during the morning it rained persistently; and we were glad to see more water coming to us, and so comfortable in the tents at semna that we delayed our start till the sun shone again in the early afternoon. then we rode westward down the valley in the fresh light. first behind us came the ageyl. after them abd el kerim led his gufa men, about seven hundred of them mounted, with more than that number following afoot. they were dressed in white, with large head-shawls of red and black striped cotton, and they waved green palm-branches instead of banners.
next to them rode sherif mohammed ali abu sharrain, an old patriarch with a long, curling grey beard and an upright carriage of himself. his three hundred riders were ashraf, of the aiaishi (juheina) stock, known sherifs, but only acknowledged in the mass, since they had not inscribed pedigrees. they wore rusty-red tunics henna-dyed, under black cloaks, and carried swords. each had a slave crouched behind him on the crupper to help him with rifle and dagger in the fight, and to watch his camel and cook for him on the road. the slaves, as befitted slaves of poor masters, were very little dressed. their strong, black legs gripped the camels’ woolly sides as in a vice, to lessen the shocks inevitable on their bony perches, while they had knotted up their rags of shirts into the plaited thong about their loins to save them from the fouling of the camels and their staling on the march. semna water was medicinal, and our animals’ dung flowed like green soup down their hocks that day.
behind the ashraf came the crimson banner of our last tribal detachment, the rifaa, under owdi ibn zuweid, the old wheedling sea-pirate who had robbed the stotzingen mission and thrown their wireless and their indian servants into the sea at yenbo. the sharks presumably refused the wireless, but we had spent fruitless hours dragging for it in the harbour. owdi still wore a long, rich, fur-lined german officer’s greatcoat, a garment little suited to the climate but, as he insisted, magnificent booty. he had about a thousand men, three-quarters of them on foot, and next him marched rasim, the gunner commandant, with his four old krupp guns on the pack-mules, just as we had lifted them from the egyptian army.
rasim was a sardonic damascene, who rose laughing to every crisis and slunk about sore-headed with grievances when things went well. on this day there were dreadful murmurings, for alongside him rode abdulla el deleimi, in charge of machine-guns, a quick, clever, superficial but attractive officer, much of the professional type, whose great joy was to develop some rankling sorrow in rasim till it discharged full blast on feisal or myself. to-day i helped him by smiling to rasim that we were moving at intervals of a quarter-day in echelon of sub-tribes. rasim looked over the new-washed underwood, where raindrops glistened in the light of the sun setting redly across the waves below a ceiling of clouds, and looked too at the wild mob of beduins racing here and there on foot after birds and rabbits and giant lizards and jerboas and one another: and assented sourly, saying that he too would shortly become a sub-tribe, and echelon himself half a day to one side or other, and be quit of flies.
at first starting a man in the crowd had shot a hare from the saddle, but because of the risk of wild shooting feisal had then forbidden it, and those later put up by our camels’ feet were chased with sticks. we laughed at the sudden commotion in the marching companies: cries, and camels swerving violently, their riders leaping off and laying out wildly with their canes to kill or to be pickers-up of a kill. feisal was happy to see the army win so much meat, but disgusted at the shameless juheina appetite for lizards and jerboas.
we rode over the flat sand, among the thorn trees, which here were plentiful and large, till we came out on the sea-beach and turned northward along a broad, well-beaten track, the egyptian pilgrim road. it ran within fifty yards of the sea, and we could go up it thirty or forty singing files abreast. an old lava-bed half buried in sand jutted out from the hills four or five miles inland, and made a promontory. the road cut across this, but at the near side were some mud flats, on which shallow reaches of water burned in the last light of the west. this was our expected stage, and feisal signalled the halt. we got off our camels and stretched ourselves, sat down or walked before supper to the sea and bathed by hundreds, a splashing, screaming, mob of fish-like naked men of all earth’s colours.
supper was to look forward to, as a juheina that afternoon had shot a gazelle for feisal. gazelle meat we found better than any other in the desert, because this beast, however barren the land and dry the water-holes, seemed to own always a fat juicy body.
the meal was the expected success. we retired early, feeling too full: but soon after newcombe and myself had stretched out in our tent we were quickened by a wave of excitement travelling up the lines; running camels, shots, and shouts. a breathless slave thrust his head under the flap crying, ‘news! news! sherif bey is taken’. i jumped up and ran through the gathering crowd to feisal’s tent, which was already beset by friends and servants. with feisal sat, portentously and unnaturally collected in the din, raja, the tribesman who had taken to abdulla word to move into wadi ais. feisal was radiant, his eyes swollen with joy, as he jumped up and shouted to me through the voices, ‘abdulla has captured eshref bey’. then i knew how big and good the event was.
eshref was a notorious adventurer in the lower levels of turkish politics. in his boyhood, near his smyrna home, he had been just a brigand, but with years he became a revolutionary, and when he was finally captured abd el hamid exiled him to medina for five coloured years. at first he was closely confined there, but one day he broke the privy window and escaped to shehad, the bibulous emir, in his suburb of awali. shahad was, as usual, at war with the turks and gave him sanctuary; but eshref, finding me dull, at last borrowed a fine mare and rode to the turkish barracks. on its square was the officer-son of his enemy the governor drilling a company of gendarmes. he galloped him down, slung him across his saddle, and made away before the astonished police could protest.
he took to jebel ohod, an uninhabited place, driving his prisoner before him, calling him his ass, and lading upon him thirty loaves and the skins of water necessary for their nourishment. to recover his son, the pasha gave eshref liberty on parole and five hundred pounds. he bought camels, a tent, and a wife, and wandered among the tribes till the young turk revolution. then he reappeared in constantinople and became a bravo, doing enver’s murders. his services earned the appointment of inspector of refugee-relief in macedonia, and he retired a year later with an assured income from landed estate.
when war broke out he went down to medina with funds, and letters from the sultan to arabian neutrals; his mission being to open communications with the isolated turkish garrison in yemen. his track on the first stage of the journey had happened to cross abdulla’s, on his way to wadi ais, near kheibar, and some of the arabs, watching their camels during a midday halt, had been stopped by eshref’s men and questioned. they said they were heteym, and abdulla’s army a supply caravan going to medina. eshref released one with orders to bring the rest for examination, and this man told abdulla of soldiers camped up on the hill.
abdulla was puzzled and sent horsemen to investigate. a minute later he was startled by the sudden chatter of a machine-gun. he leaped to the conclusion that the turks had sent out a flying column to cut him off, and ordered his mounted men to charge them desperately. they galloped over the machine-gun, with few casualties, and scattered the turks. eshref fled on foot to the hill-top. abdulla offered a reward of a thousand pounds for him; and near dusk he was found, wounded, and captured by sherif fauzan el harith, in a stiff fight.
in the baggage were twenty thousand pounds in coin, robes of honour, costly presents, some interesting papers, and camel loads of rifles and pistols. abdulla wrote an exultant letter to fakhri pasha (telling him of the capture), and nailed it to an uprooted telegraph pole between the metals, when he crossed the railway next night on his unimpeded way to wadi ais. raja had left him there, camped in quiet and in ease. the news was a double fortune for us.
between the joyful men slipped the sad figure of the imam, who raised his hand. silence fell for an instant. hear me,’ he said, and intoned an ode in praise of the event, to the effect that abdulla was especially favoured, and had attained quickly to the glory which feisal was winning slowly but surely by hard work. the poem was creditable as the issue of only sixteen minutes, and the poet was rewarded in gold. then feisal saw a gaudy jewelled dagger at raja’s belt. raja stammered it was eshref’s. feisal threw him his own and pulled the other off, to give it in the end to colonel wilson. what did my brother say to eshref?’ is this your return for our hospitality?’ while eshref had replied like suckling, ‘i can fight, whether i am the wrong or right, devoutly!’
‘how many millions did the arabs get?’ gasped greedy old mohammed ali, when he heard of abdulla to the elbows in the captured chest, flinging gold by handfuls to the tribes. raja was everywhere in hot demand, and he slept a richer man that night, deservedly, for abdulla’s march to ais made the medina situation sure. with murray pressing in sinai, feisal nearing wejh, and abdulla between wejh and medina, the position of the turks in arabia became defensive only. the tide of our ill-fortune had turned; and the camp seeing our glad faces was noisy until dawn.
next day we rode easily. a breakfast suggested itself, upon our finding some more little water-pools, in a bare valley flowing down from el sukhur, a group of three extraordinary hills like granite bubbles blown through the earth. the journey was pleasant, for it was cool; there were a lot of us; and we two englishmen had a tent in which we could shut ourselves up and be alone. a weariness of the desert was the living always in company, each of the party hearing all that was said and seeing all that was done by the others day and night. yet the craving for solitude seemed part of the delusion of self-sufficiency, a factitious making-rare of the person to enhance its strangeness in its own estimation. to have privacy, as newcombe and i had, was ten thousand times more restful than the open life, but the work suffered by the creation of such a bar between the leaders and men. among the arabs there were no distinctions, traditional or natural, except the unconscious power given a famous sheikh by virtue of his accomplishment; and they taught me that no man could be their leader except he ate the ranks’ food, wore their clothes, lived level with them, and yet appeared better in himself.
in the morning we pressed towards abu zereibat with the early sun incandescent in a cloudless sky, and the usual eye-racking dazzle and dance of sunbeams on polished sand or polished flint. our path rose slightly at a sharp limestone ridge with eroded flanks, and we looked over a sweeping fall of bare, black gravel between us and the sea, which now lay about eight miles to the westward: but invisible.
once we halted and began to feel that a great depression lay in front of us; but not till two in the afternoon after we had crossed a basalt outcrop did we look out over a trough fifteen miles across, which was wadi hamdh, escaped from the hills. on the north-west spread the great delta through which hamdh spilled itself by twenty mouths; and we saw the dark lines, which were thickets of scrub in the flood channels of the dried beds, twisting in and out across the flat from the hill-edge beneath us, till they were lost in the sun-haze thirty miles away beyond us to our left, near the invisible sea. behind hamdh rose sheer from the plain a double hill, jebel raal: hog-backed but for a gash which split it in the middle. to our eyes, sated with small things, it was a fair sight, this end of a dry river longer than the tigris; the greatest valley in arabia, first understood by doughty, and as yet unexplored; while raal was a fine hill, sharp and distinctive, which did honour to the hamdh.
full of expectation we rode down the gravel slopes, on which tufts of grass became more frequent, till at three o’clock we entered the wadi itself. it proved a bed about a mile wide, filled with clumps of asla bushes, round which clung sandy hillocks each a few feet high. their sand was not pure, but seamed with lines of dry and brittle clay, last indications of old flood levels. these divided them sharply into layers, rotten with salty mud and flaking away, so that our camels sank in, fetlock-deep, with a crunching noise like breaking pastry. the dust rose up in thick clouds, thickened yet more by the sunlight held in them; for the dead air of the hollow was a-dazzle.
the ranks behind could not see where they were going, which was difficult for them, as the hillocks came closer together, and the river-bed slit into a maze of shallow channels, the work of partial floods year after year. before we gained the middle of the valley everything was over-grown by brushwood, which sprouted sideways from the mounds and laced one to another with tangled twigs as dry, dusty and brittle as old bone. we tucked in the streamers of our gaudy saddle-bags, to prevent their being jerked off by the bushes, drew cloaks tight over our clothes, bent our heads down to guard our eyes and crashed through like a storm amongst reeds. the dust was blinding and choking, and the snapping of the branches, grumbles of the camels, shouts and laughter of the men, made a rare adventure.
