"PHOTOGRAPHED WITH THE GREAT SHEIKS OF THE FEDAN ANEZEH." (HOMER DAVENPORT), FROM RIGHT TO LEFT: [SHEIKH] AII'S BROTHER, AMEEN ZAYTOUN, A DRUSE OF THE LEBANON [THE TRANSATOR], AKMET HAFFEZ, HOMER DAVENPORT, HASHEM BEY, SHEIKH AI AND TWO OTHER ANEZEH." (PHOTO AND COMMENTARY BY ARTHUR MOORE.)
Homer Davenport's book, My Quest of the Arabian Horse, published 1909, is one of the classics of Arabian horse literature. It has started many a breeder on an informed study of the Arabian horse and has had an important influence on the development of the concepts of pure Arabian breeding which have furthered the breed in America. Although this book has been reprinted by the Arabian Horse Club of America -- now the "Registry" -- at least twice, it has been available only as a rare book for many years. A new edition of this book, titled The Annotated Quest, is excerpted here. Because of space requirements, much of Davenport's original text is necessarily abbreviated or omitted in these excerpts. To preserve readability, indications of editing such as punctuation marks to show where omissions have occurred have not been used, and occasionally, spelling has been made more consistent. The Annotated Quest differs from the original book in that it contains marginal annotations to provide clarification for the current reader, a major amount of historical information from sources not available to Davenport when he wrote, and many additional pictures. Representative samples of these additions are included in this presentation. They are offered not as improvements on the original work, which needs no improvements, but as a means of making it more useful and enjoyable for the contemporary reader. (M)y primary object in going to the Syrian desert was to obtain Arab mares and stallions of absolute purity of blood that I could trace as coming from the great Anezeh tribe of Bedouins. That was my fixed idea in undertaking the journey. I had been deeply interested in the Arab horse for many years before I really knew anything about them. Then, when I thought I had begun to acquire some knowledge of the breed I found that I was not learning much. Information about them, obtainable in this country, was confusing; alleged authorities contradicted each other in every argument; the thing to do, it seemed to me, was to go myself to the home of the Arab horse and there learn of him from his master, the Bedouin.
With this letter I proceeded at once to Washington for an interview with His Excellency Chikeb Bey, then the Turkish Ambassador, and after a very pleasant conversation with him (he fortunately is a horseman of the highest order) he assured me that while to get mares from the desert was almost impossible, still he would make an earnest appeal and would cable to Constantinople.
After a few days he received a cablegram in return which gave me the first ray of hope, for it inquired how many horses I wanted. There was some discussion then as to the number I should ask for. After consideration I concluded that while six was a modest number, generally when you went beyond six you said twelve and that just to break the monotony of such a system I had best ask for six or eight. This was done and the Sultan left it just as I had put it, "six or eight," and to my utter astonishment, as well as the Ambassador's, granted the Iradé. A few days before I planned to start, a tall athletic young man with the snappiest eyes in New York came in to see me. This was John H. Thompson, Jr. We had met on two or three occasions before. When I told him I was going on the trip to the desert his eyes got even brighter and he said: "If I wouldn't be in the way I'd like mighty well to go on that trip with you." When he called the next day he said: "I'm ready to catch any boat. Are you?" In the meantime I received a letter from Mr. C.A. Moore, the president of the firm of Messrs. Manning, Maxwell & Moore, telling me that his son, Arthur, was just as much of an Arab as I was; that he hadn't the slightest doubt that his son would dance at the mention of such a trip, but that he supposed it would be out of the question to think of his is son's joining me, as he was six feet four inches, weighed 245 pounds, and would, naturally, be in the way. I called up the office on the 'phone and the young man himself answered. His father hadn't spoken to him about the trip, but you could actually hear the interest accumulating in his voice. As I finished telling him what his father had written me, he said, "All right, we'll let it go at that; just count me in." I asked him when he'd be ready, and he said: "I'm ready now; I'll be up to see you in five minutes." ... And that's how Moore and Thompson came to be on the trip. So, with a week's preparation, we sailed on the French line, July the 5th, 1906, for Havre, armed with powerful rifles, good letters of credit, and a few other lesser necessities of life in the desert. Anxious as we were to get off to the desert there were enough things in Constantinople to keep us interested for several days, and chief among them were the Selamlik, th the only time in those days when the outsider could get a glimpse of His Imperial majesty and a visit to the royal stables. At the time we were in Constantinople, it was not entirely easy for foreigners to witness the ceremony, but permission to visit the Imperial stud was easily obtained through Mr. Gargiulo. Mr. Gargiulo was with General Grant on the latter's visit to the Royal stables, when the sultan offered him a stallion, which the General at that time refused. Later, when in France he saw what use France had made of the Arab blood, he wrote saying he would take the one offered. Mr. Gargiulo told the Sultan how lonely a trip to America would be for one stallion and that two would be able to travel better together. Accordingly the Sultan gave two. His majesty picked out a grey and a black, and as they were being prepared for the trip, Mr. Gargiulo tried them, and found the black was not a good saddle horse. He had to think of some scheme by which an exchange could be made, but he knew he would have to have a good reason. Finally, as he went to the Master of Ceremonies, to thank him for the stallions for the General, he said, "But -- "
From the balcony window we watched battalion after battalion arrive and form a mile in each direction; all along the route of the short parade soldiers stood with bayonets in the rifles. Band after band came, that reminded me of the Silverton band, in Oregon. One was actually playing the same march we used to play in Silverton -- "Belgrade." Troops had been forming for more than an hour. While all is still, a trumpet makes a loud, long sound and swords and rifles, like one big click from a tremendous clock, are brought up to present arms; and then we hear from up near the top of the Mosque a priest yelling in a monotone, something that suggests a song, or prayer of some wild desert tribe. Thousands of soldiers yell at the same instant, as if by some automatic process, the same words. The sound makes you shudder with its wild melody. An open carriage comes through the great gates, which sparkle like gold as they are swung open. Surrounding the carriage are guards, with drawn swords and tightly clenched fists. Hitched to the carriage are two fine bay horses, with docked tails. Their coats are as golden as their harness; they prance, they need exercise. There, saluting in that automatic way, rides the Sultan. The Sultan is, after all, just a man; a frail, elderly man, enjoying, I should say, the best possible life under such conditions. Unconsciously he rather shrank from the gaze of so many hungry eyes, though he bore a kindly expression mingled with a certain degree of fear. A greater part of an hour must have passed, while we could hear singing in the Mosque, and as the Sultan came out, he kissed the hands of a general of the Royal Guard and then half knelt before him. The fine rug was respread on the marble landing and a carriage was drawn up that had previously gone to the Mosque empty.
Again came the yell that echoed over in Asia. One of the princes joined his father, who climbed into the doctor like phaeton as the top was lowered, and took the lines where they had been carefully left, properly tucked between the white whip and the dashboard. The fine white Arabs, rolling in fat, started to play, and the Sultan popped th the whip on the loins, with the same peculiar jerk that common cabmen here use. He then held the reins and whip in his left hand, and saluted, when the great army, so statue like and cold, fairly knelt to the ground. Back of his carriage pranced a black Arab stallion, and back of him a fine bay one, with white feet and a star in his forehead, and back of them two dappled greys. They were saddled and bridled in rich gold trimmings.. They were there in case the kindly appearing old gentleman might want to ride. He did not care to do so that particular day. He preferred to drive and as he passed up through the big, golden gates, his personality was that of an old man who might be knitting. He led you to believe that you had actually known him well, a long, long time...
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