The sultan of the mountains

“Well, what happens when the dowry is settled?” “There is rejoicing. Guns are fired in the yard; there is a great heap of corn sprinkled with salt, to keep away the jinns. An egg is buried under the threshold of the house, that life may be white and without trouble. In the house of the bridegroom, the night before the wedding, there is music and drums. In the house of the bride, one who is blessed with many children, who has the love of her husband, being his only wife, comes to dress the bride and paint her hands and feet with henna. The next day all the unmarried girls bring presents of meat and kous-kous, but the bride weeps and none may stop her. At night the mule comes to her door with a beautiful box on it. Everybody sings while the bride is carried out to the box, and she clings to her people and weeps. They try to prevent her going, but the friends of the bridegroom lead away the mule, and even her brothers cannot stop her.”

The black girl was evidently visualising many nuptial scenes, for she began making the quivering, bubbling sound that always haunts an Arab wedding. “Is it thus that she was married?” I asked, nodding at the pink couch. “Lady, that is for a first wedding, when a youth has not yet untied his girdle, but my lord has been married many times, as befits a Sherif.” “It is an honour and a blessing to be married to my lord,” said the old woman, flinging back her haik. “The mother of his sons is sure of paradise.

“Min zamaan—a very long time ago, a girl of the Ait Uriagel ran away from her family that she might be the servant of the Sherif. She could not approach his tent, so she hid among the trees till hunger overcame her, and then it was told to the Sherif that she was there. He gave her food and presents, and sent her back to her father, who beat her, for had she not brought dishonour on his family? Three days, four days afterwards, she came back again and found her way to the women’s tent, showing the marks on her back. The Sherif ordered that she should be beaten again, that the example of her father might be upheld.” The leather of the crone’s face wrinkled into something that might once have been a smile. “The girl stayed, for she was honoured by the interest of my master.” “She is here now?” I asked. “She has a daughter, whom you see there, but she herself has gone.”

Arab women never speak of death, if they can avoid it. They always say, “He went. The mercy of Allah is upon him.” “How many children has the Sherif?” I asked. The old woman pointed round the room, which seemed to have grown more crowded. “There are nine daughters, and the two oldest you see there, Zahrah and Mariam. None are yet married, for my lord is busy with war and politics. He has no thoughts for women.” I learned that there were three boys, of whom the eldest, Mohamed el Khalid, was the son of a Sherifa of Beni Halima, which house is also descended from Abid es Salaam; the second, Mohamed Juni, was the son of a slave, and the youngest, called Hashim, because he was born in Jebel Hashim, was the child of a Sherifa of Tagzat, who had died about a year ago.

The Sherif had been married five times, but only two of his wives were living, and I only saw one, the speechless Khadija. It appears that her father gave her six slaves as a wedding present, for one of whom he paid about £90, which was considered a very high price. I saw the girl, a plump Sudanese, rather light-skinned, with better features than is usual with her race. She was almost as grandly dressed as the bride, in a purple silk kaftan, with a waistcoat of olive-green edged with silver, and a white over-garment belted with silver. I understood she was particularly skilled in the application of henna and in painting the hands and feet with a delicate tracery that gives the appearance of lace. Generally female slaves cost about £50, but the small boys can be bought for 100 douros, approximately £15. “Women are more expensive,” said Mariam, “because they are always useful. They stay in the house and serve, but the boys, once they grow up, are dangerous. The Arabs do not need blacks to fight for them, and what else can men do? So most grown-up slaves are given their liberty, for they cannot come into the house.”

The conversation languished, and I was thinking of taking my leave, when the old woman began whispering into my ear. It was difficult to understand her, but when she mentioned the word “curse,” I made a great effort to follow her story, and this is what I gathered. “It is said that my lord shall have no knowledge of love. All other things he has, but he may not love, for, if so, the person who holds his heart between his hands shall be killed. That is the curse, and truly my lord does not love easily. He is kind to all, for his heart is great, but women are as children to him. He takes care of them and is gentle, but he is a father to his wives, and one is no more than the other.”

The human remnant looked round her nervously, but no one was listening. “It happened so long ago,” she said. “None of these saw it, but I was with the mother of my lord, and I saw many things. It was a time when my master made war on one of the tribes, before men knew of him, and, having attacked the house of the Sheikh at night, he killed two of his sons. For a long time there was war on this account, for there was blood to avenge, but at last my lord made peace with the men of that tribe, and the Sheikh gave him a daughter as a bride. It was said that the girl was unwilling, for much harm had been done to her people, and one of her brothers who had been killed was born at the same time as herself, of the same mother. But the men arranged the affair, and she had no choice.

“When she was brought to the house of el Raisuli, she would take no food. Neither water nor bread passed her lips, nor would she listen to the musicians, nor take part in any of the festivals. At last my lord went in to her, and I was one of the servants who stood at the door. She got up suddenly, and her hand was behind her back. The Sherif spoke to her with the blessing of Allah, and she answered, ‘There can be no blessing from thee to me, for we are enemies. There is the blood of my brothers between us, which there was no man to avenge. I have not touched thy gifts, but I bring thee a gift—see—” and she drew her hand from behind her, and in it was a knife. She struck swiftly, but my lord did not move, and the ‘baraka’ was with him. The blade slipped on the clasp of his belt, and he was not wounded. The knife fell on the floor between them, and the other woman who was beside me screamed; but the Sherif ordered us to be silent. He picked up the knife and gave it to her, who stood trembling but fierce—she was not like our women. ‘Take it,’ he said, and her fingers went out to it slowly. ‘You cannot hurt me. Your aim was bad, but try again, and do not hurry.’

“Then she stood back and cursed him—Allah have mercy on her!—and told him that the ‘baraka’ would bring him no peace. His life would be without time for love and without rest, and there would be one person that he would care for, and he would be killed in his youth. Then, when I thought she would have struck my master, and I was afraid, she drove the knife into her own breast, and fell. My lord looked at her, and said nothing. The poor one! she had lived for so few years, and life had been hard for her. That is long ago, and it is best that such things are forgotten, but see now the way the Sherif looks at my master Mohamed. He would make him into an ‘Alim’ learned in books, but knowing nothing of war, yet the boy craves for a gun and a horse. Truly he will be a warrior in his time.”

I wondered much about this story, for I could get no confirmation of it. Harem women weave the most curious tales—it is their one occupation—and the life of el Raisuli lends itself to much romantic exaggeration. It was, of course, impossible to ask the serious councillors if such an event had happened, for curiosity dies at the door of the harem. They would not even have mentioned the name of their master’s wife. “Of that I know nothing,” would have been the answer.

However, because the story haunted me, when Mulai Sadiq and Badr ed Din joined me in my tent, I turned the conversation to women, and the Sherif of Tetuan was quite eloquent on the subject. “Of what use are women?” he said. “If the Sherif had had nine sons, he would have had nine rifles at his side in battle, but daughters are a misfortune. They eat up a man’s substance, which is very hard. Sons go with their father wherever he travels. They serve and defend him; but daughters must always stay in the house, and a man must leave servants to guard them and provide them with food and slaves.”

“Don’t you care for your daughters at all?” I asked. The answer was a most emphatic “No. The only time that a woman is useful is when she marries and brings a man into the house, and then it is not always certain whether he will be good or bad.” “Don’t listen to him!” laughed Badr ed Din. “He married his daughter to a man of Xauen, and he spent 4,000 douros on the wedding. He won’t let his son-in-law leave Tetuan, for fear that he should do something bad, though the poor man wishes to return to his own town.” “Ullah! It is not my daughter I protect, but my honour,” assured Mulai Sadiq. “Men of my race do not like daughters. Before Islam they were buried alive, as babies . . . a good custom!”

He looked at me with something very like a twinkle in his faded eyes. Emboldened by this, I asked the old man if he had ever felt affection for any of the ladies he had married. The negative was scornful this time. “No! If they are ill, I give them medicine. When they are hungry I give them food, but no more. We Arabs are savages. I am capable of dying twenty times for a guest in my house, and no man may touch a woman of my kin, for that affects my honour; but what is this talk of love? Intelligent men do not know it. It is only the stupid who indulge in it. A wise man does not trouble himself with women’s affairs!” “Do not believe him,” said Badr ed Din. “He is like all Moors. When we desire one thing, we say just the reverse.” “He is an egoist,” I said. “Après moi, le déluge,” quoted the reprobate unexpectedly. “It is true,” said Badr ed Din, with an air of reflection, “when I was last in Tetuan, all the women of his family came to me and said they wished to leave his house altogether unless they received better treatment.”

After this I put in a few words as to the position of Englishwomen, and the Sherif el Bakali laughed. “You have investments of your own,” he said, “so you are free. Our women come to us with nothing but a futah[77] and the henna on their feet!” “You need not complain,” retorted Mulai Sadiq. “Marriage is cheap in your tribe.” “That is true. It costs but a sheaf of grain, a sheep and the pay of the musicians. For six douros one may be married in the mountains.” At this point someone told Badr ed Din that he was a great fighter with his tongue, but expressed some doubt as to his courage with a rifle. The Bakali chuckled. “The man who follows a lion must be brave,” he said, “and I have followed el Raisuli for twenty-five years.”

By the time the long-delayed lunch made its appearance, after a succession of such remarks as “You told me we should eat, but was it today or tomorrow that you meant?” and “Allah knows if we shall eat before we go to paradise,” we learned that the Sherif was ill. Mohamed el Khalid, wearing his petunia jellaba over jade-green waistcoat and trousers, whispered the news into the secretary’s ear. “It is the will of Allah,” said the latter. “But does he suffer much?” Another whisper. “Ullah, they have put a cord from the ceiling, that he may pull on it and relieve his pain.”[78]

Our lunch was more silent than usual, though there was kous-kous with a chicken buried in it, mutton cooked with almonds and onions, a fruit which tasted like stewed wood, reposing upon piles of marrow, and a row of skewers on each of which were impaled a dozen bits of liver rolled up in fat. Mulai Sadiq insisted on fasting, as is his habit on Mondays and Thursdays, and after he had seen us satisfy our appetites, he went and sat in an isolated corner of the compound, and remained contemplative and completely immobile for several hours.

Just before sunset the news went round that the Sherif was better, and, when the last rays were slanting over the hills of Beni Aros, he came out into the garden, a sky-blue jellaba on top of all his other robes. It was the feast of Aidh el Fatr, and, for some days, a deputation of the tribesmen of Guezauia had been waiting to see the Sherif. This tribe is really in French territory, a three-days’ journey from Tazrut, so their presence was a witness to the extent of el Raisuli’s influence in Morocco.

Having seated himself outside the room used as a mosque, the Sherif suddenly decided to receive the tribesmen. There was much bustle in the compound, and the little slaves ran about with the agility of monkeys. Sidi Badr ed Din stood on one side of Raisuli and the Kaid on the other. The mood of the morning had passed, and the Sherif was smiling. It is a rare thing, this smile of his, and infinitely charming. Seeing it, one realises that the essence of the man’s ‘baraka’ is his power of making friends. “No enemy goes out from the presence of Mulai Ahmed,” say his people, and it is true. When he talks earnestly, his sincerity is obvious, and his dignity so impressive that, however long the tribesmen have waited to see him, however much they have suffered at his hands, when leaving him they are his warmest partisans.

Hidden behind a tree, I watched a procession of the Guezauia come up the tiled path, led by Shiekh Ueld el Abudi. The headmen wore white jellabas with the hoods pulled forward like cowls; their followers were muffled in earth-brown camel-hair, and each man led a mule or a horse with bulging panniers—gifts of oil, grain and skins for the Sherif. Live sheep were tied one on each side of the saddles, and all this tribute of goodwill was laid before el Raisuli as he sat, reserved and still, before the scarred walls of the Zawia. Shell-marks and bullet-marks seamed the plaster above him. His house was in ruins, his people scattered, but something remained, a force and a patience that was unconquerable. The Sheikhs bent and kissed his knees, murmuring a salutation in the name of Allah. The tribesmen pressed their lips to a fold of his jellaba. There was a little grave talk, and then the Azzan rang out from the mosque of Sidi Mohamed. One by one the mules clattered out of the compound. The hooded figures stole swiftly after them. There was a moment’s peace, broken by the murmur of the hezb from the Zawia. Then, loud and triumphant from the hillside, pealed the tribesmen’s prayers. “Haya alla fella, Haya alla sala! There is no God but God! and God is Great!” The old appeal to warrior Islam stirred the night with passion, and I imagined the thousand thousand swords that had flashed to meet the cry in the centuries that are dead.

CHAPTER XXI

“Maaden and Beni Khelu were occupied while a man’s shadow was still longer than himself, and communication was established with Ovila, who commanded a mehalla of the Kaliphate. The first fight was at Suq el Khemis[79] but I had agents in the town who spread terror among the people, saying the whole of Jebala were at their doors. We wasted few bullets, but surrounded the town and let no man pass out armed, and none towards the front. We took such a quantity of arms and ammunition that, after this, most of my people carried two rifles, one on the back and one in the hand. If I had not been with the army, there would have been no more fighting that day, for Khemis is a large town and loot was plentiful. I left my place at the head and rode in the rear, my gun ready, but not for the enemy. If a man dropped out to empty his shoes, or even turned to look back, he ran the risk of a bullet. In this way the march was swift and we were in the heart of Anjera before they knew of our coming.

“The worst stronghold of the tribe was El Biut. The gates were always decorated with the heads of the innocent, and bodies rotted outside the precincts. From far away kites could be seen hovering above the fortress of the brigands, and, by this sign, every traveller made a great circle to avoid the ‘house of death.’ This place was left to the Spaniards, and they lost several hundred dead before they took it.[80] At dawn three of their columns left Ceuta, but they had to fight their way from village to village. At last the heights of Haj el Hamara, Kudia Xerija and Ain Yir were occupied; but many wounded were left to the kites, who some said were jinns and familiars of the Kaids Abd el Kadu Kheragin, and el Jarru.

“El Biut was well placed for defence, for the country is very rough, with wadis which hid the snipers of Anjera and cliffs which acted as walls against an enemy. The tribesmen made sorties down the beds of the streams, and fighting was so fierce that, when a Moor died, his friends had no time to take his rifle and cartridges. The women, who generally load for their kinsmen, took up the guns of the dead and fought beside their fathers and brothers, firing, with a babe wrapped in the haiks, believing that, because of this, their sons would the sooner be warriors, with a blessing on their arms. The wounded dragged themselves into the bushes and fired painfully, till their blood clotted their triggers. The Anjera were outnumbered and surrounded, but they were fighting in their own country against men untrained to find a target for each bullet, and they might have prolonged the battle, but for the guns which tore up their walls and blew their roofs into powder.

“Warships bombarded El Biut from the sea at El Marsa, and the men of Anjera, seeing their possessions destroyed, made a great charge, under the leadership of Ali el Hannani, and fought their way through the first line, but they could not face the guns. About 300 Spaniards died and many tribesmen. The castle was destroyed and the rest of the enemy mounted their horses, taking their women behind them, and fled into the wild country where Spain could not follow.

“It was a useful victory, for El Biut had always threatened Ceuta, which is only a few kilometres from it. The kites fed well for a week, and then they dispersed, for their meat was gone. Anjera could not be defeated with the loss of El Biut. With you, if a town is taken, it is the end. With us it means a few more guns in the mountains. I had pushed my columns through Ben Ayib, where three men would have held up our army—the Sheikh and his two sons, lying flat behind their roof only firing when they could see the eyes of my men! We came that night to Ait el Khamra and dispersed ourselves round the hills to sleep. Sentinels kept watch on every high place, and I visited them all during the night, but there was no disturbance. With the first light we came down and took the villages below, burning them after we had supplied ourselves with food and such arms as the tribesmen left. The women were sent back, behind my rearguard, which advanced always half a day’s journey behind us, keeping the ground clear of the enemy. I communicated with them by means of cavalry, divided into small parties and well mounted. I also had a force of irregular riders, who took no part in the battles but held themselves always ready to go to the aid of the rearguard.

“It was my intention to say the evening prayers at Sidi Ali, which is near the boundary of Anjera and el Fahs, and then I proposed to turn north-eastwards and, cutting off the stragglers from El Biut, march right through the Anjera country to the sea. I lost many men in skirmishes, but we were too powerful an army for a great fight. Tribesmen would charge down on our column and harry it like a flocks of ibis round a herd, and then, when a few shots had been exchanged, scatter among the gullies, brown riders on dark horses, seen for a moment against the green, and then lost among the rocks which they simulated. The only way of enforcing submission was by burning the villages, and this I did systematically, for an Arab will risk his life to guard his property, but never pay money for his life! At last there were signs of distress, for the men of Anjera saw their wealth disappearing. Small Kaids came to treat with me, but I refused to speak to them. I said, ‘Let your Sheikhs come,’ and named certain of them, ‘and let them come with all their men, as it is right they should visit the Sultan.’

“It was then Ramadan, and, though men fight the fiercer for hunger, it is a bad month for negotiations. Peace should be arranged on a full stomach, when a man has no ill-will for anyone. The day’s fast was the longer because it was summer, and the sun rose early and set late. While we marched, every wadi seemed to contain a stream, which was a temptation of the devil, but there was no chance of surprises, for few slept at night. After sunset the whole camp was a kitchen, and, fortunately, the Anjera sheep were plentiful. Songs echoed among the mountains, with the sermons of the Imams and the cry, repeated even while men satisfied their hunger, ‘There is no God but God.’ One morning, when my servants were preparing the early meal which must be finished before the first rays come over the horizon, news was brought of the approach of many horsemen. There was no shouting, and they came openly with their flags flying, so there was no question of battle. ‘There are many hundreds, Sidi,’ said my slave, whom I sent to discover the truth. ‘They come to make their submission with the Chiefs of their villages.’ A few minutes later came the rattle of many shots and the answering salute from my guards.

“My tent was in the middle of the camp, a great black and white pavilion like this one. The two flags flew on either side, and, in front, turned towards the House of Allah (Mecca), which they saluted night and morning, were four cannon. From where I sat, not moving or hurrying myself, I could hear all kinds of music, punctuated by occasional shots. Drums, pipes, cymbals, all the noise of the country was there in my honour, and my own men, not to be outdone, began beating military drums, and each man played differently, but the bugles were the most full of sound! Slowly up the hill came the white army, for each man wore his best jellaba, and the saddle-cloths of the Kaids, green and red, were decorated with silver and hung with fringes. Their bridles were heavy with silver and the manes of their horses plaited with tassels. Each tribesman was armed, except the Kaids, whose servants carried their guns before them. I still sat in my tent, but, when the music was very near, I called one of my captains and ordered him, ‘Tell the Sheikhs that if they would see me they must enter my camp without shoes. They have perhaps forgotten, but I told them this on another occasion, a long time ago.’

“There was a halt on the edge of the camp, and then a slave ran in to me, whispering, ‘They are coming.’ An army of many thousands was ranged behind my tent and the great of Anjera came to me alone, except for their drummers and their standard-bearers, but the bareness of their feet could not be hidden. They stood outside my tent and I did not invite them to enter. I sat as I was, in silence, as if I did not know they were there. So it was for some minutes. Then they began to murmur among themselves, and, at last, one entered and kissed, not my shoulder, as was his right, but the edge of my sleeve. The others followed and, when they had all saluted me, I spoke to them, using the phrases of a Sultan to his subjects. I told them that they should have prostrated themselves and placed their turbans under my feet, and that I could not accept their submission until I had considered the matter with the Spaniards.

“While I sent messengers to Jordana, they were to camp in a certain place beyond the tents of my army, and I chose this spot because, to reach it, they would have to pass through the whole of my mehalla and would be impressed by its strength. They answered, ‘Allah has given us into your hands, but not into those of the Christians,’ and I replied, ‘If I choose to put a Christian foot on your necks you cannot prevent me; but I have made peace with Spain in order to preserve your liberty, not to destroy it.’ They would have disputed this with me, but I said, ‘Go now, for a man’s word is according to the number of his rifles. Judge now if mine is strong,’ and they said, ‘Your strength is great, but, Allah forgive us, you mistake the enemy.’

“All that day beasts were slaughtered before my tent, and, because of the heat and the flies, the smell was intolerable, for they died slowly, bellowing because of their cut knees, and, since it was Ramadan, no one might remove the meat till after sunset. But the night which followed was like noon in the camp. The men of Anjera had long been hungry, for their villages had been destroyed as a blight passes over barley, and there was no time for them to save their stores, so each man took a portion of a bullock or sheep and, in every corner, there was a fire. The Kaids remained in their tents, consulting anxiously, for they had heard there were Spaniards in my camp; but the tribesmen ate together, mixing their songs with their music and, by the dawn, none could tell which was enemy and which friend.

“With the submission of Anjera, the Spaniards should have been content. The sea coast was now clear for them, and what can they gain from the mountains, where a man lives by the toil of his women and the prowess of his own rifle? Near Melilla there is much wealth under the ground, and, for this reason, the Germans interested themselves in the country. When they said to Abdul Melek, ‘Raisuli shall be Kaliph of all Morocco and you shall have as much money as you wish,’ they asked in return all the mining rights in the mountains, as well as what they already possessed in the East. Yet I think our hills are barren. To this extent has Allah blessed us, for there is nothing to tempt the greed of Europe.

“By the end of that year of which I have been telling you, there was no more need to make war. Those of the tribes who were not with me were afraid to be against me, and, with my pass, a man might travel from one end of the mountains to the other. I remember a Spaniard was once with me, and he wanted to shoot hares or foxes in the Jebala. He had expended all his ammunition on the way, for game was plentiful, so he asked me, ‘Will you lend me some cartridges?’ I answered, ‘Count the grains of flour in that dish,’ for he was eating kous-kous. ‘I will give you a bullet for each one.’ He laughed, for the dinner had been prepared for many, and asked, ‘How far can I go with safety?’ I looked out over the hills, which fell in innumerable folds, like a mantle that has been crumpled on the ground, and I answered, ‘Choose a horizon where you will, and go to it. Then look all round you, and choose another, the furthest. Go also to that, and you will be safe, if you say, ‘I am with the Sherif.’”[81]

After this Raisuli seemed inclined to keep silence for the rest of the day, but, urged to continue his story, he muttered, “War may be good for a man, but politics are certainly bad. While we fought together the Spaniards and I were friends, and when, in the spring,[82] Jordana sent 20,000 of his troops back to Spain, I was content, for I thought that at last matters were going as I had planned. It does not need an army to hold this country. It needs but two men who are in accord. I moved my great camp to Keitan, near Tetuan, so as to be in touch with Jordana, and, at one time while I was there, I had more than 10,000 men behind me. This was only for a few days, the time for which a man may bring his own rations, for I fed none but my own mehalla. The levies from the tribes supplied their own food, and when at war, every man lived on the country. This is the quickest way of forcing peace upon the enemy.

“Several times Moors came from Tangier to see me, saying, ‘The Germans are winning many battles. Why don’t you join them and make war on France?’ My answer was always the same, ‘Wait,’ for I thought, ‘Certainly if the Germans are strong enough to beat the whole of Europe, they are strong enough to crush Morocco until there is nothing left of us, not even our graves.’ In this case, it would be wise to be their friends, but I had given my word to Jordana, so I did nothing except keep hold of the Fondak and the way to Tangier. It was about this time, I think, that Abdul Melek[83] paid me a last visit, but, Ullah, he had wasted millions of marks among the tribes and was no nearer his purpose. We met among the hills of Beni Mesauer, for I would not see him openly, and he spoke of Ahmed es Senussi, whom Germany would make ruler of all Egypt, and said to me, ‘This man is not even a Sherif. Would you be less powerful than he?’ I said to him, ‘My power does not depend on titles. Take care that you do not stretch your hand too far.’ He said, ‘If you were Kalipha I should be your Wazir in Taza, which is a profitable post.’ Truly he thought of nothing but money, and yet, a little later, when he fled from Tangier hoping to reach Marnei, the Anjera caught him and took all his wealth. They might also have taken his life, but that Zellal interceded for him and brought him into his house. The French offered a great prize for him, but el Ayashi (Zellal) would not give up his guest.

“This was perhaps the time of my greatest power, and my camp was never empty. Always some of the great Kaids were with me, and, as in Azeila, I gave food to all who asked for it, not according to the ways of the East, which says, ‘For two days shalt thou be my guest, but on the third day, by which time all that thou hast eaten on the first shall have passed out of thy body, thou shalt go thy ways,’ but for as long as they desired. The old trouble was growing with Jordana, in spite of the many gifts he made me, furniture and Spanish mules and great sheep from his own country. He wished me to acknowledge Mulai el Mehdi as Khalifa and to become his Grand Vizier. I told him often, ‘If I do this I shall have no authority left with the tribes, for no mountaineer will respect me if they see me inclining before a man of nothing.’

“I asked him what he complained of in my rule of the mountains, and he said, ‘Your men pass freely through our zone and come in and out of the towns, but it is not possible for a Spaniard to move in the hills. You impose your own taxes without the permission of Spain, and we have no control over your justice. Men complain of cruelty and extortion, and why is this? You are so rich that you cannot need any more. Half the International Zone is yours. You have farms which contain the best land in the plains, and your houses are in every town. Why do you make the people discontented by taking so much of their produce?’ I answered, ‘It is the custom, and if I asked from them but one centime in the thousand, they would be just as indignant. It is the habit of the Arab to complain, and he is happiest when he has a good reason for his plaints.’

“Jordana said, ‘You have dispossessed the Kaids who were friendly to us and, without my authority, you have appointed many who were our enemies and who, even now, are not willing to work with us.’ I answered, ‘If a man can control his people it does not matter to me whether he is your friend or mine. It is a bad policy to put a man in a position of authority just because you are grateful to him. It is also bad to sell posts, as was the way of Abdul Aziz and Mulai Hafid, and truly the French are wise in this matter, for they make friends with the strongest Arabs and allow them to rule their own people.’

“Since the time when I was Governor of Azeila I have tried to keep peace with the great Kaids, and some were always with me, and I consulted them about the affairs of their own tribes. Mohamed el Kharaji was my most trusted adviser, and Zellal, who could have been Sultan in my place had he wished, Hamed el Harras of Beni Ider, Mohamed el Hartiti, Chief of Beni Hosmar, who regarded Tetuan each morning and prayed that it might be delivered into his hands. After the fall of El Biut, Abderrahman Bulaich of Anjera joined me, and others of my companions were Abdul Ramin of Gaba, el Melanain, el Arbi Belkhidar, and Ben Hassem, another Sheikh of Anjera. There were more beside these, for this was my strength, and by means of my friends I ruled the land. A man who cannot use the strength of others will never make full use of his own.

“There were some tribes or families which never submitted to me for long, and of these were the Chiefs of Kherba, two brothers of whom the oldest was the leader. The land of Sumata is not fit for an army, so, when the villages refused to pay tribute, I sent a few men only, with the intent of arranging the matter peaceably, but el Kherba seized two of my soldiers and beat them before his women, which was a disgraceful thing. When this news came to me, I sent my nephew with a mounted column, telling him exactly how he was to surprise the village. The men of Sumata were watching. Night and day they posted sentinels among their hills, but my men left their horses with a friendly Kaid, and, scattering, came in twos and threes till they were within sight of the village. Then they hid themselves among the bushes, which are very low so that a man must creep on his knees, and even then his head may be seen. My soldiers tied branches round their rifles and plaited twigs and leaves over their heads, so that if any sentinel noticed a movement among the scrub, he would think it was the wind blowing, or some animal crawling into cover. In this manner they crept very slowly towards the houses, wriggling like snakes between the sentinels. Two they dragged down and killed before they had time to cry out, and at the time of the aysha prayer, when the Sheikhs were in the house of the Imam, they dashed into the village, shooting everyone whom they saw and setting fire to the thatch.

“El Kherba crept out of a window of his house, while men broke in at the front, and, mounting his horse, fled straight into another party of the attackers. They took him prisoner and brought him down to Tazrut, though, three times, his men tried to rescue him. When he was led into my house with his hands tied, I said to the guards, ‘This is not the right treatment for a Sheikh,’ and they released him. Then I told him, ‘It is written in the Book that death shall be the punishment of the subject who rebels against the Sultan,’ and he answered, ‘I am not your subject, but it seems the will of Allah that I die.’ ‘It is a pity to waste good men,’ I said, ‘for the country needs them. Let your section of Sumata pay tribute to me, and there shall be peace between your house and mine.’

“He agreed, and went back to his people unhurt, but he did not keep faith for long. A caravan was attacked in his country and, when I sent men to enquire into the matter, they disappeared, and not even their bodies were found. I was very angry, and I sent el Kharaji with a picked force, telling him to bring back the head of el Kherba. I said, ‘Do not trouble about the village, or he may escape during the fighting. Hide yourselves well, and wait till you see where he goes; then kill him, or take him prisoner. Afterwards his tribe will submit, for it is only he who excites them against me, hoping to profit by his independence to enrich himself.’

“They did as I had ordered, but, as they went stealthily through the hills, a goatherd suddenly threw down his stick and fled towards the village. El Kharaji thought, ‘Even if he has seen us and warns the people of our approach, it does not matter, for we are double their number.’ He had divided his party and sent some round to the rear of the village and others to command it from a convenient height. Soon there was a sound of firing, and el Kharaji was puzzled. Thinking that perhaps one of his other columns was being attacked, he advanced quickly up the hill till, hidden among the stones, he could see the village across a hollow. The firing came from among the houses and, when music broke out with shrill quivering of women’s songs, el Kharaji knew it was a wedding. With his field-glasses he could even see the mare standing before the house of the bride. Then women came out and hung two sacks on the saddle, one containing ‘taria’ (thin cakes of unleavened flour) and the other raisins. ‘It would be a pity to disturb the wedding,’ said el Kharaji. ‘Besides, many of the men will go out with the bride, and there will be few left to defend the village.’ So they waited, for it appeared that the goatherd had not given warning of their approach.

“Towards sunset the bride came out of the house, and she was wrapped in a new mantle which covered her completely, and many handkerchiefs were hung over her face, above which was a great straw hat sewn with silk cords. There was much shouting as the mare was led away, and stones were thrown after it to make the marriage happy.[84] Women sprinkled milk before the bride but she did not turn her head nor look at any who went with her. A girl walked beside her, holding the end of her haik, and the young men of the village ran in front and behind, firing their rifles and shouting. ‘Let us also salute the bride,’ urged one of my soldiers, but el Kharaji restrained him, and the procession passed out of sight.”

Raisuli looked at me expectantly, and Badr ed Din was laughing whole-heartedly. “She does not understand!” he teased. “Ullah, nor did Sidi Mohamed, for he waited till the last sounds had died away and the bride was, no doubt, in her new home! Then he gave the arranged signal, from all sides his men closed in on the village. . . . It was empty except for the women and children and the old men who could not make two teeth meet. There was no sign of el Kherba, or of anybody else who could carry a gun. Under the eyes of my soldiers all the fighting men of the village had gone forth with their rifles, and with them rode the Kaid, in the disguise of a bride! Ullah, the old fox had even taken his latest wife with him, in the person of the maiden who held the end of her sister’s haik! After that day it was unwise to talk to el Kharaji of weddings.” Badr ed Din chuckled. “His daughters ran the risk of dying single, for the word ‘bride’ was a curse in his mouth!”

Raisuli continued, “A second time I made peace with el Kherba, for I thought a man of such resource would be useful in my councils. He wrote to me from the mountains, where he lived as an outlaw, begging that if he was to die, his head might be left on his body, and saying that, if this were promised, he would come down to Tazrut to surrender. I replied, ‘I have need of your head and your body together. Separate, they are no use to me. Return in peace to your village, but, if you break faith with me again, I will come at the head of a mehalla to punish you.’

“After this there was a truce between us, and he paid the tribute demanded, but unwillingly, making many excuses. At last he joined a section of the Beni Gorfet who had risen against me, and for some time he evaded my men. When the revolt was put down, he was captured, hiding in a cave where his friends brought him food secretly, when they could evade the eyes of my sentries. I had no wish for a blood feud with the Sumata, so I delivered him for trial to a tribunal of Qadis who were learned in the law. He was condemned to death, as was just, for he had murdered and stolen, and broken faith, as well as rebelling against his ruler. His brother also, who had aided him, was captured and should have had the same fate, but all the women of their family came to me and threw themselves on the ground, putting their foreheads in the dust, wailing and weeping. They said, ‘These are the only two men left in our house, for the others have all been killed in war. If these also die, who will protect us?’ They kissed the edge of my robe and would not let me go.

“At last I said to them, ‘It is not I who condemn them, but the law of Islam,’ and they cried out, ‘My master the King may interpret the law with mercy. Do not make our sons fatherless, and may Allah make you father of many warriors.’ I answered, ‘Truly it is my right to modify the law, and, in this case, I will show mercy and spare the lives of your masters, but the hand of one shall be forfeit and the eyes of the other.’

“This was carried out as far as the younger brother was concerned, for with his own rifle he had shot two of the men who travelled with the caravan, and this was proved against him; but a trick was played on el Kherbi. It was told him that his eyes should be burned out with hot metal, and he said, ‘It is the will of Allah.’ Hot discs were put upon his eyelids and he made no sound. When it was finished and the smell of burning flesh was in his nostrils, they said to him, ‘Your sight is gone! Where your eyes were, there are now two pits.’ He could see nothing, and the pain made him stupid. They put a handkerchief round his head and left him in the prison. After some days I sent for him and said, ‘Have you repented of the crimes which you committed not only against me, but against Allah?’ and he said, ‘I have, for your punishment is just.’ Then I told him, ‘If your repentance is sincere, your sight will come back to you,’ and he was amazed and asked how this could happen, and I answered, ‘I do not know how or when, but my word is given that, if you speak truth about your repentance, you will see the sun.’ He went out doubtfully, saying, ‘The truth of the Sherif is known.’ In a few weeks his eyes were healed and all Sumata acknowledged the miracle. Since then the tribe has been with me. But, in truth, only the man’s eyelids had been burned!”

CHAPTER XXII

“It is difficult to keep a thing secret in Morocco, and it was soon known who were the criminals, but justice was laggard, so I ordered el Mudden to fetch me the bandits. This was not difficult, for there is nothing more ready[85] than the hand of a policeman when he hears the chink of money! The robbers were sent to patrol a certain road, and el Mudden was waiting for them, but it was a short fight. I imprisoned them in chains at Tazrut, waiting their sentence, and I sent an account of the matter to Jordana. He insisted that they were employees of Spain and liable only in her courts. I retorted that, by the pact of Khotot, it had been agreed I alone should be responsible for the people living on my properties. He answered that there was no evidence against the men, and demanded their immediate release. I answered, ‘It shall be as you wish, because of the friendship which is between us and because my desire is to serve Spain in all ways,’ but, before I released the men, I cut off the right hand of each, as a lesson that my people were not to be molested, and I said to them, ‘I have shown you great mercy, because of the intercession of the Governor, but your heads are still loose upon your shoulders. Take care that you do nothing to lose them.’

“When he heard what had happened, Jordana wrote to me angrily, accusing me of barbarity and injustice, but I replied, ‘Their lives were in my hand, for they were murderers. In justice I should have beheaded them, for this is our law. How could I rule my people, if it were known that I could not protect them? I have shown mercy, as you desired, and if, as you say, one of the men has died, it is the Will of Allah.’”

This affair was typical of the many which disturbed the relationship between the High Commissioner and Raisuli. Jordana was a man whose patriotism was only equalled by his nervous sensitiveness. He came to Morocco aware of the mistakes of his predecessors and determined that Spain should present a united front before the Moors. Convinced of the importance to his country of the turbulent colony he was sent to rule, but hampered on all sides by criticism, distrust and the kaleidoscopic changes which marked the foreign policy of his Government, he decided that an alliance with Raisuli was the only way of stabilising the situation. He realised that the original occupation of Larache and Al Kasr was due to the influence of the Sherif, and he hoped that, with this once again on his side, further peaceful penetration would be possible. What he did not understand was that the Arab rarely forgets or forgives, and that these qualities would be essential on the part of both Spain and Raisuli.

It is obvious from his correspondence that he regarded the Peace of Khotot, with its rigid demarcation of zones, as but the first step to a better understanding which would open up the country for material development. His disappointment was great when he realised that, not only were the mountains finally closed to Europeans, but that the Sherif was fulfilling only the minimum of his promises with regard to the coastal districts. The Tangier-Tetuan road was nominally occupied, but no stranger might use it without a pass from Raisuli. Roads came to an end as soon as they neared the hills, because of the mysterious difficulty of procuring labour. The water supply of Tetuan remained inadequate, because Raisuli refused to allow the construction of an aqueduct from the mountains. The railway from Ceuta to Tetuan stuck at a certain bridge, on account of inexplicable disturbances. Whenever the Spaniards wished to occupy posts essential for the protection of the main road, the Sherif protested that such a step would rouse the dormant hostility of the tribesmen, alert for a recrudescence of war. In fact, Jordana found himself struggling against well-organised, but passive, resistance.

It is certain that, during the war, Raisuli played a waiting game. The Spaniards say that only their influence prevented him from entering the lists against France. This is unlikely, for the Sherif’s policy was one of consistent neutrality in order that he might be able to secure good terms from whichever side won. Doubtless some of the German money which poured into Morocco found its way into the Sherif’s coffers, but he was too astute to commit himself to any definite aggression. As his power grew among the tribes, and with Arabs no propaganda is more popular than a display of force and prosperity, the Sherif used the powerful weapon which Jordana had unwittingly put into his hand.

Whenever his autocratic actions were questioned, he hinted at the possibility of a rupture, and the High Commissioner, interpreting such a possibility as the seal set on his failure, renewed his endeavours to propitiate. If it was an undignified situation, it was the result of Jordana’s passionate desire to serve the interests of his country, without costing her blood or money. The alternatives with which he was faced when he arrived in Tetuan seemed to him equally disastrous. They consisted in the evacuation of the country, which would be followed by the triumphal entry of France and the total loss of Spanish prestige, or a war which, judging by the fruitless efforts of his predecessors, he believed would have to be one of extermination.

He was tempted to take the middle course and the most distasteful to him. He forced himself to labour with a persistent patience wholly at variance to his nature, towards a solution which, though humiliating to his pride, would satisfy the conflicting interests in Madrid. Towards the end of 1918 he found that Raisuli was in the position of dictator, while the High Commissioner was regarded as a puppet. Under insistent orders against interference with the natives, inefficiency and laxity were rife among all classes of officials. In fact, the prestige of Spain, which Jordana hoped to vindicate at the cost of his own opinions, had been persistently lowered by giving way to the exigencies of the Sherif and his horde of deputies.

In one of the most pathetic letters ever written by a great pro-consul to his Government, Jordana traced his course of action from its initiation and, acknowledged that he had, himself, undermined the road “which led to the forbidden mountains,” foreshadowed the possibility of that rupture which would prove how unprofitable had been his years of conciliation. With a hand that shook, he signed the long document, and the pages bear repetitive evidence of a mind strained beyond endurance. Then, dropping the pen, he fell forward over the table and died while the ink of his apologia was still wet!

“The news of Jordana’s death was brought to me at Tazrut,” said Raisuli, “and I was certain that this would mean the end of my relations with Spain, for I had been watching the course of politics, and the Madrid press was clamouring for change. I returned to my camp and at once offered to give up the arms and ammunition entrusted to me for the duration of the campaign against the rebel tribes. My offer was refused, and I was assured that there was no alteration in the attitude of Spain. Messengers came to me almost daily from the Residency in Tetuan, urging me to stay at Kheiton, and to keep a strong hold of the tribes until the new Governor should arrive.

“Certainly this was necessary, for, on all sides, there were displeasing incidents as a result of a rumour that the foreigners would soon attack us. A man was killed within a few yards of Tetuan, and some Jews robbed in the open Suq. I sent a column to patrol the neighbourhood of the town, and warned the Beni Hosmar that my arm was still strong enough to punish. News came that bandits from Beni Gorfet had attacked a Spanish farm. The landlord had been killed, his goods stolen and his wife carried away as a captive. Immediately I sent a strong force to Khemis, demanding the release of the woman, but the Kaid was obdurate, for he hoped for a ransom. There was a fight, and his house was burned. While all men rushed to put out the flames, my soldiers saw some women running towards the hills, dragging one who went unwillingly. They pursued the party, and the women seized stones and earth to throw at them, abusing them for saving a Christian, but my troops took the Spaniard and brought her in safety to my camp.

“That is the first time a European woman had been my prisoner, though my house has always been at the disposal of your men! She was in rags, and I had none of my family with me, so I sent to Tazrut for clothes, and she dressed as an Arab. I had a tent pitched a little way off for her, and put soldiers to keep anyone from staring at her. I said to her, ‘You may go whenever you choose, and, if you tell me your destination, I will send an escort with you.’ My men recovered the half of the goats which had been stolen, and I told her the whole had been brought back, making up the number from my flocks. She stayed in camp for a few days, till she was no longer afraid, and then I sent her down to her people.

“There were many incidents of this sort, though the tribesmen concerned themselves only with men. Farmers were captured near Larache and forced to pay a tithe of their crops and their beasts before they were set at liberty, but, whenever this happened, I punished the offenders.

“There was a long gap between the death of Jordana and the appointment of a new High Commissioner. Nearly three months passed, and several times I wrote to Tetuan announcing my departure for the mountains, for the news from Madrid was disturbing, but each time I was held back with promises.

“At last[86] Berenguer came out as High Commissioner, and it was known at once that he wished to occupy the Jebala by force. He spread abroad that he would waste no time in making effective over the whole country the Protectorate with which Spain had charged herself, but when I sent my cousin, Mulai Sadiq, to greet him, he received him courteously. Ullah, thou wert deceived in him, son of my relative!” The old man protested indignantly—“He spoke affectionately to me, and told me that his one wish was to help all Moslems and to make the towns safe for trade. He said his mission was peaceful and that he wanted only to restore order in the districts where there had been trouble.” “So you wrote,” remarked the Sherif, “but Berenguer’s first message to me was a reproach that I had not welcomed him personally in the city. I replied, ‘Never will Raisuli be seen in Tetuan.’ Then he wrote to me by the son of Jordana, who put the matter politely, but it was not difficult to see what lay behind.