local soldiery also, for the “binbashis” had consumed what little cash could be collected for their pay, and the “muhasibichis,” or accountants, grew daily fatter upon sequestrated funds. Soldiers were leaving for their native places, or retiring over the frontier to Persia—taking with them their new Mauser rifles; and in Halabja a colonel commanded five half-tamed Kurdish levied men instead of his usual fifty.

Then the affair occurred which threw ridicule and despair alike upon the Turks of the district. A quarter “tabur,” or about one hundred men, was ordered to replenish the Sulaimania garrison, which from a normal five hundred men had fallen to thirty-four. These were also used to convoy about seventy rifles and proportionate ammunition for distribution among the frontier posts. They started from Chemchemal, commanded by a colonel (“binbashi”) and two majors (or “yuzbashi”), and accompanied by several “’askar katibi” (accountants), and other Government officials with their wives and families. Across the Chemchemal plain they saw no signs of Hamavands, though they threw out scouts, and those sent forward to reconnoitre at the Bazian cleft through the hills saw no one. Consequently they approached the break, where the sundered hill presents a V-shaped entrance to the Bazian plain, without misgiving. The place is so formed that from the Chemchemal side it is impossible to see ahead very far, as the ground rises, and the break is only about ten yards wide at the bottom, sloping up and away to the hill-tops.

When they had passed the outcrop of rock that forms the break, and the last man had entered Bazian, the hills above them suddenly rang with the shouts of the Hamavands, and from each side they raced down helter-skelter, their hill-ponies leaping cleverly down the boulder-strewn slopes. At a distance of fifty yards they opened fire, and the first to fall was a “yuzbashi.” The soldiers gathered in a bunch, and the non-combatants attempted to rush back through the gap, to find themselves confronted by three or four horsemen, who fell upon them and stripped them, leading away their loaded animals. The Turks were returning the fire, but, taken at a disadvantage, made no effect upon the quick-moving Hamavands, who wheeled around them. Yet they held out for a little, and attempted to push forward.

In point of numbers the Turks had the advantage, and their weapons were ten-shot Mausers as against Martini carbines, but their shooting must have been of the poorest, for they only succeeded in wounding one Hamavand. Several, too, tried to break away, and were immediately picked off. In a quarter of an hour the “binbashi” fell, shot through the chest, and twelve soldiers, too, were dead, and a score wounded. The remainder cast away their arms, seeing resistance futile, and the Kurds came upon them and stripped the caravan, relieving it of all its rifles and ammunition, carrying away or tearing off the soldiers’ uniforms, and looting the noncombatant passengers. There was an indescribable confusion; soldiers on foot and unarmed strove to escape on all sides, and horsemen with the shouts of a drover to his cattle rounded them up. Squads of Hamavands, driving before them mules of the defeated party, shouted at and encouraged their refractory and frightened captives. As is usual in these cases, everything was being done with the utmost speed, and the Hamavands, infuriated by the resistance they had met with, were more merciless than usual to those whom they stripped. The men they simply denuded, and scared the women with fierce gestures and display of long knives to make sure of their handing over anything they might have concealed.

One of the women who had been robbed told me that some of the Hamavands had brought their wives with them, putting them behind rocks while the fight proceeded, and calling them out afterwards to enquire into the dress of the female captives more intimately than a man could have done; for in these Muslim lands even among the wildest Kurds, a man will seldom offend a Musulman woman’s modesty, and the Hamavand is a singularly pious tribe, stopping even its raiding parties to pray in a body at the appointed times.

The men they left in little more than a shirt—and at last cleared off, taking with them the wife and daughter of one of the majors, whom they subsequently restored after having placed them in the care of the chief’s womenfolk for a time. The remains of the caravan, twos and threes of half-naked men, and weeping women, proceeded on foot, reaching Sulaimania next day, hungry and ashamed.

It was not unnatural that the possibility of such catastrophes, and their actual occurrence, did a great deal of damage to the Turkish name, and indeed in the coffee-houses opinion was freely expressed. The Turks were jeered at, and their soldiery ridiculed. The shaikhs were rapidly becoming a terror to Sulaimania. Not a night passed without murders occurring, and in every case the assassins were known, and were shaikhs’ men. One night an attempt was made upon the Khan-i-’Ajam, where Matti and my other Christian acquaintances lived. Some of them were sleeping on the roof, when sounds of scraping against the outer wall attracted their attention. They waited for a while, and Habib brought out his old Snider rifle. After some time one of the burglars had nearly succeeded in piercing the thick masonry, and at a certain moment, upon a signal, the occupants of the caravanserai raised a shout and fired a shot into the darkness, at which the robbers fled. They, however, became involved with a caravan just coming into Sulaimania, and a cry was raised among the muleteers. The people round about, sleeping on their roofs, woke at the noise, and in the surprise and confusion of the moment, imagining the Hamavands had at last carried out their threat of raiding Sulaimania, commenced a brisk fire upon the caravan, killing some mules and wounding a couple of muleteers who had not been able to convince the natives of their harmlessness in time. The robbers had taken advantage of the turmoil to get away, and by the time the caravan had once more got under way, half the people were beginning to find out the cause.

Such events would take place every night, the shaikhs taking advantage of the time to revenge themselves upon their enemies, and at the same time shout defiance at the Constitutional Government. It was seldom that we could sleep quietly from dark till dawn, for the firing around us, and the bullets that often buzzed overhead, kept us alert.

I was sitting in my courtyard a few days after the night attempt on the caravanserai when a moth-eaten creature in a kind of blue uniform with red shoulder-straps presented himself at the door. This was one of the four “policemen” of the place, a visit from whom I had been expecting for some time, for the fat police commissaire had been annoying Habib with enquiries as to my identity and reasons for staying in Sulaimania, and it had occurred to me that he would at some time demand my passport. The policeman now enquired whence I had come, and why staying in Sulaimania; and on my asserting that I was from Constantinople and bound for Persia, but trying to do some business in Sulaimania till the country settled a little, flatly contradicted me, told me I was from Persia, and a suspect, and demanded my passports. These I utterly refused, and offered to come and see the mutasarrif (governor) with him, claiming exemption from such annoyance, as a subject of England, and pointing out that now I had been six weeks in Sulaimania there was time to have seen if I had any nefarious intentions, and to have demanded proofs of my identity sooner. The man was not, however, satisfied, and continued to demand the papers, and I to refuse him, while the people of the quarter gradually collected, and each, as he or she learned, broke into protestations of my respectability, and guaranteed my honesty. As the policeman still remained, the women began to express themselves somewhat freely regarding his behaviour, and at length, seeing that no good could be done by staying—only possible harm—for the people were inclined to be unpleasant to him, he discontinued his demands and returned to the bazaar. My good-hearted neighbours urged me to complain to the mutasarrif, or at any rate get the affair settled over the heads of the police, or, they prophesied, I should have great trouble with them, and the annoyance they would consider it their duty to give me.

So I adopted their counsels, and went first to see old Mustafa Beg and ask his views. I found him in his cell, drinking a cup of coffee he had just brewed, and on seeing me he beamed and gave the full salutation, as was his wont, the sonorous “Salamun ’alaikum wa rahmatu’llah wa barikatahu.” He insisted on my taking coffee, which was a long operation, for he had to make it over a little charcoal brazier, and having made it, find another cup, for he had but one in use, and only a single saucer in all when the second cup was found in a bag full of odds and ends.

I then told him what had happened, and as the recital proceeded, his indignation, never far to seek, burst forth in such phrases as “Adabsiz!” “Keupek ughlu!” “Tarbiatsiz!” (Mannerless! Sons of dogs! Ignorant creatures!), and then affirmed that he would at once see the commissaire of police and demand an apology. On second thoughts, however, he considered it wiser to seek assistance from the Mudir Effendi of the School. He bustled around, and having changed his trousers and coat—for he put aside his better clothes when in his cell, to save them—locked his door, and we went to the school, where we found the schoolmaster on his bench in the garden. To him the old man poured out the tale in fluent Turkish, while the effendi nodded his head and played with his beads, and when he had finished, the old man banged with his stick upon the ground and once more abused the police. The Mudir Effendi then asked me why I had really come here, and I pointed out that even had I come as a “sayyah” or tourist, that no objection could be raised unless I be proved to engage myself in an undesirable pursuit. Further, that as far as circumstances permitted I had occupied myself in business, but that it was somewhat difficult to trade in a place whence no roads were open to the neighbouring districts. This he agreed to, and having asked me to state that I was a British subject, said he would speak to the police. He said they had a right to demand the “ubur tezkere,” or Turkish travelling passport, but none to remove other passports, nor were they authorised to annoy even a suspect in his own house.

As I could expect nothing more from him, I thanked him and left, and he with Mustafa Beg went towards the Serai or Governor’s house to see the police commissaire, who had an office there.