“9 Rebia il Oual, 1264.
“March, 1848.”
Within this letter was enclosed the document demanded at his hands. It ran as follows:—
“Praise be to the One God.
“I give you a sacred word which cannot be doubted.
“I declare that I will never henceforward excite troubles against the French, either in person, or by letters, or by any other means whatsoever.
“I make this oath before God, by Mohammed (praise and salutation be to him), by Abraham, Moses, and Jesus Christ; by the Pentateuch, the Gospel, and the Koran. I make this oath with my heart as well as with my hand and tongue.
“This oath is binding on me and on my companions, one hundred and more in number; on those who sign this document, and on those who sign it not, being unable to write.
“Salutation from Abdel Kader ibn Mehi-ed-Deen.”
Abdel Kader felt assured that these documents, having been officially demanded, would prove the immediate prelude to his release. The dawn of each successive day was hailed as the harbinger of liberty. At last the anxiously expected answer arrived. It was opened with impatience. Its substance was, that “the Republic considered itself bound by no obligation to Abdel Kader, and that it took him as the previous Government had left him—a prisoner.”
The bitter mockery pierced Abdel Kader to the heart. He sunk into the deepest despondency. Life was a burden to him, he declared. General Daumas approached him with words of consolation. “How can you be surprised,” he exclaimed in reply, with mournful earnestness, “that my resignation should falter before the greatness of my calamity? My family, my followers, are in despair. My aged mother and the women of my household weep night and day, and no longer credit the hope I am obliged to hold out to them.
“What do I say? Not only the women, but the men, give way to lamentations. Their state is such, that I am persuaded if our captivity is much prolonged, many will die. And it is I who am the cause of all this misery! I alone persisted in surrendering to the French. None of them willingly consented to it. You have, indeed, made me a deceiver; and now they all reproach me for my confidence in you.
“Is there no tribunal in France especially charged to hear the cries and reclamations of the injured? Call together all your Ulemas, and I undertake to convince them of my rights. Ah! the Republic is far different from that Sultan who, having become deaf, was seen to weep; and being asked the cause of his tears, replied, ‘I weep because I can no longer hear the complaints of the distressed and afflicted.’”
An order came for the removal of the prisoners to the Château of Pau. They arrived there April 20th, 1848. The authorities had been informed that English agents were in the neighbourhood seeking to facilitate Abdel Kader’s escape. The windows of the château were barred with iron. Sentinels paced under them night and day.
Abdel Kader smiled inwardly at all these precautions. The season of suspense was over. He felt himself a prisoner for life, and he stoically reconciled himself to his fate. A severe self-control disciplined his hitherto tempestuous emotions. The magnanimity of his soul resumed its wonted ascendancy. In a man possessing the mental energy and resources of Abdel Kader, there could be no such feeling as that of solitude. But the outer world now pressed on him. He accepted its diversion as a duty rather than a pleasure. Crowds from all parts of France knocked at the portals of the château. Impelled by mingled feelings of curiosity, sympathy, and admiration, statesmen, diplomatists, and warriors, vied with each other in doing homage to the august prisoner in his misfortunes. Abdel Kader was obliged to hold levees, which sometimes lasted for hours.
All were charmed with the loftiness and originality of his observations, the delicacy of his allusions, the felicity of his compliments. Above all, they were astonished to find that, so far from upbraiding those who had been the cause of his severe trial, he seemed to take a pleasure in suggesting extenuating circumstances for their conduct, and in endeavouring to relieve them of the burden of their treason and their shame.
General Daumas was his constant attendant. The general impression respecting Abdel Kader may be gathered from the following letter, addressed by the General to Monseigneur Dupuch, the Bishop of Algiers:—“You are going to see the illustrious prisoner of the Château of Pau. Oh! you will certainly not regret your journey. You have known Abdel Kader in his prosperity, at a time when, so to speak, all Algeria acknowledged his rule. Well, you will find him greater and more extraordinary in his adversity than he was in his prosperity. Still, as ever, he towers to the height of his position.
“You will find him mild, simple, affectionate, modest, resigned, never complaining; excusing his enemies—even those at whose hands he may yet have much to suffer—and never permitting evil to be spoken of them in his presence. Mussulmans and Christians alike, however justly he might complain of them, have found his forgiveness. He throws the conduct of the former on the force of circumstances. The safety and honour of the flag under which they fought explains that of the latter. In going to console such a noble, such an exalted character, you will add another work of sanctity to those by which your life is already distinguished.”
The Christian bishop and the Arab chief had long been bound by ties of common fellowship in deeds of mercy and compassion; and Abdel Kader selected his magnanimous coadjutor in the convention of Sidi Khalifa as the depository of his inmost thoughts and reflections. His correspondence with the bishop was constant and unremitting.
Latterly he wrote, “As you may have discovered in the mirrors of our conversation, I was not born to be a warrior. It seems to me I ought never to have been one for a single day. Yet I have borne arms all my life. Mysterious are the designs of Providence! It was only by a wholly unforeseen concourse of circumstances that I suddenly found myself thrown so completely out of the career pointed out to me by my birth, my education, and my predilection—a career which, as you well know, I ardently long to resume, and to which I never cease praying to God to allow me to return, now at the close of my laborious years.”
A record of all the remarks made by Abdel Kader to his numerous visitors would require in themselves a volume. Not one left him without carrying away and treasuring up some charming efflorescence of his facile and comprehensive intellect. A distinguished advocate assured him of the sympathies of an influential statesman. “I believe there is a little fire of affection for me in his heart,” replied Abdel Kader; “but do not let that prevent you from supplying it at times with fuel.”
When grasping simultaneously the hand of a priest and that of an officer, he remarked, “I like such visits and such faces, because one knows you at the first glance. Yours is the double uniform of devoted souls and generous hearts.”
To a numerous company he once said, “I see around me kind and amiable people, who are pleased to extol the few good qualities which I possess by the favour of Heaven; but I fear there is no real friend here to tell me of my defects, which are much more numerous.”
“I am often afraid for you,” said the Archbishop of Tours, “when I think of the rigour of our climate.” “It is true your climate is cold, but the warmth of your reception makes me forget it,” was the reply of Abdel Kader.
On receiving a colonel at the head of his staff, he said, “I thank you, colonel, I am deeply touched by your visit, and that of your brave companions. You have fought me bravely in Africa, and vanquished me. I adore the designs of God. Your present visit shows me that you think that I also did my duty; but of that you are the best judges. Again I thank you. After all, without alluding to any in particular, there ought to be many an officer in the French army who should be grateful to me, since but for me many a colonel would be still a captain, and many a general a colonel.”
To a statesman he thus generously expressed himself:—“I am not irritated at the previous delays in the execution of the convention between me and General de Lamoricière. I know well that in the actual position of France it would be indiscreet and importunate in me to press the matter too strongly. I only beg not to be overlooked too long.”
A beautiful bouquet having been presented to him by some ladies, he addressed them in the following strain of Eastern compliment, “In looking at this, and inhaling the perfume of so many lovely flowers, I seem to see a symbol of your hearts, and to breathe their delicious odours.”
The continued succession of visitors at last fatigued him. He begged that the hours of reception might be restricted. All beheld the serenity, the cheerfulness of his aspect with wonder and astonishment; but who could fathom the inward and silent sufferings of that ardent and impassioned soul, which had worn itself out to absolute exhaustion during fifteen years, in contending bravely for its country’s independence; which had only consented to relinquish the sacred struggle in order to save the domestic hearth; and which now, far from both home and country, saw all those most dear to it gradually sinking under the slow and lingering agony of imprisonment and exile?
Still, as the illustrious captive sought to fortify his spirits by those religious exercises and consolations which had been his life-long strength and support, the waters of affliction rose around him. In vain he strove to propitiate Heaven by penitential abnegation, by the most rigorous fasts, by the most persevering prayers. A remorseless fate seemed as it were commissioned to hold him in its iron grasp. Death was almost daily ravishing from him the dearest objects of his love and solicitude.
Scarcely were his eyes dried from weeping over such of his faithful companions as had expired in his arms, than they were bent with feverish anxiety on those whom he still saw before him sinking under the complicated ravages of disease, melancholy, and despair. After having wept over a son, a daughter, a nephew of the brightest hopes, he trembled for his mother and mother-in-law, whose advanced age and infirmities seemed more especially to mark them out as the next victims.
But despite all these cruel trials, Abdel Kader maintained an unshaken equanimity of look and demeanour. His words never ceased to breathe the spirit of heroic resignation. A sympathising voice once reproached him for his pious austerities. “Why,” he replied, with a melancholy smile, “why grudge me the consolation and hope of thus rendering my prayers less unworthy to Him to whom I pour them out from the bottom of my heart, and who yet, perhaps, one of these days, may answer them from his throne on High?” With Job he seemed to exclaim, “Though He slay me, yet will I put my trust in Him.”
Such saint-like simplicity of character, such humility, such almost feminine grace and gentleness, combined as they were in Abdel Kader with all the lion-like qualities which exalt and dignify the manly nature, composed a beau-ideal of moral and physical grandeur, which involuntarily extorted enthusiastic reverence and adoration. The extraordinary fascination which he exercised on all around him, whether resplendent with the flashing of thousands of sabres unsheathed around him at his command, or enveloped in a prison’s gloom, is attested by instances of devotion and attachment too numerous to be mentioned.
Abdel Kader had left Algeria for ever, but the magic spell of his name still remained, and it remains to this day. When some Arab chiefs, after the surrender of the Sultan, visited the stables of the French authorities at Mostaganem, the last person in the minds of the latter was probably Abdel Kader, of whose ominous presence they had been happily relieved. To their surprise they saw the Arab chiefs throwing themselves frantically on a splendid black stallion, kissing its neck, its shoulders, its very feet. It had been Abdel Kader’s charger. “It has borne him! it has borne him!” was the repeated outburst of their irrepressible feelings, and with difficulty they were torn away.
When Kara Mohammed, Abdel Kader’s equerry, and his inseparable companion in all his battles, dangers, and reverses, looked on a porter at the gates of the château still wearing the royal livery, he could not help exclaiming, “What! your master is in England and you here! We would cross mountains and seas to follow our master to the ends of the earth. In receiving his benefits we are bound to him for life and death.”
Notwithstanding all Abdel Kader’s efforts and exhortations, his followers gave way to a hopeless despondency. These sons of the desert, to whom the boundless plains of the Sahara had been a home and the distant horizon the only limit, languished and pined away in their novel and dreary abode. The iron had entered into their soul.
At last an order came for their release. The bearer of the news expected to be hailed with cries of joy and delight. “No, no!” they all with one accord exclaimed, “while he is a captive, none of us will separate our lot from his!”
“But your master is going to be removed to another fortress,” was the answer, “where you will be even more strictly confined than at present.”
“Never mind,” was the general cry. “What signifies? We are willing to suffer more if necessary: but quit him in his misfortune we never will.”
In the month of June, 1848, General de Lamoricière was appointed Minister of War. Abdel Kader now anticipated with certainty the near approach of his deliverance. The man who had pledged his word to him was in power. In the pressure of public affairs, however, Abdel Kader feared he might be overlooked. He hastened, therefore, to address the general a letter, in which he solemnly abjured him to vindicate his own honour, as well as the national honour of France. Days, weeks, months elapsed, and no answer was vouchsafed.
Abdel Kader maintained his usual imperturbability; but his Algerines became furious. They formed a conspiracy to fall on their guard, unarmed as they were, kill as many as they could, and taste in a desperate self-sacrifice the sweetness of revenge. “We thought not of escape,” they afterwards avowed. “We wanted to die, that our blood might be an eternal shame to France, inasmuch as we should have been slain for reclaiming the execution of the promise made to our master.” Abdel Kader, duly averted of this mad design, interposed in time to thwart it.
The Minister of War was also apprised of it. He dreaded a catastrophe. He sent an officer to the despairing and overtortured captives, with an offer of freedom. It was then they returned the noble and sublime answer already recorded. On the 2nd November, 1848, they voluntarily followed their beloved master to the Château of Amboise.
An order had preceded them. Neither Abdel Kader nor any of his suite was to be allowed to have intercourse with persons from without. They were neither to be permitted to receive nor to write letters. The privilege of freely receiving visitors was to be taken from them. No applicant for an interview was to be granted his request without an especial permission from the Minister of War.
This order was signed “De Lamoricière!”
1848-1853.
Although the republican Government of France had acquiesced in the perpetration of this glaring act of perfidy to Abdel Kader, the President of the Republic raised his voice in vindication of the cause of right and justice. On the 14th of January, 1849, twenty-four days after his election to the presidency, Louis Napoleon convened an extraordinary council to take the subject into consideration.
In the warmest terms he pleaded the prisoner’s cause. He insisted on the voluntary surrender, the frank and noble reliance on French honour on the one hand, and the word pledged and the convention signed on the other. Such language, emanating from the heir of the illustrious captive of St. Helena, had more than the weight of a protest; it had in some respects the sanctity of a reminiscence. Though supported by Bugeaud and Changarnier, the President’s views were overruled. The Minister of War, General Rulhière, refused to incur the responsibility of sanctioning the release of Abdel Kader, and successfully opposed such a step.
Animated by feelings of esteem and sympathy for his fallen adversary, Marshal Bugeaud now wrote Abdel Kader a letter suggesting a course which, while it would diminish the bitter sense of captivity, would assure him an easy and even enviable existence:—
“I would wish you to decide on adopting France as your country, and to ask the Government to make you a grant of property, with right of descent to your heirs. You would thus have a position equal to that of our most influential men, and be able to practise your religion, and bring up your children according to your wishes.
“I am aware such a prospect may have little in it to seduce you; but it is one which ought to weigh with you, for the future of your children, and the fate of the numerous persons who surround you. You see they are languishing and dying of ennui. Were they employed on a property belonging to you, their mode of life, on the contrary, would be pleasant and agreeable. The cultivation of the soil would amuse them; they might have the diversion of sporting. The pursuits of agriculture would daily offer them fresh subjects of interest; and nothing tends more to cheer the spirits than the sight of nature elaborated by man’s own exertions.
“Such is the sincere advice I give you, dictated by the feelings of extraordinary interest which your misfortunes, and the great qualities with which you have been endowed by God, has raised within me.”
Abdel Kader was inflexible. He steadily persisted in refusing to hear of any compromise; and he thus replied:—“If all the treasures of the world were laid out before me, and it was proposed to put them in the balance with my liberty, I would choose my liberty. I demand neither grace nor favour. I demand the execution of the engagements which have been made with me.
“I demanded, as the condition of my surrender, the word of a Frenchman. A French general gave it me without restriction and without conditions. Another general, the King’s son, confirmed it. France was thus bound to me as I to her. To desire to obliterate the past is now to desire an impossibility. I will not give you back your word. I will die with it to your eternal disgrace and dishonour; kings and people will then learn, from my example, what confidence is to be placed in the word of a Frenchman.”
The question of Abdel Kader’s liberation was now to all appearance postponed indefinitely. He himself ceased to allude to it. He found consolation in his books, his studies, and devotions. His hours were so strictly appropriated to their respective duties, that time passed lightly. He now occupied himself with literary composition.
Two works, one on the “Unity of the Godhead,” another entitled “Hints for the Wise, Instruction for the Ignorant,” were the fruits of his mental labours. The first-mentioned work is a collation and, at the same time, an able exposition of all the arguments which support and elucidate that vital doctrine of the Mohammedan faith. The latter is divided into three parts. The first part treats of the advantages of learning; the second, of religion and morality; the third, of the art of writing and general science.
Although Abdel Kader had permission to take exercise in the park which surrounded his prison, he never availed himself of the privilege. Indeed, he rarely left his apartment, except to repair to the room where his family and suite assembled for prayer. His medical man urged the necessity of out-door exercise. “No health,” he replied, “can come to me within the bounds of a prison. What I want is the air of liberty; that alone can revive me.”
Time creeped on. At last came a change as joyful as it was unexpected. Louis Napoleon, disgusted with the party jealousies which thwarted his measures, had appealed to the national sentiment. He showed himself to France. He visited the provinces. On arriving at Blois, he sent word to M. Boissonet, who commanded in the Château of Amboise, situated not far distant from that town, that it was his intention to pay Abdel Kader a visit.
The ultimate design of the Prince President in making this visit had been surmised by the general officers and ministers of state who were around him. St. Arnaud and others tendered him their counsels, and suggested caution. But the Prince was resolute. The necessity of vindicating the national honour, too long tarnished by breach of faith, prevailed in his mind over every other consideration. On the 16th of October, 1852, the Prince and his suite drove in carriage to the Château of Amboise.
On the way he had written out in pencil the following document:—
“Abdel Kader,
“I am come to announce to you your liberty. You will be conducted to Broussa, in the Sultan’s territory, as soon as the necessary arrangements can be made. The French Government will give you a pension worthy of your former rank.
“For a long time your captivity has caused me real distress. It constantly reminded me that the Government which preceded mine had not fulfilled its engagements towards an unfortunate enemy; and in my eyes a great nation is humiliated, when it so far mistrusts its own power as to break its promise. Generosity is always the best counsellor; and I am convinced that your residence in Turkey will in nowise affect the tranquillity of my possessions in Africa.
“Your religion, as well as mine, inculcates submission to the decree of Providence. Now, if France is supreme in Algeria, it is because God has so willed it; and the nation will never renounce the conquest. You have been the enemy of France, but I nevertheless am ready to do ample justice to your courage, your character, and your resignation in misfortune. I, consequently, feel it to be a point of honour to put an end to your imprisonment, and to entertain a complete reliance on your word.”
Overpowered with gratitude, Abdel Kader poured forth his heartfelt thanks. His aged mother begged to be allowed to see the generous and noble-minded ruler, who had shed such joy and consolation through her household; and on being presented to Louis Napoleon, covered him with her benedictions. After hastily partaking of the “couscoussu,” the national dish of Algeria, the Prince departed. As he disappeared in the distance, Abdel Kader turned to his followers and said, “Others have overthrown and imprisoned me, but Louis Napoleon alone has conquered me.”
Abdel Kader was now desirous of doing homage to his deliverer in the capital. He obtained permission to go to Paris, and arrived there October 28th, 1852. A worthy reception had been arranged for him by order of the Prince. A popular demonstration awaited him. Crowds thronged the streets through which he passed, and gazed at him with mingled pride and curiosity. The feelings of a warlike people were gratified by his presence; but respect for the great military renown of the Arab chief was the prevailing motive.
The very evening of his arrival, Abdel Kader was invited to visit the Grand Opera. He excused himself at first on account of fatigue; but, being told that the Prince was to be there, he consented to go. He was conducted to the box in which the Prince sat. Abdel Kader stooped to kiss hands, but the Prince, amidst loud applause, embraced him. Then, placing the ancient enemy of France by his side, he showed him the most marked attention.
An invitation was now given to Abdel Kader to visit the Prince President at the palace of St. Cloud; and thither, accordingly, he went on the 30th October, accompanied by his equerry Kara Mohammed, Ben Allal, nephew of his celebrated Khalifa Sidi Embarak, Sidi Kudoor, and a staff of French officers especially deputed to escort him. He arrived a few minutes before the time appointed for his audience. There was a clock in the waiting room, which he was told indicated the exact time of day at Mecca. Delighted with the incident, he set his own watch by the time of the Holy City of his faith. He found it was exactly the hour for afternoon prayer; and in the presence of all assembled he knelt down and prayed.
Shortly afterwards he was presented to the Prince President, who stood surrounded by his great officers of state. The ceremony over, Abdel Kader asked permission to say a few words. Leave having been granted, he thus expressed himself, not without considerable emotion.
“Highness, I am not accustomed to your usages. Perhaps I am about to commit a fault; but I wish to express my sentiments to you, and the exalted personages I see around me. Others have made promises which they have not fulfilled. Your Highness has fulfilled engagements which you had not contracted. Thanks to your generosity, I shall be enabled to go and live in a Mussulman country. Words vanish like the winds. Writing is durable. I offer your Highness this paper. It contains a written promise.”
He then placed the following declaration in the Prince’s hands:—
“Praise be to the One God!
“May God ever continue to protect and preserve our lord, Louis Napoleon, and guide and direct his judgment.
“He who presents himself to you is Abdel Kader, the son of Mehi-ed-deen. I come before your Highness to thank you for your bounties, and to gratify myself with a sight of your countenance. You are, in fact, dearer to me than any other friend, for you have conferred on me a benefit which exceeds my power of thanking you, but which is worthy of the nobleness of your character, and the splendour of your position. May God glorify you.
“You are of the number of those who neither make useless protestations, nor deceive by falsehood. You have had confidence in me. You have not listened to those who mistrust me. You have given me liberty; and, without having made me any promises, you have fulfilled engagements which others made with me without fulfilling them.
“I come then to swear to you, by the covenant and promises of God, and by the promises of all the prophets and messengers, that I will never do anything contrary to the trust you have reposed in me, and that I will religiously keep this my oath never to return to Algeria. When God ordered me to arise, I arose. I employed gunpowder to the utmost extent of my means and ability. But when he ordered me to cease, I ceased. It was then that I abandoned power and surrendered.
“My religion and my honour alike ordain me to keep my oaths and to scorn deceit. I am a shereef, and no one shall ever accuse me of treachery. How, indeed, could that be possible to me after having received such great benefits at your hands? A benefit is a golden chain thrown over the neck of the noble-minded. I venture to hope that you will deign to think of me even when I am far away, and that you will place me on the list of your intimate friends; for although I may not equal them in their services, I at least equal them in their affection towards you. May God increase the love of those who love you, and strike terror into the hearts of your enemies.”
To this solemn protestation Louis Napoleon replied,—
“Abdel Kader, I never mistrusted you. I had no need of this written paper which you so nobly offer me. I never demanded from you, as you know, either promise or oath. You have chosen, nevertheless, to draw up and deliver into my hands this document. I accept it. This spontaneous avowal of your sentiments and feelings proves to me that I was right in placing unlimited confidence in you.”
When the audience was over, Abdel Kader was shown all the apartments of the palace, and then taken to see the Prince’s stud. He particularly admired a magnificent white Arab horse. “The horse is yours,” said the Prince, who was present. “I hope it will make you forget that you have been so long without one. You must try it with me in the park to-morrow, at a review of cavalry, which I have ordered expressly in your honour.”
Abdel Kader mounted his new steed the following day, and rode by the side of the Prince to the review. To a courteous inquiry from the latter as to the health of his aged mother, Abdel Kader replied with animation, “During my captivity my mother required a staff to bear the weight of her body, bent down with years; but since I am free, by your Highness’s generosity, she has thrown off the weight of years and walks without support.”
Abdel Kader was present at another grand review at Versailles. He dined with the Prince twice. All the ministers gave him grand entertainments, and he daily received visits from statesmen, generals, and men of science. He was mostly touched, however, by the visits of several officers who had formerly been his prisoners, and who had come to thank him for the kindness and attention they had received at his hands during their captivity.
Abdel Kader afterwards visited all the public edifices of Paris. On entering the church of the Madeleine, he said to the priest who accompanied him, “When I first began my struggle with the French I thought they were a people without religion. I found out my mistake. At all events, such churches as these would soon convince me of my error.”
He then asked to be taken to the residence of his old friend M. Dupuch, Bishop of Algiers. “Having consecrated my first visit to God,” he said, “the next should be to the best of his servants.”
Going through the Notre Dame, he stopped to examine all the marvels of art and relics which it contains, with an attention which, as coming from a Mussulman, surprised the bystanders. Its sculptures, its paintings, the mantle worn by Napoleon I. at his coronation, and the piece of the true cross given by Baldwin to Louis XII., all successively engaged his attention.
On arriving at the Hôtel des Invalides, the first request of Abdel Kader was, as usual, to be taken to the church. The temple where the Deity was worshipped was invariably the first place to which he directed his steps. He viewed with a soldier’s interest and satisfaction the numerous flags with which it was adorned. Amongst them were some of his own standards. When his eye fell on them he gazed on them for a while in silence, and then quietly observed, “Those times are past. I wish to forget them. Let us always endeavour to live in the present.”
At the tomb of Napoleon he again paused long. At length he spoke: “All that the genius of man and the wealth of the world could possibly do,” he said, “would be merely to give this tomb a pale reflex of that greatness which filled the world with its glory.” As he turned away he remarked, “I have now seen what was mortal of the great captain; but where is the place where his name is not still living?”
The hospital particularly struck him. The patients stood up as he passed by. One old soldier had even risen with pain and difficulty from his bed, as a mark of respect to the great warrior. Abdel Kader stopped before him, shook him by the hands, and made him the following address:—“How worthy it is of a great people thus to watch over the old age of its brave defenders, and to employ the best medical advice for the cure of wounds received in the country’s defence! I have seen the tomb of Napoleon, and touched his sword; and I should leave this place completely happy were it not for the thought that there may be some here who have been disabled by me or mine. But I only defended my country; and the French, who are just and generous, will pardon me, and perhaps admit that I was an open and honest enemy, one not altogether unworthy of them.”
The Museum of Artillery and the imperial printing establishment were the next objects of his inspection. The autographic press produced under his very eyes, to his intense astonishment, a facsimile of the document he had presented to the Prince. After minutely watching the process of printing, and the marvellous rapidity with which impressions were thrown off, he exclaimed, “Yesterday I saw the batteries of war—here I see the batteries of thought.”
Abdel Kader had now a parting interview with Louis Napoleon. The Prince announced his intention of presenting him with a sword of honour. “But,” he added, “I wish it to be worthy of you; and I regret that, notwithstanding the diligence of the workmen, I shall not be able to give it you before your departure for Broussa.” The blade of this sword, which Abdel Kader afterwards received, is of the time of the Abassiades, who flourished at the commencement of the Mohammedan era. On it have been inscribed the words—“The Sultan Napoleon III. to the Emir Abdel Kader, son of Mehi-ed-deen.” The next day Abdel Kader returned to Amboise.
On the 21st of November the French people were called upon to elect an emperor. Abdel Kader claimed the right of suffrage. By a singular coincidence, the day was the anniversary of that on which, twenty years before, he had himself been elected Sultan of the Arabs. His claim was admitted, and a ballot-box was made expressly for the occasion. In this box he deposited his own vote and those of twelve of his suite.
Abdel Kader returned to Paris to be present at the proclamation of the empire. He stood amidst the great officers of state and public functionaries who assembled at the Tuileries to offer the Emperor their congratulations. As soon as the latter perceived him he went up to him, shook him by the hands, and said, “You see your vote has brought me good luck.” “Sire,” replied Abdel Kader, “my vote is of no value but as it is the interpreter of my heart.”
On the 11th of December, Abdel Kader, with his family and suite, left Amboise for the East. The same attention and hospitality which had been shown to him in Paris awaited him in all the provincial towns through which he passed. At Lyons, the Comte de Castellane gave him a splendid reception. A banquet was offered to him, and a review of the garrison held in his honour. When Abdel Kader approached the lines he was saluted with military honours. Delighted with this unexpected mark of respect, he turned to the noble marshal who rode by his side, and exclaimed, “The Emperor gave me liberty, but you have adorned her with garlands.”
On the 21st of December, Abdel Kader embarked on board the Labrador for his final destination. The steamer touched at Sicily. He landed, and, attended by the governor, made a tour in the interior. He ascended Etna. At his departure he addressed a letter of thanks to that officer, in which he thus records his impressions of what he had seen:—“We have everywhere met with the traces of the various populations who have inhabited your island. The sight made us reflect that God is indeed the Lord of the universe, and that He gives the land to whom He wills. The mountain of fire is truly one of the wonders of the world. On viewing from its heights the highly cultivated and thickly populated plains which spread out before us, we thought of the Arab poet’s lament on the evacuation of Sicily by the Saracens, ‘The recollection of you, O plains of Sicily, from the heights of Etna, makes my despair! If my tears were not salt, they should make rivers of water for this glorious island. An inhabitant of Paradise only is fit to recount the wonders of Sicily.’”
Abdel Kader arrived at Constantinople, January 7, 1853. On landing he went directly to the grand mosque of Tophané, filled with joy and gratitude at finding himself once more in a temple of the Prophet. The French ambassador gave a grand entertainment in his honour, to which the principal personages of the Frank society were invited. This act of hospitality closed the social relations of Abdel Kader with the civilised world. During his passage through it, his worth, his genius, his honour, had been magnanimously recognised in one long ovation. He was now in a capital where barbarism is harlequinised into a constrained semblance of European civilisation.
He visited the Turkish ministers. They received him with ill-feigned demonstrations of civility and respect. Policy alone made them outwardly courteous. Such is the eradicable arrogance and self-sufficiency of the Turks, that they despise all races alike but their own. Utter strangers to noble sentiments, and scorning to admit the possibility of there being anything in the world more important than themselves, they regarded the attentions paid to Abdel Kader (despite his glorious struggles for their common faith) with jealousy and even derision. His fame oppressed them. An Arab hero was, in their minds, an incongruity, an impertinence.
1853-1860.
Abdel Kader at length sailed from Constantinople for Broussa. The Pasha in that town had been ordered by the Turkish Government to place a carriage at his disposal, on landing. “What!” said the Turk, “an Arab ride in a carriage! Who ever heard of such a thing? Surely there are plenty of camels to be had. Why does not the man hire a camel? Is not a camel good enough for him?” The Turk was spared the indignity of supplying the Arab with a carriage, on account of the simple fact, that it was impossible to traverse the road from the landing-place to Broussa in any vehicle whatever; and of this fact, the Sublime Porte, at a distance of scarcely twenty miles, was profoundly ignorant.
Fortunately for Abdel Kader, though thrown amongst the Turks, he was in no way obliged to be dependent on them. The munificence of Louis Napoleon had largely provided for his wants. The Emperor had settled on him a pension for life of £4,000 a year. With Abdel Kader’s habits, this income was more than a competence, it was superfluity. With such wealth he might have lived in princely state, and indulged in ostentation. But he was regulated by other principles.
At all times averse to self-gratification, Abdel Kader looked upon this liberal allowance as a trust; and he considered that after deducting what was absolutely necessary for his own expenses, he was bound to expend the remainder for the benefit of others. His income now enabled him to provide for the wants of many who had nobly refused to separate themselves from his fortunes, and even to extend his generosity to other quarters. Reserving barely a half for himself and family, he disbursed the residue in salaries to his most needy chiefs and dependents; in charities to the poor, presents to the mosques, and other benevolent purposes. It is to be remarked that out of his income he had also to support his two brothers and their families.
So averse, indeed, was Abdel Kader to vain and trifling expenditure of every sort, that the outlay generally devoted by his co-religionists to rejoicings and festivities, at one of their most important religious rites, was by him directed to charitable ends. On the occasion of the circumcision of one of his sons, the people of Broussa were surprised to see, in place of the usual costly procession, with all its concomitants of pomp and show—the cavalcade, the flags and the music—a vast assemblage of the poor congregated in front of his dwelling, and receiving from his own hands presents of bread, and clothing, and money. Such was, in the eyes of Abdel Kader, the best commemoration of the sacred rite.
The building which the Turkish Government had allotted for his residence was an old dilapidated khan, in many parts without a roof. With some difficulty he contrived to make it habitable. The wildness and gloom of the old ruin were terrible. But he bought a small farm in the neighbourhood, to which he escaped at times to regale himself with a sight of the sun and to breathe the fresh air.
His days were passed, as usual, in the education of his children, in readings at the mosque, and in private study and meditation. Still he felt himself in a land of strangers. Few understood his language. Between the Turks and himself there was no possible sympathy, and there never could be. The Ulemas amongst them envied and disliked him for his superior learning. The Effendis, in their supercilious pride, scarcely vouchsafed to notice him. The public functionaries, gradually recovering from their dread of his widely-spread influence, smiled with inward repose and satisfaction, not unmingled with contempt, as they congratulated each other on the discovery that the great Arab hero was after all only a “derweesh.”
Thus time wore on with him for nearly three years. He secretly longed for a change in his place of exile; but he was diffident in asking for it. At last, the appalling earthquake which, in 1855, nearly laid all Broussa in ruins, afforded him a plea for opening the subject, and he hastened to avail himself of the circumstance. He obtained permission to go to France. He once more saw the Emperor, who graciously acceded to all his wishes. It was arranged that for the future his residence should be at Damascus.
Whilst Abdel Kader was in Paris, the news of the fall of Sebastopol arrived. He was asked to assist at the celebration of the Te Deum in Notre Dame; and he was told that the Emperor would be flattered by his presence on the occasion.
Though prostrated by a recent severe illness, he consented to go. No small sensation was created amongst the vast throng which filled the cathedral, as Abdel Kader advanced up to the altar, leaning on the arm of a French marshal, and accompanied by other officers of rank. On leaving it he was loudly cheered.
The principal aide-de-camp of the Minister of War conducted him over the International Exhibition, which on the year of this visit made Paris the rendezvous of all the civilised world. After viewing all the varied productions which it contained, he paused for a long time in perfect astonishment at the marvellous elaborations of machinery which expanded in various compartments before his eyes. Then he suddenly exclaimed, “Surely this is the temple of reason and intelligence, animated by the breath of God.”
After returning to Broussa, where he remained for a few weeks to arrange and settle his affairs, he finally embarked on board a French steamer, with his family and suite, amounting in all to more than one hundred persons, and reached Beyrout, November 24th, 1856; and from thence, after a short stay, he proceeded to Damascus.
Midway on his ascent of the Lebanon he was surprised to hear the sound of firing, as though a battle were raging close by. Presently he saw the heights and slopes covered with large bodies of men, keeping up a well-sustained roll of musketry; and then, a compact and splendidly attired cavalcade advancing to his encounter. The Druzes had assembled to give him a welcome.
Their chiefs, on approaching him, dismounted. He returned the compliment. They bowed before him with oriental prostrations, and kissed his hand. Then they begged him to do them the honour of reposing amongst them, if only for one night. He accepted their invitation, and found once more a hospitable Eastern home. His heart expanded. He was once more amongst the Arabs.
Long and closely did these mountain warriors question him as to his campaigns against the French. “If your fame,” they said, “has so long raised our spirits and excited our admiration; if it has so long rejoiced our hearts to hear of you, how much more must we rejoice to see you!” On his leaving the Lebanon he was escorted by the Druzes to the frontiers of their territory. After thanking them for their courtesy and attention, Abdel Kader parted from them with the words, “God grant we may ever remain one!” and the Druzes replied, “God grant it! May we soon meet again.”
Another ovation, and on a larger scale, awaited Abdel Kader at Damascus. The whole Mohammedan population—men, women, and children—turned out to receive him. For more than a mile outside the gates the road was lined on either side with all ranks and degrees of persons dressed in holiday attire, who had come forth to feast their eyes by gazing on the renowned champion and hero of Islam. Preceded by a detachment of Turkish troops and a band of military music, Abdel Kader passed, almost like a conqueror, through the crowd, joyfully returning the unintermittent salaams with which he was greeted. No such Arab had entered Damascus since the days of Saladin.
The Sultan had ordered a serail to be placed at the disposal of Abdel Kader. Luckily for him, the khans were all already fully occupied. He only took up his residence in the abode prepared for him temporarily, and until he could select and purchase a house for himself. The Turkish authorities paid no further attention to him. It was quite enough for them that they had to endure him. They could not lower his rank and position, for an arm was outstretched over him stronger than theirs; they could not undermine his influence, for his was an ascendancy that defied their malice; they looked upon him as a painful and unavoidable anomaly, and succumbed.
Visits and salutations of various kinds soon multiplied upon him. Ben Salem, his old and devoted Khalifa, and some hundreds of Algerines, who had already obtained permission to settle at Damascus, and who proudly swelled his suite as he entered the city, now thronged around him day and night, never sufficiently satisfied with the sight of their adored Sultan, from whom they had been so long separated. The great Arab Effendis offered him the most ardent demonstrations of respect.
But it was to the Ulemas and the lettered classes that Abdel Kader became the great centre of attraction. By virtue of his triple warrant, as descendant of the Prophet, Ulema, and leader of the Djehad, he was entitled to their profoundest reverence. They felt themselves bound to him not only by feelings of national sympathy, but of religious duty. Their experience of his superior learning, quickly obtained, made them anxious to profit by his instructions. They begged him to become their teacher. A theological class, consisting of upwards of sixty students, was formed. It held its daily sittings in the great mosque, and Abdel Kader presided over it with scrupulous punctuality. The Koran and the Hadeeth naturally formed the great staple of discussion; but unlike the ordinary teachers, whose utmost stretch of mental power only extended to worn-out remarks and commentaries on the sacred books, Abdel Kader astonished and delighted his disciples by choice quotations from the works of Plato and Aristotle, and occasionally even from authors of less repute, selected from his own library, which he had been carefully re-forming during his residence at Broussa.
The light which thus shed its rays over the literary world of the Mohammedans of Damascus, was of course accompanied by its attendant shadow of envy and detraction, fostered by offended vanities and obscured reputations. Such, on the whole, was the social position of Abdel Kader in Damascus, when events unexpectedly occurred to disturb for a moment the tranquil tenor of his life.
The Peace of Paris, concluded in 1856, filled the Turks with mingled sensations of exultation and mistrust: of exultation, because the peace had rescued them from an impending doom, and renewed their lease of political existence; of mistrust, because the deed of deliverance was saddled with a decree of death. Such a doom, it is true, depended on the realization of a theory; but that theory was, to them, of ominous importance. By eliciting from them the Hati Homayoom of 1856, the Christian Powers simply made the Turks put the knife to their own throats.
If that famous “Magna Charta for the Christians of the East,” as it has been ridiculously styled by those who know nothing at all about the politics of the East, was to be strictly carried into execution, the relative position of Turks and Christians, as a body, throughout the Turkish empire, would in due course of time be completely reversed. The Turks have as yet escaped the stern necessity of giving themselves the fatal gash; and their kind and forbearing allies have for the moment refrained from pressing the completion of the sacrifice. Nevertheless, it behoves the Christian Powers, seriously and conscientiously, to reflect that, on the execution or non-execution of the Hati Homayoom, depends the gradual enfranchisement, or the continued bondage and degradation of Christianity, under Turkish rule.
When the Christian Powers signed a document giving the Turks an indefinite tenure of political existence, they virtually ratified the bond by which the latter have consigned some of the fairest provinces of the earth to irremediable depopulation, barrenness, and sterility. When they contented themselves with receiving in exchange an impossible programme of amalgamation, progress, and refinement, they not only stultified themselves, but betrayed the vital interests of humanity and civilisation.
If England, passively consenting to be bound down by traditions which took their rise in an age when the East, with all its glorious destinies, was universally ignored, chooses still to regard the maintenance of the Turkish empire as indispensable to the balance of power in Europe—as though, in the event of its abruption or collapse, national adjustments would become impossibilities, political arrangements fictions, and diplomatic treaties myths—if, with suicidal arm, she still persists in helping to lock up those rich, fertile, and widely extended regions, which, if that empire were to pass under Christian sway, would rapidly be opened up to her commercial enterprise, and would increase the demands upon her arts and manufactures ten, fifty, and a hundred fold; then let her, by all means, go on worshipping her “log of wood,” and lavish in its support her money, her arms, and her men, thereby wasting and crippling her actual and prospective resources.
But if, awakened at length to a due sense of her dignity and of her best interests, to say nothing of her responsibilities to a Higher Power, England should resolve to abandon the fruitless and thankless task of attempting to mould, tutor, and reform a government which by its very nature must ever be a stumbling-block and an offence in the path of Eastern advancement—which is the fanatical and persecuting enemy of her faith, which laughs at her credulity, practises on her forbearance, and is a permanent obstruction to the full development of her wealth and greatness—then her policy will lie in a nut-shell. Let her leave the Turks to fight their own battles. Howsoever, wheresoever, and by whomsoever attacked, let her stand by an undisturbed spectator. Let her quietly see the game commenced. She will always be in time to cut in and play her own cards.
The Christians of Syria have ever been viewed by the Turks with gloomy jealousy. They are called “the Key to the Franks.” The Turks imagine them to be ever ready to welcome and aid a Frank invading force; furnishing it with supplies, and in various ways initiating it into the land’s capabilities and resources. Their increasing population, wealth, and prosperity, are to the Turks a perpetual source of exasperation, exciting in their breasts feelings of hatred and broodings of revenge.
These Christians had deluded themselves into the idea that the Hati Homayoom was to become a reality. They gloried in the prospects of civil, military, and political equality with their Mohammedan fellow-subjects which it held out to them. They craved to be permitted to enter the service of the State, and offered to serve in the army. They were told their services were not wanted. At the same time the information was vouchsafed to them that they were to be subjected to a yearly fine of ten shillings per head, in lieu of military service.
“What!”—they argued amongst themselves—“is this all that our friends and protectors, the great Christian Powers, have been able to procure from the Turks by the promulgation of the Hati Homayoom? Could they do no more than achieve mockery and derision for themselves, and for us an additional mark of inferiority and humiliation?” They could not believe it. The mistake, they were sure, would be rectified. They protested, and refused to pay the tax.
The Christians of the Lebanon soon after observed, with just alarm, the menacing attitude displayed towards them by the Druzes. They knew at once that the Turks were going to play their old game of letting loose these tribes against them. What had they to do? They armed themselves to the teeth; and they were right. The Turco-Druze compact was already completed. Such was the aspect of affairs between the Turks and the Rayahs in Syria in 1859.
The Turkish authorities in that province had duly reported the refractory conduct of the Christians, and the general tone of assumption evinced by them, to their superiors in Constantinople. In the instructions they received, they were emphatically told that the Christians must be “corrected.” The expression seems trivial, but those to whom it was addressed perfectly well understood its cabalistic meaning.
As a Turkish sultan was once entering his kiosk, a handsome, comely-looking youth, the son of one of his viziers, attracted his notice. He approached him, patted him on the cheek, and stroked his chin. The lad, well knowing the feelings which prompted such a mark of attention, turned away from the caress with offensive abruptness. The Sultan looked towards the father, and sternly said, “Your son must be corrected.” That same day the lad’s head was cut off. He had been “corrected.” In Eastern phraseology this is called “imperial correction.”
In May, 1860, the civil war between the Druzes and Christians, so sedulously fostered and excited by the Turks, broke out. In little more than a month the Lebanon became a vast scene of slaughter and conflagration. In an evil hour the Christians, despite their better convictions, had allowed themselves to be deceived by the solemn protestations of Turkish pashas and colonels, who called upon God to witness that they were about to act as mediators.
They repaired by hundreds to the different Turkish garrisons planted over the mountain, hourly expecting the signal for peace. There, after having been politely requested to give up their arms, as a mark of confidence, they were crammed into open courts, or penned up in small chambers, according to the nature of the locality, and assured they were in perfect safety. And then, after a time, the Druzes and the Turkish troops fell on them, and massacred them all. They had been “corrected.”
The Christians of Damascus were the next to be “corrected.” Abdel Kader, entirely ignorant of the great Turco-Druze plot, had sent messages to some of his friends among the Druze Sheiks, at the commencement of the civil war in the Lebanon, calling upon them to exercise forbearance and moderation. He soon had occasion to turn his attention to events nearer home. Rumours were daily becoming more and more rife that the Mohammedans of the Pashalick of Damascus intended to rise on the Christians.
Abdel Kader was at first incredulous. But his Algerines came round him day by day, repeating to him the fearful gossip of the town. Many of them, who had been tampered with, were asked to join in the scheme. He now went to the Ulemas, and begged them to use their influence with the people to allay the feeling, and avert such a frightful catastrophe. He wrote urgent letters in the same sense to the Ulemas of Homs and Hamah.
Having received information that some straggling parties of the Druzes were extending their ravages towards Damascus, he hastened to send the following collective letter to all their leading Sheiks:—
“To the Druze Sheiks in Mount Lebanon, and in the Plains and Mountains of the Houran.
“We continually invoke for you eternal happiness, and continuation of prosperity.
“You are aware of our friendship for you, and our goodwill towards all the servants of God. Hearken to what we say to you, and accept and be advised by our admonition. The Turkish Government, and all men, know your old enmity towards the Christians of Mount Lebanon, and you may imagine that the Government will not hold you wholly responsible for the war which is now raging between you and them. The Government may accept your excuses.
“But if you make offensive movements against a place with the inhabitants of which you have never before been at enmity, we fear such conduct would be the cause of a serious rupture between you and the Government. You know how anxious we are for your welfare and happiness, and that of all your countrymen at large. The wise, before taking a step, calculate the consequences.
“Some of your horsemen have already been pillaging in the environs of Damascus. Such proceedings are unworthy of a community distinguished for its good sense and wise policy. We repeat it, we are most anxious for your welfare, and are hurt at whatever reflects on your name.
“Abdel Kader ibn Mehi-ed-deen.
“May, 1860.”
Abdel Kader next proceeded to Achmet Pasha, the Governor, and stated his apprehensions. The Pasha told him that there was no occasion to be alarmed, and that all reports were mere idle rumours. A second and third time he went to the Governor and renewed his representations, but with little or no effect. At last the Pasha allowed a few arms to be distributed amongst Abdel Kader’s followers, but without instructions under what circumstances they were to be used.
On the 9th of July, in the forenoon, Abdel Kader’s Algerines came running in, in breathless haste, and told him the town had risen. Without a moment’s delay he sallied forth, ordering his attendants to follow him. After a few turnings he met a furious mob in full career towards the Christian quarter. He drew up with his men in the centre of the street. The mob stopped short. A pause ensued. Abdel Kader harangued the rioters, expostulated with them, and endeavoured to convince them of the awfulness of the crime which they were about to commit. He implored them to desist and return.
“What!” they shouted, “you, the great slayer of Christians, are you come out to prevent us from slaying them in our turn? Away!”
“If I slew Christians,” he shouted in reply, “it was in accordance with our law—Christians who had declared war against me, and were arrayed in arms against our faith.”
“Away, away!” retorted the mobs, and the rioters rushed by. Within three hours the Christian quarter was a waving sheet of fire. The hot blast, fraught with the moans of the tortured and the shrieks of the defiled, rolled over the city like a gust from hell.
The Pasha had some days before made a pretence of affording protection to the Christians by stationing Turkish troops in their quarter. He now sent his soldiers orders to withdraw. They piled arms and plundered. But Abdel Kader hurried to the rescue. Altogether about 1,000 of his Algerines had by this time gathered round him. He patrolled the flaming streets. His men went from house to house, entering and crying out, “Christians, come forth! Do not fear us—we are Abdel Kader’s men, and are here to save you! Come forth, come forth!”
At first, no voices responded. The unfortunate victims dreaded fresh treachery. By degrees, however, after repeated and earnest assurances, they gained confidence. Men, women, and children issued forth trembling and crawling from their hiding-places. They emerged from wells, from sinks, from gutters. As fast as they could be collected together, they were hurried off to Abdel Kader’s abode, enclosed in long oblong squares, formed by the Algerines to protect them on the way from insult and attack.
Abdel Kader, who had more than once narrowly escaped suffocation, now returned to his house. He found it filled to overflowing. He induced his immediate neighbours to vacate their abodes in order to give shelter to the unhappy fugitives. But the tide kept pouring in, and still more space was wanted. As a last resource, he proposed to the Christians to send them for protection to the Turkish castle. But at this proposition a wild cry arose from all. The poor creatures fell on their knees, and with frantic gestures and agonising accents exclaimed, “O Abdel Kader, for God’s sake do not send us to the Turks! By your mother! by your wife! by your children! O Abdel Kader, save us from the Turks!”
Abdel Kader endeavoured to reassure the supplicants and allay their fears. He pledged himself for their safety, and offered to accompany them to the citadel himself. Not a hair of their heads should be touched, he said, while he was alive. With sad misgivings and sinking hearts, the Christians at length consented to go. Abdel Kader headed the sad procession in person. His Algerines marched on its flanks and in its rear. It moved on rapidly. An unwonted gloom pervaded the great city. The bazaars were all deserted, and reverberated to the escort’s tramp in sad funereal echoes. The castle, which lay nearly a mile off, was reached a little before sunset, and Abdel Kader gave over his charge. The Turks looked at him askance.
For several days his Algerines were constantly engaged in escorting fugitive Christians, in batches of twenty, fifty, and a hundred, to the same destination. As they were being hurried along, all exclaimed alike, “Do not leave us to the mercy of the Turks! Come back to us! Stay with us! The Turks will yet murder us!” Nor indeed were their fears unfounded.
On the third day, when the large quadrangle within the castle was crowded with the Christians, to the amount of some thousands, of all ranks, ages, and sexes, the Turks coolly divided the males from the females into two large bodies. The one was intended for massacre; the other was reserved for violation. They only awaited the arrival of the Druzes, whom they were hourly and anxiously expecting, to co-operate with them in the fiendish work.
But here, also, Abdel Kader had marred and circumvented their diabolical designs. He had heard of the approach of the Druzes. He had ridden out to meet them. He had fallen in with them at the village of Ashrafeeiy, in the outskirts of the city. There he had parleyed with their Sheiks, had reasoned with them, and by his personal influence, and his eloquent and persuasive arguments, had succeeded in turning them aside from their bloody errand.
For ten days he continued engaged in his arduous task. Once the mob approached his house, and demanded with frantic yells that the Christians within it should be delivered up to them. He drew his sword, and, accompanied by a strong body of his followers, at once went out to confront the yelling crowd. “Wretches!” he exclaimed, “is this the way you honour the Prophet? May his curse be upon you! Shame on you, shame! You will yet live to repent. You think you may do as you like with the Christians; but the day of retribution will come. The Franks will yet turn your mosques into churches. Not a Christian will I give up. They are my brothers. Stand back, or I give my men the order to fire.” The mob withdrew.
When he returned to his post it was to keep anxious watch by day, and sleepless vigil by night. He had a rug spread at his entrance door, and on this hard bed he snatched intervals of troubled rest. He never once retired. He felt that his personal presence was absolutely indispensable for the safety of all. The stream of fugitives was incessant. Every moment Abdel Kader was called up to give orders to form escorts, or to issue provisions to the thousands congregated under his roof.
The European Consuls, leaving their burning consulates behind them, had fled to him with their families on the first day. The British Consul alone, living in the Mohammedan quarter, had thought himself secure. But, as an additional security, he had sent to the Pasha, and requested that Turkish troops might be stationed at his house. A detachment of soldiers was accordingly dispatched for his protection.
Shortly after their arrival one of his cawasses came and told him to beware. He had overheard the conversation of the Turkish soldiers. They were talking of breaking into the consulate, and murdering every one within their reach. After a slight deliberation, it was decided that Abdel Kader was the only resource now left. To Abdel Kader, accordingly, a messenger was instantly sent, craving immediate assistance. To the surprise and astonishment of the Turkish soldiers, seventeen Algerines suddenly appeared, and seemed to supersede them in their functions. The Turks were overawed. Their bloody plot was frustrated; and the safety of the British Consul was secured. The interposition had been indeed both timely and providential. In a few minutes more the Consul with his staff and household would have been massacred by their Turkish guard!
Though the great mass of the Christians had been forwarded to the castle, the Consuls and many of the wealthier classes remained partakers of Abdel Kader’s hospitality for more than a month. By degrees, however, this assemblage broke up, moving off in successive parties, always escorted by Algerines, to Beyrout.
Abdel Kader was at length enabled to repose. He had rescued 15,000 souls belonging to the Eastern churches from death, and worse than death, by his fearless courage, his unwearied activity, and his catholic-minded zeal. All the representatives of the Christian powers then residing in Damascus, without one single exception, had owed their lives to him. Strange and unparalleled destiny! An Arab had thrown his guardian ægis over the outraged majesty of Europe. A descendant of the Prophet had sheltered and protected the Spouse of Christ.