The Treasure Of Ophir

C.E.V. Craufurd

• Publisher: Routledge
• Year: 2014
• ISBN:
  9781136207785
• Edition: 1
• Topic: History
• Subtopic: Egyptian Ancient History
• Index: History

'When I was a small child...(my) imagination was fired by the age-old mystery of that Lost City of Ophir which furnished gold to the temple of Suleiman and as the years passed, I formed an ambition to discover it... In this fascinating book, the author reveals the unfolding story of his life-long quest to find Ophir. First joining the Royal Navy and then embarking toward China, the author begins a series of adventurers that propel him towards his goal: 'I have learnt that Ophir and the Gold of Ophir represent far more than a lost city and a tale of romance. The lost lands of Ophir may awaken the whole of the Middle East; they may bring prosperity to a poverty-stricken peninsula that is larger than India.'

PART ONE

TREASURE OF OPHIR

CHAPTER I

AMBITION

WHEN I was a small child my favourite fairy tale held no Prince Charming or Sleeping Beauty, but I loved to read and read again the charming story of the mysterious Queen of Sheba and her kingly lover, Suleiman the Wise. My imagination was fired by the age-old mystery of that Lost City of Ophir which furnished gold to the Temple of Suleiman, and, as the years passed, I formed an ambition to discover it.

A child holds many ambitions—holds them awhile and drops them, for he is easily turned from his purpose by the obstacles of hard facts. But, nevertheless, most children hug to themselves some especially treasured and secret ambition, an ideal which they fear to expose to those dread grown-ups who may take it from them and break it in pieces, or, worse still, may laugh!

Often we underrate a child’s intelligence. What he chooses to learn he learns thoroughly, though how he does it often passes our comprehension. In my own case I kept my secret well, and, for fear of the ridicule that might follow, told no one. When I was a lad I would now and then take out the Old Book—but very secretively, for I dreaded the accusation of being “pi”.

I was an idle youngster, always at the bottom of my class; my school reports were invariably poor, and I was reckoned stupid beyond the average. My father assured me that my one objective in life was to become an Admiral, and with sound common sense he suggested that I should first aim to become a Commander. He fondly hoped that I might even have the good fortune to command one of H.M. ships in time of war.

We had a retired Admiral living next door, and my private opinion was that admirals were silly old fools, but a Commander seemed to be a very different person, and the idea of possibly directing a warship in action was an ambition well worth striving for. Besides that, it offered a practical path for me to follow for my own private ambition. I should travel the world over and I should find Ophir.

For me there was no “perhaps” about that Ophir problem. There never has been a perhaps, though in twenty or more years of search there may have been a few passing doubts. The ambition was there and so was the determination to accomplish it.

My father taught me to handle a boat almost as soon as I could walk, and one of my earliest memories is of a small family party in a little cutter-rigged yacht. We were running free with the wind slightly on the port quarter when disaster overtook us, in an inlet which I think is called Bosham Creek. My father was stooping over a rope which he was coiling down, and I was peering anxiously at the peak which was swaying too freely, for my mother, who was steering, was not gifted with that skill which is the mark of the perfect yachtswoman. Suddenly the boom jibed with a whole-hearted swing and caught my father bending. Overboard he went!

If I saw such an accident nowadays I should be convulsed with laughter and crippled in action, but I rushed to the tiller and put the helm down. It was, of course, the right thing to do, for it checked the way of the boat. Incidentally, we ran slap on to a mudbank, so I cannot suppose the situation was so critical as it then seemed. Still, I had my practical seamanship tested at an early age, and that youthful training was to help me through many a year.

I obtained a success in a competitive examination that I feel was more due to the genius of the head master of my naval crammer school than to my personal efforts, and at last the great day came when a very small boy, under-sized for his age, stood on the station platform waiting for the train to take him to Dartmouth, where H.M.S. Britannia, the naval training ship, lay moored.

In all the glory of blue cloth and bright brass buttons I stood slightly apart from the family, who had come to see me off. My head was full of the childish dreams of an inexperienced boy, and no difficulties presented themselves to the most junior officer in His Majesty’s Navy.

Save one. Let us have the truth at any price! There was a difficulty, and a very serious one it seemed. I was not sure that I could pronounce “fore-top-gallant-sail” in a truly nautical manner. Under my arms were tucked a multitude of papers. Ally Sloper, Comic Cuts, and Chums promised full entertainment. The Boy’s Own Paper and the Strand could be reserved for more serious reading. Meanwhile, that confounded “fore-top-gallant-sail” brought clouds to a sky that was otherwise serenely blue.

“Boy! Boy! I want a morning paper!”

A short-sighted and agitated old lady was peering at me through a pair of lorgnettes. In all the pride of my uniform I stood smartly to attention, whilst my hand wavered uncertainly between a naval salute and a civilian urge to raise my cap. The result was deplorable. I dropped all the papers, except one I was holding in my left hand, which I politely offered to madame. But she wanted The Times, and I was offering her Comic Cuts. Luckily at that moment my father came to the rescue as the train steamed in to end an inglorious episode.

In due course the thickest-headed cadet in His Majesty King Edward’s Royal Navy was appointed to the Channel Fleet, and later, through the offices of our friend the retired admiral, to a ship newly commissioned for China. Thus an ambition, already ten years old, commenced its progress towards fulfilment.

THE AUTHOR’S FIRST COMMAND, “H.M.S. MINTO” (IN FOREGROUND)

Some experts have advanced theories that Ophir is in China. Those theories are based on the assumption that King Hiram’s fleet, sailing from the Middle East, must have voyaged as far as China, in order to complete their three-year cruise to Ophir. In the tropical and semi-tropical latitudes of the China coast the fleet could have obtained most of the goods which are specified for the fleet cargo.

That is about all the backing there is to the theory of a Chinese Ophir, but it was sufficient to give me an added interest in our cruise to China, though, as a matter of fact, on our way there we came nearer to the real Ophir than at any other time during my next fifteen years of search.

Our captain had received orders to “show the flag” on our voyage eastwards, and to call at Muscat. Russian activities had been rather prominent in the Persian Gulf, and the Russian cruiser Askold, with her three funnels, had made a great impression on the native mind. Our ship, however, possessed four funnels, and was therefore likely to make a greater impression. The fact that she was of larger tonnage, and had a slightly larger armament, was all to the good, but to the native mind the outstanding feature of superiority was the possession of those four imposing funnels.

One day as we were steaming in a flat calm of the Indian Ocean, off the Oman coast of Southern Arabia, we sighted a dhow. The day had been uneventful, and the sun was very hot as we steamed up that deserted-looking coast line. So, when we overhauled the dhow, our captain decided to break the monotony. He said that he suspected she was either a gun-runner or a slavetrading vessel. In the light of later experience I do not suppose he suspected anything of the kind. However, we closed the dhow, and ordered her to “lay to”. The shrill pipe of the boatswain’s call awakened all idle hands.

“Away-y sea-boat’s crew.”

I had the good fortune to be the fore-bridge midshipman of the afternoon watch, and therefore it was my duty to take charge of the sea-boat. “Old Charlie”, as we affectionately named the skipper, called me up and gave me my orders. The good fellow made them seem very thrilling and romantic to an inexperienced young officer.

“Mind you go the weather side. If you go the lee side of a dhow the crew may cut the halliards, and let the mainsail down with a run to smother your boat. Then you will all be scuppered without a chance of resistance.”

Of course the captain knew quite well that the dhow would offer no resistance, for all our starboard broadside of six-inch guns was trained upon her. Still, my eyes were nearly popping out of my head with excitement and interest.

“One more thing,” Charlie called out. “One more thing, my lad. Keep your eyes skinned. The nacoda (captain) might not be above sticking a knife into your back.”

Dear “Old Charlie”, what a breath of romance you gave to that hot afternoon! You had a crew of some seven hundred men, all listless and grumpy, but with your good-humoured craftiness, you made every one aboard lively and interested in what was really only a very simple afternoon exercise.

As a matter of fact, by the merest chance, we were lucky—with a beginner’s luck—for the dhow was a slave-runner! Her papers showed she was bound for Muscat, but she was carrying a very large number of men, far more than her normal crew. Of course the extra men were not chained to the thwarts, nor was the nacoda melodramatically waving a huge stock whip. A slave-owner in real life handles his slaves as carefully as he would handle cattle, for he wishes to deliver them in good condition.

There were no papers aboard the dhow to show that she was carrying passengers, and, furthermore, passengers do not choose the month of June for travelling to one of the hottest ports of the world. Since that day I have examined several hundred dhows, but I have never again met with such a clear case of slave-running. The interpreter who had accompanied us in the sea-boat was an experienced man, and whispered to me that, as this seemed a clear case, we had better return to the ship and report.

“Old Charlie” listened to my report with an amusement which he must have found it hard to conceal, though he accepted it with becoming gravity, and then turned to the interpreter. But if an inexperienced midshipman had rendered a report that seemed highly coloured with romance, the interpreter in emphatic but broken English brought forward such evidence that “Charlie” must, indeed, have felt that he had caught a Tartar.

Here he was, a naval captain, bound on a political mission to the Sultan of Muscat, and it seemed that he was fated to arrive at Muscat to say :

“Your Highness, I have come on a friendly and political mission. To prove my diplomatic ability, I have captured a dhow full of your slaves, knowing with what official horror you regard slave-dealing activities.” Not a very propitious introduction!

After we had towed the dhow inshore we anchored and focussed our searchlights on her for the night, but by what was possibly a happy accident the electric current failed for an hour, just after the moon had dipped. When at sunrise we visited the dhow we found only the proper crew aboard. The nacoda assured us that the “passengers” had all gone ashore of their own free will. Under these circumstances we were left with no evidence at all, so we steamed away disappointed. Perhaps “Charlie” was not inconsolable, for his diplomatic relations with the Sultan were saved from a severe strain.

. . . . .

Later experience suggests to me that we had anchored that night very close to the ancient Ophir. Had I known where to look and what to look for, the silhouette of the morning sunrise would have shown me Mount Sephar, and might even have disclosed to me the citadel of the City of Ophir. As it was, my interests were entirely engrossed in the slave dhow, and so we steamed unwittingly away.

I had fifteen more years of search, and seven further years of arranging proofs, before I was able to assert that Ophir is no longer a lost city; and twenty-two years is but a tiny fraction of the time that Ophir has lain dreaming in the desert sands. Meanwhile, I have had time to appreciate some of its problems. I have learnt that Ophir and the Gold of Ophir represent far more than a lost city and a tale of romance. The lost lands of Ophir may awaken the whole of the Middle East; they may bring prosperity to a poverty-stricken peninsular that is larger than India.

We steamed away from Ophir, and that was well, for at that stage I had not sufficient experience to make good use of any knowledge that might come my way. We need experience and much misfortune before we can gain the treasures of knowledge. Ophir and its problems have given me treasures greater than I can find in any book of poetry, and the Fates were very fair to me, for, while they took me away from Ophir, they led me to the only land where I could gain clear knowledge for the full solution of the Ophir problems.

We steamed up the desolate and rock-bound coasts of Oman and then round that prominent cape, Ras el Hadd. As we turned westward it seemed that we were steaming toward the Land of Desolation, but later I was to learn that we had actually entered the gateway of the Cradle of Civilization.

You will remember that Genesis* states there were four rivers which came to a junction near the Garden of Eden. The Euphrates was one of those rivers, and the other three seem lost to geography. The Euphrates flows into the Persian Gulf, and the nearby lands hold many legends of the lost Garden. I was not out to discover the lost rivers, but one of them was an important clue to my problem—the lost river Pison, which “compasseth the whole land of Havilah”, for Havilah was a tribe mentioned in the same verse of Genesis that gives the first allusion to Ophir. During my first visit to the Persian Gulf I gained very little information, but I did, however, gain one useful hint, and that under circumstances which seemed singularly unpropitious.

We had left Portsmouth in April, with the band playing “The girl I left behind me”, while the sun shone bright between the April showers. It was June when we steamed into the picturesque and rock-bound harbour of Muscat, a brazen sun shone overhead, and to an unseasoned crew it seemed to be the hottest place in the world. The sick-bay was full, and many officers were down with fever. I was very fortunate, for I seldom get sick during hot weather, so perhaps I may give a few hints to those who, like ourselves, were facing excessive heat for the first time.

While the sun is down it is good to drink copiously, though, of course, one must use common sense and discretion in the use of alcohol. While the sun is up it is well to drink little and to eat but little. Mahomedt the Prophet, on whose name be peace, knew his lands, and left many sound instructions to his disciples. He himself ate so little that he often tied sun-warmed stones to his waist to stay the pangs of hunger.

He bade his followers fast from the first ray of dawn until sunset during the whole month of Ramazan, which comes in the middle of the hot season. I have never attempted to keep the full rigours o...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title
• Copyright
• Contents
• Dedication
• List of Illustrations
• Part One
• Part Two