Burhale Had Sworn, And Once More The Olive
Waved Over The Braves Of Berberah.
On the 5th February 1855, taking leave of my comrades, I went on board El
Kasab or the Reed-
-Such was the ill-omened name of our cranky craft--to
the undisguised satisfaction of the Hammal, Long Guled, and the End of
Time, who could scarcely believe in their departure from Berberah with
sound skins. [25] Coasting with a light breeze, early after noon on the
next day we arrived at Siyaro, a noted watering-place for shipping, about
nineteen miles east of the emporium. The roadstead is open to the north,
but a bluff buttress of limestone rock defends it from the north-east
gales. Upon a barren strip of sand lies the material of the town; two
houses of stone and mud, one yet unfinished, the other completed about
thirty years ago by Farih Binni, a Mikahil chief.
Some dozen Bedouin spearmen, Mikahil of a neighbouring kraal, squatted
like a line of crows upon the shore to receive us as we waded from the
vessel. They demanded money in too authoritative a tone before allowing us
to visit the wells, which form their principal wealth. Resolved not to
risk a quarrel so near Berberah, I was returning to moralise upon the fate
of Burckhardt--after a successful pilgrimage refused admittance to Aaron's
tomb at Sinai--when a Bedouin ran to tell us that we might wander where we
pleased. He excused himself and his companions by pleading necessity, and
his leanness lent conviction to the plea.
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