That night brought the beginning of our farewell to the desert, for we were to part with Akmet Haffez and for the last time to break bread under his hospitable roof.

          And so we too feigned lightheartedness, in spite of an undertone of sadness. We would eat his food -- and then leave a friend, one of the best we had ever met. Few men in any country would have gone out of their way so far as to have done for us what this diplomatic, farseeing old Bedouin had done. The Governor of Aleppo had told us that Haffez was looked upon as the smartest and shrewdest Bedouin that the Ottoman empire had ever known. But we knew more of him. With his jocular humor and sarcasm and his true gentlemanly manners, he made us feel as if we were leaving home and going abroad to some strange land.

          At his final meeting he was just what he had ever been. His speech was always full of flamboyant oriental exaggeration, but it was different from that of his kind -- you knew that he meant what he said. The Arabs have a word "Halamy," which being much of a slang term, can best be transferred into English (or rather American) as "hot air." The Arab showers on you all sorts of fine phrases and you accept them with a grin and say to yourself "Halamy," and letting it go at that, immediately forget it.

          But with Akmet Haffez it was different. After you had once gained his friendship you knew that what he said was never "Halamy" ...

          As I turned to say good-bye, I thought I saw in his motions that Akmet Haffez wanted more than a handshaking. So though awkwardly, I admit, I presented both cheeks and was seized in fond embrace by the old Bedouin, who broke down and began to sob almost aloud. He called to the interpreter and asked him to tell me that now indeed he had a brother in America, and that if I did not return soon he would in a few years come to make me a visit, to see if I had preserved the blood that I was taking away in his horses. Then we were driven away to the Maidan on the outskirts of the town, where, on a grass plot, our horses and mares were picketed ready for the march.

          Yet we were lothe to start, and there was another reason for this beside our unwillingness to part from Akmet Haffez. The Seglawieh Jedranieh mare had not appeared. We were compelled to leave that night in order to catch the steamer at Alexandretta four days later and we had our large string of horses to convey 106 miles.

          As the servants were serving coffee the soldier came in out of breath and he had not said many words before Akmet Haffez's eyes blazed with anger and he arose and picked up a rifle from the couch. What was the trouble? This simply: The mare's owner had counted out the fifty pounds brought by the soldier and then had demanded further a revolver he had seen one of our party carrying.

          That was what had roused our host. He had given his word before Allah that we should have the mare and he would keep his word if it took rifles to help him do it.

          And the old man had his way. "I will send to get the mare," said he. "My own son Faiot, who is also your son, shall go and he shall bring her back alive or her owner dead." I yielded, not without hesitation, for I wanted the animal, as she was the best in the Euphrates valley, and, anyway, to ease my conscience I sent along the revolver which her owner had demanded.

          We rode all night and until the sun was hot and at eight o'clock in the morning stopped at Kafar-alTeen, the spot named after the famous bandit of that name. All night travel is not best for man or beast. The horses were tired and sleepy and, worse still, Moore was sick and not improving...

          At sundown Moore was getting steadily worse. I was watching the pious Bedouins performing their evening devotions with their faces towards the east when I turned to look at the sunset. It occurred to me, seeing Moore's condition, that the west was the place for us to pray towards and said so to Moore. He was so sick he could hardly hold up his head, but he managed to lift himself a little and said that if we could manage to hurry him toward the west, a little nearer Broadway, he would feel better. And we tried. We got him on his horse somehow and started on again.

          One of the horses, a golden bay from the private stables of Hassan Pasha, was sick, too, but that was nothing. A local veterinary indeed offered to cure both Moore and the horse with one prescription, which he declared was infallible. He said that if the sick man should lead the sick horse past the graveyard both would immediately recover. He guaranteed the cure before Allah. We declined with thanks. Besides, there wasn't any graveyard...

          It was now the third night out from Aleppo and there was no news from the mare. Suddenly about nine in th evening there was a cry of "Faiot" and the son of Akmet Haffez came galloping up on "The Pride of the Euphrates." She was the same beautiful animal despite her journey. Her eyes had the same sparkle and she looked better than when we first saw her. Some of the grooms were watering the horses at a nearby stream, and her colts were away from the campground. But while she was still resenting our approach, the chestnut orphan colt came in on the run. He was all excitement; his eyes glistened and his ears nearly touched each other at the points as he ran from one horse to the other. His excitement was so great that we shall never forget it. It seemed as if such an unexpected meeting had never taken place before. Those who may think that dumb animals have no way of expressing their feelings, should have been present at this twilight celebration. The colt fairly kissed his mother and his joy knew no bounds. He tried to be her baby again and suck, forgetting that he had long been weaned. He kicked up his heels and cantered about, stopping to lick her all over. Then, with a squeal, he started with his little tail high up, to run and run around her. He almost stampeded some camels with his antics. He forgot he was tired and leg-weary, forgot his baby feet had no shoes. Fifty Arabs and grooms, and we three, were half laughing and crying together to see the boy celebrate his joy. All this time his mother acted bashfully as if she were saying: "Don't mind him; he's just my boy." The grooms tried, when he was tired out, to fasten him near his brother, but no hobbles would have held him. He wanted sleep by his mother. He was not content until he could.

          The next day at Alexandretta, the Arabs from the mountains knew all about the bay mare, though we had not told the story to a soul. They came to see her in great numbers, and were sorry she had been taken away from her owner.

          That night two New Yorkers sat beside her and played pinochle till daylight, and when she was safe on board the steamer, I felt the relief that only her presence on the steamship could bring.

          How that pinochle game came out I do not remember. Maybe I won, but whether I did nor not, my mind was more set on evincing the game of horse -- that is, getting my purchases safely out of the country.

          When you're at home sitting on the shady side of your porch and planning the exportation of Arab horses, there are some details which you overlook while seated in a comfortable rocking chair. Generally, when you are reading of the exportations which have been made into England, you read something like this:

          "We brought from Damascus, or Aleppo, a bay mare." Then follows a description of how this particular mare enjoyed the grass in the paddocks of England. So I had been careless and even ignorant of some of the things I afterward learned must have happened between the time that horse was purchased in the desert and when you again hear of it in the English paddocks.

          These trifling details had never been in my mind when I was at home rocking in the shade, desert-dreaming, but they were forced on me now with other little things. Nevertheless the shady porch in Morris Plains at the other end of the journey was on my mind as well as the thought that I was determined to win out.

>          From Latakia to Naples, the trip, so far as the horses were concerned, was an uneventful one. We had ample opportunity to recover from the strain of the last days spent between the desert and Alexandretta and especially from the wear and tear of the shipping of the horses at the latter port. Early on that day I had nearly succumbed to the heat and was obliged to go on to the steamer. Moore had very nearly recovered from his sharp attack of fever, but was still weak, and a great deal of the actual work fell upon Thompson.

          Active and strong as he was, he must, however, have received in his system some germs of the pernicious fever which one always finds in Aexandretta. He was in perfect health at the time and kept in perfect health until late in the fall of last year (1908), when he was attacked with a sudden fever, the symptoms of which indicated that he must have first been inoculated with it in Alexandretta. I regret deeply to add that the attack was fatal and that our companion of the desert passed away almost before we knew he was ill. Thompson added greatly to the pleasure and success of our trip. He had the knack of seeing the cheerful side of life and thoroughly adapted himself to any conditions. He never had a word of complaint and his good humor helped us through many unpleasant times.

Part II

Part III

Part IV

Part V

Part VI

Return to: Craver Chronicles

Visit the: Davenport Board

DAVENPORT

Early Writers

Visit: The CMK Pages

Visit: Arabian Vision's Archives