Father Struck It Rich by Evalyn Walsh McLean

Author:Evalyn Walsh McLean
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pickle Partners Publishing
Published: 2015-10-14T00:00:00+00:00

“What shall we do next?” asked Ned one day.

“How about the River Jordan?”

We set out with two victorias; ours was drawn by four horses, and we had an escort of nine Arab horsemen—armed with rifles, swords, and I don’t know what else—to defend us. They wore cartridge bandoleers across their chests. We had with us also a courier, a very funny German named William somebody. We were passed from tribe to tribe with ceremony—and the payment of small bribes. On our second day we saw a number of small clouds of dust approaching. A score of horsemen were coming at a gallop.

“Let’s throw the women to ‘em,” said William to my husband. “We can save our more precious necks.”

We were sure they were bandits; but they proved to be quite friendly show-offs who scampered up and down the treeless stony hills on their small Arab horses. Those creatures were keenly interesting to Ned, who had an eye for horseflesh. The chief of the band, a reckless brown-skinned fellow with a thick mustache and beard, was thrown. The other riders seemed to think this was a matter between the chief and Allah; they made no move to help him.

I insisted on his drinking from a bottle of whisky that Ned produced. We had a case or two for just such an emergency.

The Arab, forbidden by his creed to drink alcohol, put his hands before his eyes, palms outward, and waved me off. I urged him just a little more, and then he took a stiff drink. When it hit his stomach he let out a yell that was far less Arab-like than Indian.

“Just be quiet now,” I said. I had Maggie bring me two soft pink satin pillows, smelling enticingly of sachet powder. I lifted up the man’s head. I really thought he was dying. He was suddenly alert, and watched me closely like a captive hawk. When he saw the pillows he began to yell and curse and struggle. He seemed to think I was trying to put some kind of spell on him. So, with a wide gesture designed to foil whatever sorcery I might be working, he climbed back, bleeding as he was, into his saddle.

Late that evening we reached a small inn, a barren place where for years Christian pilgrims had been coming just to touch their hands in Jordan water. The river seemed a sickly stream; we had expected at the least a Mississippi. But we were impressed when told that we stood where Christ had preached.

I felt the force of that, and so did Ned. So, when we were told that bathing in the Jordan was a permanent cure for colds we decided to go swimming. We drove out to the river, and had the tops of the victorias raised to serve as dressing-rooms. As soon as we were in our bathing suits I stepped to the ground and walked into the river.

I could not swim for a nickel prize but, of course, I had to show an Arab audience what a great swimmer I was.

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