My Winter on the Nile
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“The priest he began:—’I should like,’ says he, ‘as many Moslems to die as there are animals sacrificed by them on the day of sacrifice.’
“‘And I,’ says the ‘ulama, ‘would like to see put out of the way so many Christians as they eat eggs on Easter.’
“Now it is your turn, says they both to the rabbi:—’Well, I should like you both to have your wishes.’ I think the Jew have the best of it. Not so?”
The night is soft and still, and envelopes Philæ in a summer warmth. The stars crowd the blue-black sky with scintillant points, obtrusive and blazing in startling nearness; they are all repeated in the darker blue of the smooth river, where lie also, perfectly outlined, the heavy shadows of the granite masses. Upon the silence suddenly breaks the notes of a cornet, from a dahabeëh moored above us, in pulsations, however, rather to emphasize than to break the hush of the night.
“Eh! that’s Mr. Fiddle,” cries Abd-el-Atti, whose musical nomenclature is not very extensive, “that’s a him.”
Once on a moonless night in Upper Nubia, as we lay tied to the bank, under the shadow of the palms, there had swept past us, flashing into sight an instant and then gone in the darkness, an upward-bound dahabeëh, from the deck of which a cornet-à-piston flung out, in salute, the lively notes of a popular American air. The player (whom the dragoman could never call by any name but “Mr. Fiddle”) as we came to know later, was an Irish gentleman, Anglicized and Americanized, and indeed cosmopolitan, who has a fancy for going about the world and awaking here and there remote and commonly undisturbed echoes with his favorite brass horn. I daresay that moonlight voyagers on the Hudson have heard its notes dropping down from the Highlands; it has stirred the air of every land on the globe except India; our own Sierras have responded to its invitations, and Mount Sinai itself has echoed its strains. There is a prejudice against the cornet, that it is not exactly a family instrument; and not more suited to assist in morning and evening devotions than the violin, which a young clergyman, whom I knew, was endeavoring to learn, in order to play it, gently, at family prayers.
This traveled cornet, however, begins to play, with deliberate pauses between the bars, the notes of that glorious hymn, “How firm a foundation ye saints of the Lord,” following it with the Prayer from Der Freischutz, and that, again, with some familiar Scotch airs (a transition perfectly natural in home-circles on Sunday evening), every note of which, leisurely floating out into the night, is sent back in distant echoes. Nothing can be lovelier than the scene,—the tropical night, the sentimental island, the shadows of columns and crags, the mysterious presence of a brooding past,—and nothing can be sweeter than these dulcet, lingering, re-echoing strains, which are the music of our faith, of civilization, of home. From these old temples did never come, in the days of the flute and the darabooka, such melodies. And do the spirits of Isis and Osiris, and of Berenice, Cleopatra, and Antoninus, who worshipped them here, listen, and know perhaps that a purer and better spirit has come into the world?
In the midst of this echoing melody, a little boat, its sail noiselessly furled, its gunwales crowded with gowned and white-turbaned Nubians, glides out of the shadow and comes alongside, as silently as a ferry-boat of the under-world bearing the robed figures of the departed, and the venerable Reis of the Cataract steps on board, with es-salam ‘aleykum; and the negotiation for shooting the rapids in the morning begins.
The reïs is a Nubian of grave aspect, of a complexion many shades darker than would have been needed to disqualify its possessor to enjoy civil rights in our country a few years ago, and with watchful and shrewd black eyes which have an occasional gleam of humor; his robe is mingled black and white, his turban is a fine camels-hair shawl; his legs are bare, but he wears pointed red-morocco slippers. There is a long confab between him and the dragoman, over pipes and coffee, about the down trip. It seems that there is a dahabeëh at Assouan, carrying the English Prince Arthur and a Moslem Prince, which has been waiting for ten days the whim of the royal scion, to make the ascent. Meantime no other boat can go up or down. The cataract business is at a standstill. The government has given orders that no other boat shall get in the way; and many travelers’ boats have been detained from one to two weeks; some of them have turned back, without seeing Nubia, unable to spend any longer time in a vexatious uncertainty. The prince has signified his intention of coming up the Cataract tomorrow morning, and consequently we cannot go down, although the descending channel is not the same as the ascending. A considerable fleet of boats is now at each end of the cataract, powerless to move.
The cataract people express great dissatisfaction at this interference in their concerns by the government, which does not pay them as much as the ordinary traveler does for passing the cataract. And yet they have their own sly and mysterious method of dealing with boats that is not less annoying than the government favoritism. They will very seldom take a dahabeëh through in a day; they have delight in detaining it in the rapids and showing their authority.
When, at length, the Reis comes into the cabin, to pay us a visit of courtesy, he is perfect in dignity and good-breeding, in spite of his bare legs; and enters into a discourse of the situation with spirit and intelligence. In reply to a remark, that, in America we are not obliged to wait for princes, his eyes sparkle, as he answers, with much vivacity of manner, “You quite right. In Egypt we are in a mess. Egypt is a ewe sheep from which every year they shear the wool close off; the milk that should go the lamb they drink; and when the poor old thing dies, they give the carcass to the people—the skin they cut up among themselves. This season,” he goes on, “is to the cataracts like what the pilgrimage is to Mecca and to Jerusalem—the time when to make the money from the traveler. And when the princes they come, crowding the traveler to one side, and the government makes everything done for them for nothing, and pays only one dollar for a turkey for which the traveler pays two, ‘bliges the people to sell their provisions at its own price,”—the sheykh stopped.
“The Reis, then, Abd-el-Atti, doesn’t fancy this method of doing business?”
“No, him say he not like it at all.”
And the Reis kindled up, “You may call the Prince anything you like, you may call him king; but the real Sultan is the man who pays his money and does not come here at the cost of the government. Great beggars some of these big nobility; all the great people want the Viceroyal to do ‘em charity and take ‘em up the Nile, into Abyssinia, I don’t know where all. I think the greatest beggars always those who can best afford to pay.”
With this philosophical remark the old Sheykh concludes a long harangue, the substance of which is given above, and takes his leave with a hundred complimentary speeches.
Forced to wait, we employed Monday advantageously in exploring the land-route to Assouan, going by Mahatta, where the trading-boats lie and piles of merchandise lumber the shore. It is a considerable village, and full of most persistent beggars and curiosity venders. The road, sandy and dusty, winds through hills of granite boulders—a hot and desolate though not deserted highway, for strings of camels, with merchandise, were in sight the whole distance. We passed through the ancient cemetery, outside of Assouan, a dreary field of sand and rocks, the leaning grave-stones covered with inscriptions in old Arabic, (or Cufic), where are said to rest the martyred friends of the prophet who perished in the first battle with the infidels above Philæ.
Returning, we made a detour to the famous syenite quarries, the openings of several of which are still visible. They were worked from the sides and not in pits, and offer little to interest the ordinary sight-seer. Yet we like to see where the old workmen chipped away at the rocks; there are frequent marks of the square holes that they drilled, in order to split off the stone with wet wedges of wood. The great obelisk which lies in the quarry, half covered by sand, is unfinished; it is tapered from the base to its tip, ninety-eight feet, but it was doubtless, as the marks indicate, to be worked down to the size of the big obelisk at Karnak; the part which is exposed measures ten to eleven feet square. It lies behind ledges of rock, and it could only have been removed by cutting away the enormous mass in front of it or by hoisting it over. The suggestion of Mr. Wilkinson that it was to be floated out by a canal, does not commend itself to one standing on the ground.
We came back by the long road, the ancient traveled way, along which, on the boulders, are rudely-cut sculptures and hieroglyphics, mere scratchings on the stone, but recording the passage of kings and armies as long ago as the twelfth dynasty. Nearly all the way from Assouan to Philæ are remains of a huge wall of unburnt bricks, ten to fifteen feet broad and probably fifteen to twenty feet high, winding along the valley and over the low ridges. An apparently more unnecessary wall does not exist; it is said by people here to have been thrown up by the Moslems as a protection against the Nubians when they first traversed this desert; but it is no doubt Roman. There are indications that the Nile once poured its main flood through this opening.
We emerge not far from the south end of the railway track, and at the deserted Austrian Mission. A few Nubian families live in huts on the bank of the stream. Among the bright-eyed young ladies, with shining hair, who entreat backsheesh, while we are waiting for our sandal, is the daughter of our up-river pilot. We should have had a higher opinion of his dignity and rank if we had not seen his house and his family.
After sunset the dahabeëhs of the Prince came up and were received with salutes by the waiting boats, which the royal craft did not return. Why the dragoman of the arriving dahabeëh came to ours with the Prince’s request, as he said, for our cards, we were not informed; we certainly intended no offence by the salute; it was, on the part of the other boats, a natural expression of pleasure that the royal boat was at last out of the way.
At dark we loose from lovely Philæ, in order to drop down to Mahatta and take our station for running the cataract in the morning. As we draw out from the little fleet of boats, Irish, Hungarian, American, English, rockets and blue lights illumine the night, and we go off in a blaze of glory. Regardless of the Presence, the Irish gentleman responds on his cornet with the Star-Spangled Banner, the martial strains of which echo from all the hills.
In a moment, the lights are out, the dahabeëhs disappear and the enchanting island is lost to sight. We are gliding down the swift and winding channel, through granite walls, under the shadow of giant boulders, immersed in the gloom of a night which the stars do not penetrate. There is no sound save the regular, chopping fall of the heavy sweeps, which steady the timorous boat, and are the only sign, breaking the oppressive silence, that we are not a phantom ship in a world of shades. It is a short but ghostly voyage, and we see at length with a sigh of relief the lines of masts and spars in the port of Mahatta. Working the boat through the crowd that lie there we moor for the night, with the roar of the cataract in our ears.
CHAPTER XXVII.—RETURNING
WE ARE on deck before sunrise, a film is over the sky and a light breeze blows out our streamer—a bad omen for the passage.
The downward run of the Cataract is always made in the early morning, that being the time when there is least likely to be any wind. And a calm is considered absolutely necessary to the safety of the boat. The north wind, which helps the passage up, would be fatal going down. The boat runs with the current, and any exterior disturbance would whirl her about and cast her upon the rocks.
If we are going this morning, we have no time to lose, for it is easy to see that this breeze, which is now uncertainly dallying with our colors, will before long strengthen. The Cataract people begin to arrive; there is already a blue and white row of them squatting on the bank above us, drawing their cotton robes about them, for the morning is a trifle chilly. They come loitering along the bank and sit down as if they were merely spectators, and had no interest in the performance.
The sun comes, and scatters the cloud-films; as the sun rises we are ready to go; everything has been made snug and fast above and below; and the breeze has subsided entirely. We ought to take instant advantage of the calm; seconds count now. But we wait for the Reis of the Cataract, the head reïs, without whose consent no move can be made. It is the sly old sheykh with whom we have already negociated, and he has his reasons for delaying. By priority of arrival at Philæ our boat is entitled to be first taken down; but the dragoman of another boat has been crossing the palms of the guileless patriarch with gold pieces, and he has agreed to give the other boat the preference. It is not probable that the virtuous sheykh ever intended to do so, but he must make some show of keeping his bargain. He would like to postpone our voyage, and take the chances of another day.
But here he comes, mounted on a donkey, in state, wrapped about the head and neck in his cashmere, and with a train of attendants—the imperturbable, shrewd old man. He halts a moment on the high bank, looks up at our pennant, mutters something about “wind, not good day, no safe,” and is coolly about to ride by.
Our dragoman in an instant is at his side, and with half-jocular but firm persistence, invites him to dismount. It is in vain that the sheykh invents excuse after excuse for going on. There is a neighbor in the village whose child is dead, and he must visit him. The consolation, Abd-el-Atti thinks, can be postponed an hour or two, Allah is all merciful. He is chilly, his fingers are cold, he will just ride to the next house and warm his hands, and by that time we can tell whether it is to be a good morning; Abd-el-Atti is sure that he can warm his fingers much better on our boat, in fact he can get warm all through there.
“I’ll warm him if he won’t come.” continues the dragoman, turning to us; “if I let him go by, the old rascal, he slip down to Assouan, and that become the last of him.”
Before the patriarch knows exactly what has happened, or the other dragoman can hinder, he is gently hustled down the steep bank aboard our boat. There is a brief palaver, and then he is seated, with a big bowl of coffee and bread; we are still waiting, but it is evident that the decisive nod has been given. The complexion of affairs has changed!
The people are called from the shore; before we interpret rightly their lazy stir, they are swarming on board. The men are getting their places on the benches at the oars—three stout fellows at each oar; it looks like “business.” The three principal reïses are on board; there are at least a dozen steersmen; several heads of families are present, and a dozen boys. More than seventy-five men have invaded us—and they may all be needed to get ropes ashore in case of accident. This unusual swarm of men and the assistance of so many sheykhs, these extra precautions, denote either fear, or a desire to impress us with the magnitude of the undertaking. The head reïs shakes his head at the boat and mutters, “much big.” We have aboard almost every skillful pilot of the rapids.
The Cataract flag, two bands of red and yellow with the name of “Allah” worked on it in white, is set up by the cabin stairs.
There is a great deal of talking, some confusion, and a little nervousness. Our dragoman cheerfully says, “we will hope for the better,” as the beads pass through his fingers. The reïses are audibly muttering their prayers. The pilots begin to strip to their work. A bright boy of twelve years, squat on deck by the tiller, is loudly and rapidly reciting the Koran.
At the last moment, the most venerable reïs of the cataract comes on board, as a great favor to us. He has long been superannuated, his hair is white, his eye-sight is dim, but when he is on board all will go well. Given a conspicous seat in a chair on the cabin deck, he begins at once prayers for our safe passage. This sheykh is very distinguished, tracing his ancestry back beyond the days of Abraham; his family is very large—seven hundred is the number of his relations; this seems to be a favorite number; Ali Moorad at Luxor has also seven hundred relations. The sheykh is treated with great deference; he seems to have had something to do with designing the cataract, and opening it to the public.
The last rope is hauled in; the crowd on shore cheer; our rowers dip the oars, and in a moment we are sweeping along in the stiff current, avoiding the boulders on either side. We go swiftly. Everybody is muttering prayers now; two venerable reïses seated on a box in front of the rudder increase the speed of their devotions; and the boy chants the Koran with a freer swing.
Our route down is not the same as it was up. We pass the head of the chief rapid—in which we struggle—into which it would need only a wink of the helm to turn us—and sweep away to the west side; and even appear to go a little out of our way to run near a precipice of rock. A party of ladies and gentlemen who have come down from their dahabeëh above, to see us make the chûte, are standing on the summit, and wave handkerchiefs and hats as we rush by.
Before us, we can see the great rapids—a down-hill prospect. The passage is narrow, and so crowded is the hurrying water that there is a ridge down the centre. On this ridge, which is broken and also curved, we are to go. If it were straight, it would be more attractive, but it curves short to the right near the bottom of the rapid, and, if we do not turn sharp with it, we shall dash against the rocks ahead, where the waves strike in curling foam. All will depend upon the skill and strength of the steersmen, and the sheer at the exact instant.
There is not long to think of it, however, and no possibility now of evading the trial. Before we know it, the nose of the boat is in the rapid, which flings it up in the air; the next second we are tossed on the waves. The bow dips, and a heavy wave deluges the cook’s domain; we ship a tun or two of water, the dragoman, who stands forward, is wet to his breast; but the boat shakes it off and rises again, tossed like an egg-shell. It is glorious. The boat obeys her helm admirably, as the half-dozen pilots, throwing their weight upon the tiller, skillfully veer it slightly or give it a broad sweep.
It is a matter of only three or four minutes, but they are minutes of intense excitement. In the midst of them, the reïs of our boat, who has no command now and no responsibility, and is usually imperturbably calm, becomes completely unmanned by the strain upon his nerves, and breaks forth into convulsive shouting, tears and perspiration running down his cheeks. He has “the power,” and would have hysterics if he were not a man. A half-dozen people fly to his rescue, snatch off his turban, hold his hands, mop his face, and try to call him out of his panic. By the time he is somewhat composed, we have shunned the rocks and made the turn, and are floating in smoother but still swift water. The reises shake hands and come to us with salaams and congratulations. The chief pilot desires to put my fez on his own head in token of great joy and amity. The boy stops shouting the Koran, the prayers cease, the beads are put up. It is only when we are in a tight place that it is necessary to call upon the name of the Lord vigorously.
“You need not have feared,” says a reïs of the Cataract to ours, pointing to the name on the red and yellow flag, “Allah would bring us through.”
That there was no danger in this passage we cannot affirm. The dahabeëhs that we left at Mahatta, ready to go down, and which might have been brought through that morning, were detained four or five days upon the whim of the reises. Of the two that came first, one escaped with a slight knock against the rocks, and the other was dashed on them, her bottom staved in, and half filled with water immediately. Fortunately, she was fast on the rock; the passengers, luggage, and stores were got ashore; and after some days the boat was rescued and repaired.
For a mile below this chûte we have rapid going, rocks to shun, short turns to make, and quite uncertainty enough to keep us on the qui vive, and finally, another lesser rapid, where there is infinitely more noise by the crew, but less danger from the river than above.
As we approach the last rapid, a woman appears in the swift stream, swimming by the help of a log—that being the handy ferry-boat of the country; her clothes are all in a big basket, and the basket is secured on her head. The sandal, which is making its way down a side channel, with our sheep on board, is signalled to take this lady of the lake in, and land her on the opposite shore. These sheep of ours, though much tossed about, seem to enjoy the voyage and look about upon the raging scene with that indifference which comes of high breeding. They are black, but that was not to their prejudice in their Nubian home. They are comely animals in life, and in death are the best mutton in the East; it is said that they are fed on dates, and that this diet imparts to their flesh its sweet flavor. I think their excellence is quite as much due to the splendid air they breathe.
While we are watching the manoeuvring of the boat, the woman swims to a place where she can securely lodge her precious log in the rocks and touch bottom with her feet. The boat follows her and steadies itself against the same rocks, about which the swift current is swirling. The water is up to the woman’s neck, and the problem seems to be to get the clothes out of the basket which is on her head, and put them on, and not wet the clothes. It is the old myth of Venus rising from the sea, but under changed conditions, and in the face of modern sensitiveness. How it was accomplished, I cannot say, but when I look again the aquatic Venus is seated in the sandal, clothed, dry, and placid.
We were an hour passing the rapids, the last part of the time with a strong wind against us; if it had risen sooner we should have had serious trouble. As it was, it took another hour with three men at each oar, to work down to Assouan through the tortuous channel, which is full of rocks and whirlpools, The men at each bank of oars belonged to different tribes, and they fell into a rivalry of rowing, which resulted in an immense amount of splashing, spurting, yelling, chorusing, and calling on the Prophet. When the contest became hot, the oars were all at sixes and sevens, and in fact the rowing gave way to vituperation and a general scrimmage. Once, in one of the most ticklish places in the rapids, the rowers had fallen to quarrelling, and the boat would have gone to smash, if the reïs had not rushed in and laid about him with a stick. These artless children of the sun! However we came down to our landing in good form, exchanging salutes with the fleet of boats waiting to make the ascent.
At once four boats, making a gallant show with their spread wings, sailed past us, bound up the cataract. The passengers fired salutes, waved their handkerchiefs, and exhibited the exultation they felt in being at last under way for Philæ; and well they might, for some of them had been waiting here fifteen days.
But alas for their brief prosperity. The head reïs was not with them; that autocrat was still upon our deck, leisurely stowing away coffee, eggs, cold meat, and whatever provisions were brought him, with the calmness of one who has a good conscience. As the dahabeëhs swept by he shook his head and murmured, “not much go.”
And they did “not much go.” They stopped indeed, and lay all day at the first gate, and all night. The next morning, two dahabeëhs, carrying persons of rank, passed up, and were given the preference, leaving the first-comers still in the rapids; and two days after, they were in mid-passage, and kept day after day in the roar and desolation of the cataract, at the pleasure of its owners. The only resource they had was to write indignant letters of remonstrance to the governor at Assouan.