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THE HARVEST OF ABU SABA'.

BY FULANAIN.

AJIL AL MUSARHAD, shaikh of the Albu Obaid, slipped off his sandals at the door and slowly advanced into the Divisional Adviser's office. His visits there had of late been a little too frequent, Mackintosh thought, as he rose from his paper-strewn table; but none the less he went forward and greeted him warmly, for he had a real liking for the old man.

Perhaps Shaikh Ajil read something of the Adviser's the Adviser's thoughts, for his first remark, as he seated himself crosslegged on the wide bench, was in a tone of apology.

"I have seen His Excellency the Mutasarrif, and he bade me come to your Honour."

Khalid Beg had had sufficient public spirit to give up his flourishing business as a merchant at Basrah, and serve his country under the new Arab Government as Mutasarrif or Governor of a large district. But, townsman bred, he could not so easily give up the inherent prejudices of his class, chief among which was a rooted antipathy to the despised tribal element. Of this mental bias Khalid was well aware, and, desirous that it should not affect the honesty of his administration, he had

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made a practice of passing on most of the tribal applicants for his Adviser to deal with, for Mackintosh's feelings towards the primitive patriarchal shaikh were, as the Mutasarrif knew, the exact reverse of his

own.

Ajil, with the Arab's courtly gesture of thanks, lit the cigarette offered him by Mackintosh, and sat for a few moments in silence. Then, after two or three deep inhalations, he spoke again.

"The harvest awaits the sickle."

Mackintosh guessed what was coming.

"Six months ago, Sahib, I rode hither with a heart full of wrath. My enemy, Zambur, had sent men to plough and Sow their seed within the borders of my land, and I came hot-foot to inform your Honour of the insult to my tribe, that I might return with permission to attack and drive them out. answer, Wait, Ajil, until the time is ripe.' So to my angry tribesmen I took the message the Hakim bids you wait.

And you made

"A second time I came, saying, 'The rains have fallen, and the land is green with the sprouting seed'; and again your Honour replied, "Wait.'

But I said, 'I am not as the wealthy rice shaikhs, nor are my people as the townsmen who have waxed fat through their trading with the English troops. We are desert dwellers, possessing nothing except our pride. How, then, can I restrain my men in their just anger, when they see the lands of their fathers ploughed and sown by another tribe?' Then your Honour explained, saying, 'What is Zambur's reason for sending into your land a few unarmed cultivators ? Is it not in the hope that you will attack him when he is prepared for you? Be patient, and let the time of attack be your choice, not his.' So again I returned, and said to my people, Soon the Hakim will give us leave to drive out these dogs : hold your hands but a little longer.'

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Then, Sahib, your Honour will remember that a third time I came in distress of mind, for the blade was waving tall in the breeze, and I feared that when the ear showed itself my people would no longer be restrained. Already they were making hosa. And this time I took back with me, not permission to fight, but a promise. 'Tell your tribesmen,' you said, 'that though Shaikh Zambur's men have ploughed in their lands, yet never will they reap what they have sown.' This message I bore them, adding, 'Lay aside your arms now, and let your minds be at rest, for the Hakim has given his word.'

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"Yes, the right was in your hand," the old man admitted after a short silence. "If we had driven out Zambur's cultivators, he and Mohammad would have combined to attack us, and without doubt we should have been scattered, for we knew not that two such ancient enemies had made peace to unite against us. Nevertheless, I and my people do not yet despair, for have we not your Honour's promise? Zambur shall never reap where his tribes have sown."

"Is it not enough that I have saved you and your tribe from the hands of Zambur and Mohammad?" suggested Mackintosh.

"My men will not believe me if I tell them that there was water hidden by the floating straw, since they themselves saw it not; for as you know, O Hakim, 'the brain of the Arab is in his eye.' How will they believe me if I tell them of the danger they have escaped? They will clamour for the grain sown in their lands, and my honour will be broken before my tribes," he ended pathetically.

Mackintosh heartily regretted that, difficult as was the position in which he had been placed, he had ever allowed Ajil to extort from him so rash a promise. Yet he knew that this promise alone had enabled the shaikh to restrain his tribesmen, and himself to keep free from disturbance a district in which were at stake wider issues than that of the harvest of Abu Saba'.

Ajil's lands lay just within the frontier line demarcated by the Commission of 1914here an arbitrary boundary which, while separating Iraq from Persia, left Arabs on each side, and seemed to accentuate the mutual hostility of these tribes, which owed allegiance to different governments. The old enmity had now flamed up afresh, when Shaikh Zambur, holder of the Persian territory opposite to Ajil's, realised that the British troops, which no one had believed would really be withdrawn, had actually departed, leaving a mere stiffening for the newly created Arab army. On all sides, tribes and States hostile to Iraq were beginning to send raidingparties, feelers as it were, to test their conclusion that the infant State was now an easy prey. The Akhwan and other desert tribes raided in the south and west, in the north the Turks were trying to regain their lost supremacy, and in Kurdistan there was also a grave danger. Zambur was by no means alone in his attempt to add to his possessions a

piece of Iraq; but up to the present he had relied on craft rather than on force, hoping to make it appear that the first act of aggression came from Ajil-a plan which would have succeeded but for Mackintosh's restraining hand.

Though the parallel had not occurred to him, Mackintosh had given his pledge to Shaikh Ajil in much the same way as England, under the stress of a world war, had promised independence to the Arab nation; and just as he was now faced with the unforeseen alliance of Zambur and Mohammad, so had Britain, when the time of fulfilment came, found herself confronted both at home and in Iraq by a whole host of unexpected difficulties. Not the least of these was a malicious press campaign, which so distorted the facts that the taxpayer was led to regard expenditure on Mesopotamia as an intolerable burden, rather than as part of the heavy price of victory. Evacuation of the country was urged by plausible arguments, which concealed the dishonour of following such a course before England had set up another form of government to replace the Turkish one which she had overthrown. The rising of 1920 was cited as a proof of Iraq's hostility to the British, whereas in reality it was brought about by a few idealists who, impatient of any delay in attaining the promised independence, led the ignorant tribes into rebellion. Instead of sympathetic and constructive

criticism, sarcasm and petty cavilling, if not abuse, were showered on those whose task it was to unravel the tangled skein of Mesopotamian policy.

So much having been made of the difficulties, it is strange how little the public has heard of the solution-all the more strange when one considers that this solution is unique in the history of one nation's dealings with another. A country, conquered and reconquered, is voluntarily handed back to the conquered, who are offered not merely independence, but protection while that independence is being attained. Already the foundations of the new State are being well and firmly laid. A king has been chosen by the people, and elections for the National Assembly are in full swing. The administration is now in the hands of Iraqis, assisted by a mere handful of British advisers, whose part it will be, as soon as a strong and enduring edifice begins to rise upon these foundations, to turn and go. For each of these, every good day's work brings nearer the termination, perhaps in the prime of life, of his official career; but it brings nearer also its own reward, the satisfaction of seeing the young State standing firm on its own feet, and of having contributed in some measure to the successful issue of England's great experiment.

Mackintosh, realising that some sort of action in the matter of Ajil's crops could no longer be postponed, dis

missed the old shaikh with a promise that on the morrow he would give him a definite decision. As he sat pondering over the question, he thought regretfully of the good old days when he had under him half a dozen A.P.O.'s. Now the only Britisher left was Rand, Commandant of the 9th Tigris Levy, which was employed to keep order among the turbulent marsh tribes; and he, Mackintosh recollected with pleasure, was due that evening or the next morning on his monthly visit to draw the money with which to pay his men. It would be a relief to talk the problem over with some one, and perhaps Rand's resourceful brain might offer some solution.

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So you see it has been touch and go for the last seven or eight months," concluded Mackintosh, as the two men sat together on the flat roof that night after dinner. "Only a spark was needed to set the whole Division ablaze, and an attack by Ajil would have supplied it. Hence my rash promise: I simply had to temporise, in the hope that something would turn up. But time has now become my enemy instead of my friend; the harvest will be ready for reaping in a few days, and I've got to do something at once. I wish to goodness I could lay my hands on a squadron of cavalry. But there are no troops left, and the aeroplanes are too busy up north."

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'But they are not all marshmen," objected Rand. "I've got a fair number from other tribes; most of them have committed a murder or something, and have fled from their own people and enlisted with us. Good stout fellows they are, too," he added. "How many mounted men would you want, sir?"

"I'd be content with fifty." "I think I could guarantee you that number," said Rand. "I have got fifteen sowaris, whom I use for taking messages between my river - posts and keeping in touch with you here. Then I know some of my N.C.O.'s can ride, for I'm be

ginning to teach them polo. There must be another twenty or so among the rest of the Levy. Yes, I'll guarantee you fifty men who can ride, sir, though I can't mount them all."

"No difficulty about that. I can get horses easily enough from the shaikhs. By Jove, Rand, I believe we shall pull it off after all!"

"What's your plan, sir?"

"It isn't much of a one, I'm afraid. I propose that you and your men come out with me to Ajil's place. Ajil's place. Probably when

Zambur sees he is up against Government troops, he will be too scared to attack, and will leave the Albu Obaid to reap the harvest in peace."

"But if he isn't scared? We can't put up much of a show with only fifty men."

"True," admitted Mackintosh. "It's a poor card, but the only one the only one we hold. We must just play it for all it is worth."

Three days later, soon after sunrise, a band of horsemen clattered across the swaying bridge of decrepit boats which led out of the town towards the desert. The fifty riders, with Mackintosh and Rand at their head, formed formed an odd medley; some of the shaikhs, thinking on receipt of the Adviser's letter that the horses were for his personal use, had sent in their valuable thorough

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breds, gaily caparisoned; others, less generous or more cautious, had sent kadish horses, only fit for the plough. And the equestrian powers of Rand's men were no less varied : some rode with the natural ease of the desert-born; others, in their eagerness to take part in the expedition, had allowed themselves to exaggerate their skill in horsemanship. To all of them a touch of the uncouth

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