by Bill Peschel
“I shall make sure! you fine gentlemen! should see the treasures of Tangier!” he said. “Yes, yes, your famous names! [pounds the chests of Mycroft and myself, raising the dust of the desert] will open doors! in my country, I’m sure! In the meantime, would you like English and American newspapers?”
He pulled from his satchel his collection of folded papers and spread them like a giant fan. There were a couple London Times, some New York papers, even some Harper’s Weeklies from the previous year. We declined the offer. We were bound for foreign lands and wanted no reminders of home.
“I believe I would like some papers,” came a new voice from over my shoulder, speaking English with a German accent. He was older than Mycroft, tall and sallow-faced, but what really drew the eye was the dueling scar that neatly bisected his cheek.
“Yes! Yes! A man who must stay informed is an intelligent man,” Si said with rapture and the deal was concluded.
The talk grew more general. Mycroft took Aziz aside to talk privately by the railing and the German caught my eye. He introduced himself as Dietrich, a Prussian from Konigsberg. He had studied at Heidelberg, where he picked up the dueling scar as a member of one of the student clubs renowned for their dedication to swordplay. He was traveling in the same way Englishmen acquired culture through the Grand Tour of Europe, after which he would become a soldier. Although stiff in manner, Dietrich exhibited a willingness to ingratiate himself and experiment with his English. It was rusty, but serviceable for his needs, and we amiably shared our plans for the day. I encouraged him to let us take him in tow, but he said he had tasks of his own to perform.
Soon we reached the shore of the city out of sight of the harbor, where the boat dropped anchor. We were somewhat taken aback by this, but we were reassured that this was how the thing was done here. A boat with three men pulled up for Si el Aziz. He had disappeared after talking to Mycroft. He reappeared in long robes with a red sash, Persian slippers, and a gold chain that he tucked under his clothes. His Western clothes were in a suitcase which he dropped into the longboat. He ordered the men to take his three chests and put them in his boat. Then he jumped in and was rowed away.
We called to him, and he shouted for us to await the Moors, who were approaching, and ride one of them to shore.
“Come! Come!” he called to us in English. “We are burning sunlight! There is much of Tangier to see! Yes, yes!”
That is how we set foot on our first truly alien shore, borne on the backs of Moors the short distance from the shallow-drafted steamboat. I reveled in the sensation of standing on terra incognita. I was eager for the adventure ahead. Dietrich was ahead of us. He had taken the first Moor available, and was already striding across the shingle and soon lost amid the natives.
[Here he pasted a page from The Innocents Abroad.]
This is royal! Let those who went up through Spain make the best of it—these dominions of the Emperor of Morocco suit our little party well enough. We have had enough of Spain at Gibraltar for the present. Tangier is the spot we have been longing for all the time. Elsewhere we have found foreign-looking things and foreign-looking people, but always with things and people intermixed that we were familiar with before, and so the novelty of the situation lost a deal of its force. We wanted something thoroughly and uncompromisingly foreign—foreign from top to bottom—foreign from center to circumference—foreign inside and outside and all around—nothing anywhere about it to dilute its foreignness—nothing to remind us of any other people or any other land under the sun. And lo! In Tangier we have found it. Here is not the slightest thing that ever we have seen save in pictures—and we always mistrusted the pictures before. We cannot anymore. The pictures used to seem exaggerations—they seemed too weird and fanciful for reality. But behold, they were not wild enough—they were not fanciful enough—they have not told half the story. Tangier is a foreign land if ever there was one, and the true spirit of it can never be found in any book save The Arabian Nights. Here are no white men visible, yet swarms of humanity are all about us. Here is a packed and jammed city enclosed in a massive stone wall which is more than a thousand years old. All the houses nearly are one- and two-story, made of thick walls of stone, plastered outside, square as a dry-goods box, flat as a floor on top, no cornices, whitewashed all over—a crowded city of snowy tombs! And the doors are arched with the peculiar arch we see in Moorish pictures; the floors are laid in varicolored diamond flags; in tesselated, many-colored porcelain squares wrought in the furnaces of Fez; in red tiles and broad bricks that time cannot wear; there is no furniture in the rooms (of Jewish dwellings) save divans—what there is in Moorish ones no man may know; within their sacred walls no Christian dog can enter. And the streets are oriental—some of them three feet wide, some six, but only two that are over a dozen; a man can blockade the most of them by extending his body across them. Isn’t it an oriental picture?
That’s what I wrote, and if you read the rest of the chapter with care, you’ll see there wasn’t much detail. Of what I read there was plenty. Of what I saw I said little. There was the amusing description of one of our party attempting to enter a mosque on the back of an ass, and if it weren’t for Si’s intervention, he would have been chased through the town and stoned. Between that and the moment late in our visit when we met the American Consul and his family, I remained silent.
Here’s what happened in between.
At the mosque, there was much muttering among the Moors and significant discussions with Si, and many dark looks directed at the heedless Blucher. Finally placated, they went into the mosque to take up their prayers and Si resumed leading us through the narrow and twisty lanes of the city.
He led us through the merchants quarters, where shopkeepers set out their wares on carpets laid on the ground and busied themselves with their work crafting more stock for their shelves. The streets were tight and we pushed our way through.
Then we found ourselves moving through narrower passages where the Moors had fled. Si had lost the thread of his chatter and his “Yes! Yes” was remote as a lighthouse on an off-shore island. We asked Si where we were going. He said, “To Paradise, Ifir, if Allah wills it.”
I wasn’t sure what he meant by that. His intention was clear soon enough when we stopped at the end of an alley.
“What do we do now, Si?”
“We wait, yes, yes, we wait,” he said. “These two,” he said, indicating Mycroft and myself. “The rest of you should run.” He banged on one of the doors and shouted something in a burst of Arabic up at the second-floor windows.
“Whatever the devil for?”
“So you will not be killed.” The doors opened all around us and the alley was filled with Bedouins. Hands were laid on us and we were invited with the aid of a few shoves to join them inside.
I expostulated. I pleaded. I roared. I was young and vigorous then, and let fly with a volley of abuse about anything of theirs at hand.
Mycroft batted my shoulder to get my attention. “Keep quiet! Your temper could get us killed.”
This may be laying on more than half. I asked him what he meant.
“I believe they intend us no harm, but only if we cooperate.”
I fell silent. Si had vanished, but Mycroft for all his youth seemed sure of his facts. This was my mistake. I should have followed my instinct and dashed his brains on the nearest doorframe and lit for daylight.
We were granted a tour of the home, but we did not greet the mistress of the house. We were not even permitted to leave our visiting cards. We were hustled out the back door and across the street into another building. As we passed from the darkened home and into the bright sunlight, I could see the backs of our companions racing up the road with men trotting after them, their bedsheets flapping and swords glinting in the sun.
We were hustled down another alleyway. I complained again about our handling. Mycroft not only said nothing, but he seemed to encourage them, moving easily to their rhythm and gazing at the sights around
him, like a museum visitor who wanted to miss nothing.
We stopped at a low door. They pounded on the blue-painted wood and waited. There was an uncomfortable moment as our captors averted each other’s eyes. What if no one was home? they were thinking. What should they do with us?
They started at the scraping of a heavy piece of wood being pulled back. The door opened a scant few inches and a woman’s face revealed herself, briefly. She quickly veiled herself. Hasty, excited words were exchanged, and the door was pulled open and we were admitted.
They led us to a wide, shaded porch in a courtyard. At the center, a fountain sprayed water, providing a cooling contrast to the heat. We were led to low divans and ordered to sit.
“Now this is more accommodating. Tell the waiter to fetch us a couple of beers,” I said. Mycroft shushed me.
We were joined by the owner of the establishment. We were considerably wider than he was tall. We could tell his status because his sheet was snowy white, his hands were unmarked by work, his face suffused with good food and unmarked by care. He was pleased to see us. He tried a few words of Arabic and French on us, then stopped when he saw that he wasn’t striking home.
He clapped his hands and called out, and he was joined by a younger man. He was a slimmer edition of the host, but with a protruding nose that reminded one of Roman busts in Italy. He listened intently to the older fellow, then turned to us and said in English, “I am Abd Ghailan. You are welcome to the house of Hassan Herach. Peace be upon you.” It was clear that he was familiar with the words, but not the music. His pronunciation was off-key, but he still made himself more understandable than some miners I knew back in Frisco.
“And peace be upon you, Hassan Herach,” Mycroft said.
There was a long burst of Arabic between Hassan and Abd. “We hope your stay will be comfortable, but not long,” Abd said. “You are honored guests until we can pass you along to the rebels, General Sherman.”
That pulled me up short. I was expecting to hear my name, not that name.
“We are grateful that you have agreed to help lead the revolt—”
My mouth hung open like a trout angling for a worm.
“And that, Inshallah, you will help us charge the palace and depose the sultan.”
My mouth flapped a couple of times, and I was startled to hear words, only it wasn’t me, it was Mycroft speaking for me.
“General Sherman is looking forward to the campaign, as much as he enjoyed capturing the port city of Savannah in America. It would please the general if he knew the disposition of your forces. He would like to begin planning the battle as soon as possible.”
Abd delayed turning to his master to ask, “The general seems to have a question to ask?”
Mycroft said, “Let me inquire” and leaned into me. “Is there a problem?” he inquired mildly.
“I’m not Sherman,” I hissed at him.
“Mmmm?” If there was any surprise in his response, he took great care to hide it. “Then this would not be a good time to mention it.”
Before I could get steamed at his be-damned attitude, Mycroft said to Abd, “What the general means is that he is here under a nom de guerre. He looks like a shabby American tramp, but it is only a disguise for the brilliant soldier you need to overthrow the sultan.”
That stoppered me like a poleaxed bull. I burned a look at Mycroft that should have set his hair on fire. Abd turned and directed a blast of Arabic at Hassan, who beamed at us like a farmer appreciating his prized sows.
“He is pleased with your response,” Abd said. “My master would wish you to take food and rest until we hear from the rebels.” He waved his arms and called to the servants. At Abd’s orders, they led us down the hall into a comfortable room with divans and hangings and deposited us there.
I was puzzled and furious. I took refuge in a cigar and asked Mycroft for his opinion on the day’s events. He kept himself busy pacing the chamber and carefully examining the walls.
“It appears your fame has spread, General Sherman, and you have been recruited into the army of the rebellion. Someone must have overheard you on the boat. We’ll remain in Hassan’s good graces so long as you keep up appearances. If he knows you’re shamming,” and he stopped his perambulations very close to me and said softly, “then I don’t think we’ll get out of here alive.”
“He can’t do that!”
“Why not?”
“We’re guests here. I’m an American citizen.”
“Who’s just been told that Hassan Herach is plotting to overthrow the Emperor of Morocco. That’s dangerous knowledge to have in your head. He may decide to keep it up there, and put it on a shelf for safekeeping.”
This unsettled me considerably. There were a number of things I wanted to experience on this journey, and a beheading was not on the list. Meanwhile, Mycroft had spotted a barred window high up on the wall and a pile of baskets.
“If I can get up there, but I dare not pull them down on me. Here now, kneel and give us a leg up.” I eyed him dubiously. I told him the view wasn’t going to improve by getting closer to it.
“The view! I’m not—look, trust me and get down.”
Having nothing better to do at the moment, I complied. He took a couple steps back. I could hear him shuffle his feet. I next felt the impact of a foot in the small of my back. He launched himself atop the baskets and my shoulders wrenched downward from the force. I must have ate a basket. I’m sure I spit a straw at him.
I rolled over and sermonized some on the sin of stomping on a person’s back without warning, but he was ignoring me. He was waving through the bars and chattering with someone in the street. I couldn’t hear what he was saying. I took the trouble to roll myself up into a standing position and lit a cigar. I smoked and considered that not much had changed in the U.S.’s relations to the mother country.
He finished his chat and jumped lightly down. He was grinning as if he had been told the most marvelous joke, until he caught a whiff of my stogie. He blanched a little and waved at the smoke.
“What’s got you amused?” I said.
“You’ll see,” was all he would admit, and he kicked at a bag of dates to test its freshness and settled himself on it. “Are you finding Tangier to your liking, Mr. Clemens?”
I blew out a cloud and considered. “Their attention to my comforts has been lacking, and I’m powerfully famished, but otherwise they are a hospitable people.” Now that matters had quieted down, I got to thinking about what had happened and commenced worrying.
“The Arabs pride themselves on that point. I’m sure your friends are fine.”
“That’s comforting—,” and I stopped at the new direction this conversation was taking. “What makes you think I care a tinker’s dam for them?”
“You were thinking about them.”
“I was not,” I said, but with not much conviction.
“You had ceased roaring at me, which meant you were thinking,” he said with more than a trace of smugness. “You were eying the barred window, but your face did not convey calculation, but concern. It wasn’t about yourself that bothered you, but your friends.”
“All right, since you put it that way. How do you know they’re all right?”
“If our host’s friends really meant to do them harm, they wouldn’t have let them reach the street. You’ll recall as we were hustled out the back way that the gentlemen with the swords were within striking distance of them, yet did not attack.”
“Is this how they commonly treat strangers?” I said.
He shrugged like a Frenchman. “This is not a Cook’s tour you were on.”
“What happens to us next?”
But my question was not destined to be answered, at least by Mycroft. Out in the streets, a roaring could be heard, a ulululuation as if by a thousand voices. It was a mob, coming to call on the house.
I hopped up and down in my agitation. Mycroft stood up, shook out the wrinkles in his pants, and calmly turned to face the d
oor.
“We, my dear sir, are about to be rescued,” he said.
The door burst open. We were flooded with Tangierians. Unlike the first group we met, these seemed wilder. Their beards were longer and unkempt. Their robes were striped and foul. They appear to have bathed as often as Forty-Niners. They had clearly come for us, and they carried us off.
They placed us at the head of the parade. The men pressed around us, waving their swords and staffs in celebration. We were hustled down a narrow street in the merchants quarter. We had brief glimpses of street vendors with their stock on rugs before them, lit braziers the jewelmakers used to melt small pots of silver and bronze, alcoves and small carts bearing fruits and sweets. They scattered like flies at our flow of humanity until we left them behind to gape in wonder before they shrugged at the passing madness and returned their trade.
We stopped at another wide thick door. Dagger handles pounded on the panels. This was opened by a blackamoor slave, absurdly tall compared to the height of the door, and against the human wave he fell back impassively as if such events occurred daily.
This time, the majority of the party remained in the foyer while a half-dozen men escorted us through darker, smaller rooms. We were pushed up a set of stairs, and after the leader pounded on another door, were escorted through another set of quarters. Here for the first time, we saw women. Many of them. Hareem, I thought, but this was no fantasy painted by English salon painters. These women were not clothed only in spangles or jewels, but from head to foot in heavy black hajibs. Some left their faces unclothed, and the younger women looked fresher, but all exhibited signs of carrying a heavy burden, like horses worked past their prime. That they barely noticed our passing, noisy and rough as a pirate crew, made me thoughtful when I recalled it later.