Part 10

And as, next day, our journey is peacefully resumed with a smaller escort than before, we are inclined to laugh at the terrors of the night, and to chaff one another on our respective preparations for defense or flight. My warlike friend had spent that anxious hour cleaning his shotgun, removing bird-shot from his shells, and substituting crude lumps of lead obtained from Kaid Lharbi's store of ammunition. I had quietly packed my photographic films into the smallest possible bundle, and went to bed, ready at a moment's notice to seize the precious packet and escape—whither, I did not know.

By midday on the morrow we are beyond the reach of harm. Making a small present to the Beni-Hasan guards, we watched them disappear in the direction of the seat of war, where they will continue their life of skirmish and pillage until laid low by bullets from their hated Zimour neighbors.

And as, some hours later, we approach the coast, our caravan plunges into a veritable ocean of freshness, where the wild daisies are so tall that our animals appear to be lying down, while in reality they are toiling on as best they may through a sea of flowers four feet deep. Our pet mule, the little white one, is almost up to his eyes in daisies, while the others revenge themselves for many days of dry, short, withered grass by feasting upon the rich fare so unexpectedly encountered. For several miles we slowly advance along this curious road (for we are still upon a road, though one little used) and at last, reaching a hilltop, we are greeted by a glorious salt breeze, and looking westward we behold the dim blue stretches of the broad Atlantic.

An hour more and we arrive at Mehedia, formerly a city of the Portuguese, to-day a vast ruin in the midst of which a miserable Arab hamlet is concealed. We camp near the decaying walls, where storks and men, gifted with equal intelligence, observe us with a silent curiosity. This Mehedia was once a flourishing port, and the fortifications left by the Portuguese are very stately and must have been at one time thoroughly impregnable. To-day, however, everything is dilapidated and forsaken.

We descend to the beach and enjoy a dip in the salty waters where the River Sebu meets the sea. Above us loom the imposing walls and bastions of Mehedia, silent and abandoned, yet eloquent of the vanished glory of Portugal. In the thought of this empty fortress, so formidable in aspect, so monumentally defenseless in its desolation, there is something almost awe-inspiring. Its few miserable human denizens seem like dejected ghosts gliding through the crumbling portals, haunting the roofless palaces. The stork population on the wall-tops and the battlements seems more real. The Moors declare, "Storks are men who have come from islands far away to the west upon the great ocean to see Morocco. Like all the world they know there is no other land to compare with it; they abandon their outward form of men, and come hither to behold it. Therefore we give them hospitality and do not harm them." Nay, the Moors do more than this for the long-legged dwellers on their house-tops—they maintain in Fez a hospital for invalid storks, founded, so runs the legend, in this wise: Several hundred years ago a stork came to the Kadi of Fez bringing a pearl necklace that it had stolen. As the owner could not be found, with the proceeds from the sale of the necklace, the Kadi bought a house that is still in existence, called the Stork House, an institution where storks are received and treated as human beings.[a]

The Moorish lover looks upon the stork with a peculiar reverence and affection, for from its haunts on terrace or tower the bird looks down upon the habitations of the women, and daily beholds the beloved one. But storks of Mehedia take no more heed of us than do the gray-robed human inhabitants.

On the eve of our departure, the Kaid of the village cannot resist exhibiting his skill with a recently acquired Winchester rifle that, he tells us, has been taken from smugglers in the performance of his official duties. Learning that we are Americans and therefore compatriots of his new gun, he deigns to look with favor upon us and invites us to his dwelling. There he prepares to astonish us with his marksmanship. An egg is placed upon a wall fifty feet distant. The Kaid seats himself comfortably on a ledge, takes leisurely aim, amid the respectful silence of his followers, and then bangs away. The plaster on the wall was badly damaged, but after the smoke had cleared away, the egg, intact, looked down upon the humbled Moor, who proceeded to examine and criticise the sights of the Winchester.

My friend, when his turn came to try the gun, was not considerate enough to spare the egg. His pride in his marksmanship overcame his politeness, as a yellow blotch on that old wall may still attest.

From Mehedia it is one day's ride southward to the sister-cities of Salli and Rabat, sister-cities which have never been on the best of terms with one another. We follow a sandy trail along the coast—the monotony of the journey broken by but a single incident, an encounter with a gaily furnished caravan. Six Moorish women robed in white, with covered faces, attended by a dozen guards and servants, come slowly along the dusty track. At their approach Kaid Lharbi, evincing a sudden bashfulness, dashes off to the right, points his horse's head toward the sea, and sits there with his back turned to the veiled beauties until the gay parade has passed. The other men of our escort follow his example, galloping off to one side or the other, planting their steeds with tails toward the trail, not venturing to look around until the dust raised by the passing caravan has settled. We naturally seize our cameras to record this strange proceeding, whereupon they shout imperatively, "Turn your backs quickly! These are the Sultan's wives. No man may look upon them!" Accordingly we, too, conform to a custom which seems to us rude rather than courteous and turn our backs upon the mysterious beauties, a contingent of Imperial wives whom Mulai El-Hasan is shipping in advance to await his arrival at Mehedia or Mequinez.

A few hours later we pass beneath the aqueduct of Salli, which serves also as an outer city-wall. Then, after watering our animals, we ride on across vast vacant spaces until the gates of Salli admit us to the famous city of the old-time "Salli Rovers."

So hostile is the populace that every attempt at picture-making brings a volley of stones from howling urchins and threatening murmurs from savage-looking citizens. All that we remember of our visit to Salli is a rapid dash through narrow thoroughfares amid a sprinkling of missiles and maledictions. It is with a sense of relief that we find ourselves on the broad sandy beach that stretches from the southern walls down to the River Bu Ragreg, on the opposite shore of which rises the city of Rabat, our destination. As we look back toward the white line traced by Salli's gleaming house-tops, our thoughts go back to the hero of our childhood, Robinson Crusoe who, taken by the Salli Rovers, was there held in slavery for many months, finally escaping in a small boat belonging to his Moorish master. Another famous character, Captain John Smith, came to Salli in 1604; but why he came and what he did there we do not definitely know. For years the Corsairs of this port were the scourge of Christian merchant-ships. Piracy was then a recognized profession, the title "pirate" an honorable one, in fact, the highest naval title of to-day is but a corruption of that assumed by the old pirate chiefs: "Lord of the Sea," "Ameer-el-Bahr,"—Admiral!

Salli and Rabat, although within gunshot of one another, differ widely in character. Salli is rabidly anti-foreign. Rabat is commercial and comparatively cordial to Christians, sheltering a little colony of European merchants and vice-consuls.

Between the cities flows the Bu Ragreg, "Father of Glittering," across which we must be ferried in crude flat-bottomed barges. To switch our baggage-train on to the ferry-boat is a task that calls for much hard work and not a little Arabic profanity.

We must wait our turn; for there are other caravans, with camels, mules, and horses massed upon the sands. At last our animals are all embarked with the exception of Bokhurmur's burro, who, accustomed only to fording, requires much persuasion before he will trust himself to this new-fangled contrivance. During the brief period of calm that intervenes between the embarkation and subsequent landing on the Rabat beach, we look in admiration at the scene about us. Above the palisade on the south bank rises a noble half-completed tower. We have long since heard reports of it. We know it as the Beni-Hasan tower, a sister to the famed Giralda of Seville and to the Kutubiya of Morocco City. The same Sultan, Yakub el Mansur, the great builder, reared this trinity of towers about eight hundred years ago. To-day they prove the vast extent of his dominion; to him owed allegiance all the lands which lie between Andalusia in the south of Spain, and Marrakesh, on the borders of the Great Sahara. But the Beni-Hasan pile was never finished. It stands to-day as the workmen left it in the year 1200.

Rabat owes its existence to the builder of the tower, who late in the twelfth century founded on this promontory his "Camp of Victory," "Rabat el Fatih." The frowning citadel sits darkly on the crest between the harbor and the sea, the smiling city lies gleaming just below. We follow the broad, animated beach, enter at the water-gate, present our credentials to the governor, and after some delay a camping-ground is assigned us on the crest within the shadow of the citadel, under the very walls of the powder magazine. It is not until our outfit is here unpacked, that we remark the fact that we are pitching our tents in a graveyard. All roundabout us are neglected graves, tombstones inclined at most distressing angles, with hollows where there should be mounds, and weeds and rubbish in place of greens and flowers.

Poor Abuktayer, sick from fatigue and bad water drunk on the journey, is excused from work, and sits amid the mossy mortuary tablets, a picture of weariness and woe, watching the other servants as they wedge tent-pegs into the cracks of tombstones.

Grewsome indeed our camping-ground, but good enough for Christian dogs, the amiable Basha thinks, and the Christian dogs have ceased to be fastidious. All that we ask is that the sleeping Moors, buried only two feet underground, will manifest toward us the same aloofness as is shown by their living co-religionists. But although our foreground is not cheerful to contemplate, the views in two directions are superb. Looking westward we see the snow-white city with its "saint-houses" and minarets, and in the distance the square, commanding tower, high above the winding river. The seaward vista is not less attractive. The wide ocean stretches peacefully westward to the new world; at our feet the warlike pomp of the old world is displayed in the six stately camps of Bashas from the interior provinces. These Bashas have come to Rabat to greet the Sultan who, with his mighty caravan, is expected within a fortnight. Four thousand horsemen are assembled at Rabat to escort the Imperial train from Rabat to Fez. Every evening, just before sunset, fine old gentlemen in spotless robes of white toil up to our hill-top, and, passing our camp without a side glance or a salutation, spread small red rugs upon the tombs, seat themselves thereon, and watch the slow sun sink into the progressive west. Then in the twilight they rise, fold up their rugs, and with a measured tread return to the white city whence they came. Seven times we saw the same old worthies come, watch, and depart, but never was there a glance of recognition, never a sign they are conscious of our presence amid the resting-places of their dead. Therefore we were surprised, one evening, when three dignified personages halted before our tents, spoke a few words to Haj, and then sat down on tombstones and began a serenade with a violin, a tambourine, and a peculiar form of Oriental guitar. A glance at their dress tells us that these men are Jews; a word of explanation from Haj tells us that they are sent to play for us by the local Consular-Agent of the United States, a native Jew, upon whom we had called the day before.

Among the European residents of this remote port is an eccentric Englishman from Gibraltar who has built for himself in Rabat the tallest dwelling in Morocco, a house of four stories, its façade conspicuous because of its unusual height and its coat of bright blue paint. On several occasions the owner of this unique Moorish skyscraper entertained us at dinner, and insisted that we should lodge under his aspiring roof on stormy nights, when our camp was drenched with rain. In view of this cordial treatment extended to entire strangers, we are surprised to learn that our host is not on speaking terms with other members of the foreign colony. That he lives practically alone, attended by an old Spanish housekeeper. In every corner of the world the traveler is sure to find the solitary Englishman dwelling in Anglo-Saxon seclusion and independence amid strange peoples, sufficient unto himself, his house his castle, his excuse for self-banishment the remark, "Oh, I rather like the place, you know; good air, fine climate."

Rabat is primarily a place of business; the markets and bazaars are always thronged. Rug-making is the industry for which the port is noted, and every day we see itinerant auctioneers, weighted down with brilliant carpets trudging through the streets, calling the latest bid, and offering the fabric for the examination of would-be purchasers. Unfortunately, modern Rabat carpets, like Navajo blankets, have suffered from the introduction of aniline dyes. The colors are crude, the designs less artistic than in earlier times. The local industry, once carried to perfection, is fast degenerating, and Rabat rugs are no longer things of worth and beauty.

In all things the Moors have continually retrograded since the conquest of Granada. From one of the foremost, they have become almost the last of nations; their arts, their sciences, their industries forgotten, nothing remains to them save their skill in horsemanship, their bravery in battle, and their fixed belief in the predestination of all things, good or evil.

A crazy saint replied when we reproached him for being drunk with rum, "It is no sin. It is written." Those fatalistic words, "It is written—God has willed it," have been the cause of Moorish retrogression. They have robbed the people of ambition and energy; the Moor, in time of disaster, shifts the responsibility upon Allah, and murmurs resignedly, "It is written." This philosophy helps him to bear the ills of life, great and small. For example, if a Moor chances to seat himself upon a tack, he does not curse nor swear nor rail at fate, nor does he wince as he withdraws the offending point. Far be it from him to protest. He simply murmurs, "It is written," and carefully replaces the tack for some other Moor to sit upon.

On the fifth morning of our sojourn in Rabat, we note a mighty stir in all the military camps within and roundabout the city. Mysterious moving statues appear upon the house-tops to watch the passing of armed men through the streets. Troops of gorgeously arrayed horsemen gallop across the town, filling the narrow lanes and covered bazaars with clatter and confusion. We ask the cause of all this sudden animation. The answer is, "The Prince arrives to-day. Our future Sultan, Abd-el-Aziz, is approaching from the south to herald the advance of his imperial father, Mulai El-Hasan III, who returns victorious from Tafilet and Tadla where he has chastised the revolted tribes and 'eaten up' rebellious provinces." The Sultan had written to the waiting Bashas in words like these: "To you do I confide my best beloved son, my Mulai Abd-el-Aziz. Receive, protect, and honor him as if he were myself and something more." That "something more" bore a deep meaning, which was to be revealed within six days.

Rabat turns itself wrong-side-out to welcome the young prince. The Bashas and Kaids, who, with their retinues, have been awaiting Imperial orders, now sally out from the south gates, followed by the entire population in festival attire. We mount our horses, and with Haj and Kaid Lharbi as escort join in this picturesque exodus. An hour later we find ourselves in the midst of an armed multitude, massed on the hillsides stretching southward from the city walls and overlooking the narrow plain along the sea-shore, which is to be the avenue of approach for the princely caravan. We are the only white men in that vast expectant throng, the only "Christian dogs" who have ventured beyond the gates. Haj wears an anxious look; he knows that we are acting rashly in thus exposing ourselves unguarded to the whims of an army of fanatics. But the spectacle is worth the risk. Four thousand cavaliers are assembled along the crests of the hills or in the plain below, where battle seems to rage, for thence rises the smoke of oft-repeated volleys and the roar of musketry. Troop after troop is there performing the "powder play," Lab-el-Baroud, that very thrilling cavalry-manœuver peculiar to the "rough riders" of the Arab race.

A dozen cavaliers advance in a broad platoon, first at canter, then full gallop, then at a furious run, _ventre à terre_, the horses at their highest speed, the men erect in the stirrups, spinning and tossing their glittering flintlocks, until, at a word from the chief, triggers are drawn, and the troop vanishes into a cloud of smoke. When the smoke rolls away, there are the panting horses thrown back on their haunches, motionless as statues; and then, before we can give vent to our admiration, another troop comes thundering along, another volley racks the ears and clouds the air, another tableau forms, and dissolves in drifting smoke, until it seems as if all the hosts of the Prophet were joining in a universal fantasia in honor of the young prince who some day will be Commander of the Faithful, successor to the Shareefian throne founded by the grandson of Mohammed.

Then, when the troops are weary, two horsemen more energetic than the rest dash furiously at one another, and without colliding they exchange muskets; deftly, instantaneously, kiss each other on the cheek.

Meantime a slow, silent, interminable caravan has been creeping along the shore. As far as the eye can reach in both directions, the shore is dotted with tiny moving spots, some red, some white, some brown, as if a tribe of giant ants were crawling northward toward Rabat. We see mules and camels laden to death, urged on by cruel drivers; we see the weary foot-soldiers dragging themselves along clad in a ragged suit of red and blue; we see superb Moors in spotless white, dignitaries of the imperial household, attended by mounted guards and running servants.

Suddenly Haj exclaims, "There is the prince!" He points to a white-robed boy, superbly mounted, with an attendant walking at each stirrup. Behind him comes a litter borne by two mules in which young Abd-el-Aziz may repose when weary of the saddle. Then follows a broad platoon of the Imperial Guards, fierce negro cavaliers, the Bokharis, in whom alone, of all the army, the Sultan places perfect trust. Slowly the prince's train nears the waiting multitude. The four thousand horsemen on the hill-tops form in one grand line, and, as the future ruler of Morocco comes in view, that mighty rank of flesh and blood descends majestically to the plain like a foamy wave receding from a beach. No illustration can suggest the majesty of that spectacle. The endless line of white, so faint and dim, which undulates along the hillsides, is in reality the Moorish army drawn up in one unbroken rank, a living wall along which the son of Mulai El-Hasan is to pass, receiving homage from the troop of every Kaid and Basha. As far as we can see, the line, though curved and bent by the inequalities of the ground, is perfect, unbroken, the white, flowing garments of the horsemen looking like a mere thread lying along the slope and stretching away over the summit of a distant hill even to the city gates. As soon as the prince's train has passed us, we dash across its wake and ride along behind that wall of horsemen, peering through it at Abd-el-Aziz as he halts before each governor to receive the homage of the tribes. My one thought is to make a photograph of the prince during one of his brief pauses. Three times do I just miss my opportunity. But at last, riding on in advance, I take position directly behind two horsemen who appear like men of prominence, and there await the passing of the imperial youth. As Abd-el-Aziz approaches, I am trembling with excitement and anxiety; if I succeed, I shall have accomplished what never before has been done; if I am detected in the act of copying the features of the sacred youth, the consequences may be serious—men have been killed for lesser sacrilege. The prince draws nearer; to my joy he halts directly before the men who shield me from his look. Just as he draws rein, the horses prance apart and leave an opening in the line. Through this gap the Prince looks wonderingly at me as I make a profound salute, and at the same time level my camera, and with a trembling finger press the button. The click of the shutter sends a cold chill through me. I raise my hat and bow a second time. Abd-el-Aziz looks squarely at me, his face impassive and expressionless. He slightly inclines his head. Meantime the horsemen, with heads bent low, utter in unison, with religious intonation, the words, "God bless the days of our lord!" "God send our lord victorious!"

These words should be spoken only to the Sultan; but has not Mulai El-Hasan commanded the Faithful to receive his son, as if he were "myself and something more"?