by Bill Peschel
We were rushed through these rooms even faster—I suspect the men were singularly uncomfortable in these quarters, and we found ourselves in another storeroom, but with a ladder that gave access to a hole in the ceiling. Up that! We were on the roof. A flat roof at that, with a low wall around the edge. The hatch slammed behind us.
This time we were guarded by two men. They were seated against the wall, occupying what little shade the roof edge afforded us. They barely acknowledged our presence apart from a glance in our direction. They didn’t seem to care that we would try to escape. I strode to the edge to test them. They did not move. I looked over the edge and saw why. It was a three-story drop to the street below, and their attitude was clearly “go ahead and try. But watch that first step.”
We could yell, but who would hear us? Who would come to our aid? We could leap for another building’s roof, but that demanded more nerve than I could muster at the moment.
I looked around. Mycroft had settled himself next to the two men. He seemed to be trying to tell them a joke, because they were laughing. Mycroft wasn’t, however. In fact, he didn’t seem pleased at all.
I had lost my cigar in the parade, so I scratched a match on the wall and lighted another and observed, “This is a peculiar turn of events.”
“It is?” Mycroft said. His hair was tousled and his face was shining with sweat.
“Yes. We have been rescued, it would appear, but we have been left imprisoned. Can you account for that?”
“There is something in what you say. Unfortunately, we won’t get it from them.”
We returned to quiet, leaving me to smoke in peace until the roof door opened with a crash. A head popped up, nodded to us. The swordsmen escorted us down and led us to the home’s courtyard. There by a rectangular fountain with rows of single jets hissing water, was a large rectangular blanket laden with food in baskets and piled high on plates. Waiting for us at the head was a thin older man dressed in brilliantly colored robes. Next to him sat his assistant, a younger man who glared at us as if expecting any moment to have to strike us down. We sat on the carpet opposite them as if filling out a foursome for bridge.
The older man’s head was covered with a cloth cap, and the hair that wasn’t covered by it was grey and cropped short. He nodded to his assistant, who waved his hands at the spread.
There were fewer utensils on the board than I encountered my first time heading west by wagon. Mycroft spied my hesitation and said, “Follow my lead.” Following the custom of these people, we ate with our right hands, carefully rolling balls of rice and popping them into our mouths like grapes. We drank cups of sweet tea and smiled to show there were no hard feelings; of stealing and imprisoning us on their part, and at being held captive and threatened with skinning on ours.
It was a jolly party, except during the first few courses Mycroft was clearly weighing a matter over in his head. He would eye me, eat a handful of rice, mumble a few words of gratitude to our host, and be received with the glare of a maiden aunt. Finally, with a huff of resignation, he spoke a few words of Arabic.
If I had a knife and fork, I would have dropped them. The effect on our host was electric as well. He spoke for himself, and Mycroft answered. Soon, they were holding a regular old confab, the burly assistant glaring at me and myself trying not to drop my food in my lap.
Mycroft broke his conversation to translate: “This is Ishmael Muhammad. He is a merchant. His aide de camp is Rais Uli, who promises to kill us if we offend his master. Ishmael commends us on our good fortune to be rescued from his rival, who is a dog who deserves beheading for his insults to us. He begs us to be patient. He has sent word to the sultan that we are his guests, and that for the proper payment we will be returned unharmed.”
“How did he know we were on offer?”
“Ah,” he adjusted himself into a more comfortable position. “It seems that word of our arrival had spread through the souks—their marketplaces.
“So why us?”
“Because Europeans in Tangier are protected by the consuls who have influence with the emperor. We, however, have no influence. We are valuable only as a source of currency.”
I confessed that I was perplexed about Morocco’s customs. Was kidnapping the common method of welcoming guests?
“Not for everyone,” Mycroft said. “You’ve come here at an interesting time. Morocco and Spain fought a war a few years back. It did not go well for Sultan Muhammad IV. The treaty called for an indemnity payment to Spain that was 20 times the government’s annual budget. He’s been squeezing the inland tribes who owe him fealty as well as everyone else, and they’re resisting.”
“But what does that have to do with us? We’re not Spaniards.”
“The chain of logic is simple, once you know enough facts to construct it. The tribes resist the sultan. To do that, they need weapons; good, sturdy, expensive, European guns. They need money. They can’t rob much here. There’s not enough gold to go around. So they kidnap foreigners.”
“So does this mean I can stop claiming to be Sherman? Considering I’m not to be drafted after all.”
“I’m afraid so.”
We bantered about a number of subjects. Knowing I was an American, Ishmael wanted to know about the rivers of gold and silver discovered in California and Nevada. I sketched an outline of my adventures in that line, and he asked if it were possible to find similar veins in the mountains of Morocco. I averred that I wasn’t a geologist and couldn’t say. I suspected that if gold had been discovered, it had been long dug out and moved away. Morocco had been inhabited for thousands of years. Gold laying about in its streams like the one at Sutter’s Mill would have been found and exploited long ago. He nodded and muttered, “Inshallah”—“If Allah wills it”—the standard phrase about luck good or bad, for maladies inflicted or received.
After we had eaten and drank our fill, we were invited to rest. We couldn’t refuse such hospitality. Led by a slave with a lantern and rope, and followed by two guards, we were taken to a room with a couple of low divans and low tables nearby. Without bothering to shuck our clothes, we were flopped down on the larger of the two and our arms tied behind us at the wrists. The slave left the room and closed the door. The bolt slid into place, and we said nothing until the shuush-shuush-shuush of the slave’s slippers faded to silence.
My eyes adjusted to the gloom, and I saw cracks of light peeping through the wooden panels barring the window. It was muggy. The air was saturated with moisture. I sneezed several times from the dust. The quiet stimulated my brainpan and I reflected on events during our journey that had been puzzling me. Next to me on the divan, Mycroft was squirming as if his clothes were infested with lice.
I told him, “I been cogitating about your stories, and I’m wondering if you know more than you’ve been willing to share. I didn’t have it on my itinerary that I was to be shanghaied. It doesn’t suit me.
“Yet here I am, snaffled not once but twice, along with a stranger who, after showing ignorance of the language and politics, seems at home in this country. You certainly didn’t get all that gossip about Sultan Muhammad from afternoon tea in Oxford. Send up a flare if I’m sighting land, will you?”
He said nothing but emitted a sharp whistle that cracked my ears. He was paying more heed to the window than to me.
“Indications to the contrary, you’re not a fresh-faced whelp looking for a spree. You got more under your hat than your hair. Now, if I knew more about what you’re looking for, I might be amiable to help. You’re looking for some thing. Someone who’s been kidnapped? No. If they’d be wanting ransom, you’d know who did it and where to look. So it’s the person behind the snatchings. You don’t know who, because if you did, you’d go asking in every nook and cranny. But you don’t, so you’re blundering around like a schoolboy, which I’d say you are, because you haven’t the foggiest notion of where to begin.”
He stiffened at that. I had struck a blow, so I pressed my advantage. “I suppose whe
n I get out of here, I’ll have a chat with the American consul about you. Did you know I’m writing letters to a Sacramento newspaper back home? This’ll make a thrilling story, especially after I work my imagination on it. ‘British spy drags American into Moroccan nightmare!’ Yes sir,” I sucked in a cloud to give that shaft time to settle in, “once that gets to the New York newspapers, it’ll hit London like a comet. It’ll make them sit up and take notice. And where will you be when it does? Back at Oxford?”
“All right, you’ve made your point, but what I tell you cannot be revealed to another soul.”
I nodded. “I’m not who I say I am.”
“Do tell.”
“And I didn’t give you quite accurate information.”
“That’s a given.”
“There’s been an increase in kidnappings for ransom here. We suspect someone’s using it to buy weapons for the hill tribes, possibly for a revolt against the sultan.”
“What for?”
“Could be anything,” Mycroft said. “The sultan has given up reforming the country after the Spanish debacle. He’s retreated to his harem, his poetry, his intellectual interests. A change of rulers could shift the balance to France, Russia, even the Ottomans. Piracy could return, focused on British shipping passing through the straits.
“I concluded it was the Prussians, with this new fellow called Bismarck directing foreign policy, but Whitehall says it’s the French. They discount the Prussian threat entirely. I want to prove them wrong.”
I let that sink in and concluded he had gone crack-headed from the heat. To explain why, I must adopt the manner of a pedagogue. I don’t know what the world will know a century from now. At the time, Germany didn’t exist. There was the North German Confederation ruled by Prussia with the help of Bismarck. Bismarck was barely a year in power as chancellor under Willy the First. The struggle everyone was watching was between Britain and France, with Russia throwing their weight with whoever benefits them the most. So listening to Mycroft in the semi-darkness of our makeshift cell rattling on about the dangers of Prussia made as much sense as saying fairies are real.
“So when you came along, Clemens, introducing yourself as Sherman, I saw a way of getting deep inside Tangier culture. Si el Aziz knows the city well and arranged for our capture. He was supposed to rescue us once I gave him the sign, but that did not happen like I planned.”
“And is Aziz going to rescue us?”
“That I do not know. Which means we need to leave.”
“The vote is unanimous. Shall we walk out like this?”
“Best to leave the ropes behind. Let me give a pull here—”
“It’s sturdy rope—” and then his wrists separated and he held his hands before me.
“A knife blade concealed in my sleeve.” Mycroft examined the hole at the arm end of his coat. “My tailor will be distraught. Can’t be helped. If you will turn?” He held up the blade and grinned like a maniac.
When the feeling was restored to my arms, we examined the barred window. With the help of the blade, Mycroft picked the heavy lock, threw open the panels and we climbed into the alley. We reached the street and stood there a moment trying to decide which way to run when we heard the hiss of “My-kul! My-kul!” Si el Aziz was in the alley across the street, beckoning us to follow him.
We trotted to catch up with him. The sun scalded my head, and made the coolness of the narrow alley all the more welcoming.
“Hurry! We must hurry!” he said, his robes fluttering behind him. “Have you fulfilled your mission, yes, yes?”
“Enough,” Mycroft said. “I must see the British consul. Hay will know what to do.”
“That is good, very good,” Si el Aziz was gasping as he led us through the twists and turns, deeper into the close-packed block.
“Is this the way back to the port?” I said.
“It is very important that we go this way, yes, yes,” he said.
I chewed over that statement as we hurried. I was having my doubts about this affair, especially when it seemed like we were never going to get out of this congestion. We passed parties of veiled women, Moors bearing heavy bundles on their heads, gangs of raggedly dressed children slipping through the semi-dark like silverfish.
Then there was a turn down an alley lit by a blaze of light that assaulted our eyes. We stumbled toward the end like we were entering heaven. The noise of crying merchants mingled with the braying of donkeys and camels deafened me.
Then we reached the street and into the arms of several robed and masked men, who seized us. We were tossed like cordwood onto a wagon. Blankets were heaped on us, and a few backsides sat on us as a suggestion to stay in place. The teamster yelled at the donkeys, and we rolled to an unknown destination.
* * * * *
It was stuffy and smelly underneath the blankets. I spent my leisure trying to breathe as little of it in as possible. Si el Aziz had become too enthusiastic about his job. He was supposed to arrange one kidnapping and one rescue, and he threw in a second on his own hook. I began to suspect that he had not been playing fair with us, and I would certainly not tip him when we were finished with him.
Moreover, I was not pleased with Mycroft’s role in this falderal. I had signed onto the Quaker City tour to visit foreign lands, but not while wearing bonds and gags. I most certainly did not asked to be kidnapped, held at sword-point, threatened with beheading, and held for ransom. I am certain I did not ask for that on the application form.
There were many questions buzzing around in my head, and I hoped for more time on this side of life to ask them. My ruminations were interrupted when the wagon turned sharply. We stopped feeling the blazing heat of the sun. The wagon stopped suddenly, we heard the clashing of wooden doors closing, and we were handled like packages out of the wagon and dropped to the ground, where we were allowed to stand and dust ourselves off.
We were in a large barn, surrounded by our captors, fingering their cutlery and regarding us as a butcher regards a sheep with a certain future. One of them nodded toward a door and we obeyed. We walked into a room, followed by three of the men. The door was slammed shut, and we turned to see the two assistants, Abd Ghailan and the evil-eyed Rais Uli, accompanied by another man whose facial features were obscured by a blood-red head scarf.
This was curious. They had been clearly working for their employers. Were they working for them still? Or was it someone else now? And what did they want with us?
They talked among themselves between shifting glares our way. Since my hands were free, I unholstered another cigar and set it alight.
Mycroft made a face like he had bit into a lemon. “Must you smoke so much?”
“I have never regarded myself as an excessive smoker,” I said with the surety of a saved soul. “I never smoke when I am asleep, and I do not smoke more than one cigar at a time.”
We were clearly in a stable of some kind, and the room was used to store tack and saddles. There was a small table and a couple of chairs against the far wall. The men were blocking our way to the only door out of this space. Being a seasoned kidnap victim by now, I elected to sit and rest.
The three men stopped their discussion at rising cries from within the barn. Even not knowing the lingo, I could conclude they were friendly greetings for a new arrival. Maybe there would be lunch.
“He is coming!” Abd Ghailan said. [Mycroft told me this later.]
“He is coming?” Rais Uli said. The third man said nothing but snorted and tucked his loosened scarf behind his neck.
“Who is coming?” I said.
“Their leader,” Mycroft said. “Perhaps the mind behind this unrest.” The blood drained from his face. I turned.
Dietrich walked in.
“I’m very pleased to meet you again.” He dropped his newspapers on the table and sat down. After so many years, I could still see the Harper’s Weekly on top, the only thing so recognizably American that seemed so out of place here.
Then he turned to
me and said, “Gen. Sherman, it is a pleasure to see you again. But I do have one question I would like to ask.”
His smile sent a chill through me. There was no mirth in it. There was no genuine pleasure in seeing me.
“If you are the general,” and he reached over to the Harper’s Weekly and flipped over a few pages, “then who is this Sherman?”
There he was, on the page, a woodcut of the man boarding a ship bound for Mexico aboard the Susquehanna. The issue was more than six months old, but that wouldn’t excuse the fact that I resembled the man who gifted Savannah to Lincoln for Christmas like a strawberry resembles a pumpkin.
“So! What should we do with my two spies,” Dietrich said. Outside, we could hear the call to prayer. “With our plan to cast Britain out of Morocco and then from Gibraltar nearly complete, I can’t afford to keep you around.” He was talking to himself as if he was thinking through the logic of his intentions. “I shall sell you to a slaver.”
To our shocked faces he said, “Do not be too scared. European men bring a high price as house servants. If you resist, they’ll put you to work in the fields. By the time you escape, there will be a new emperor on the throne.” He called out a name, and through the door appeared Si el Aziz, our treacherous guide. “Tell Ayush Et-Lezra here to take them to the slave market. Find a slaver bound for Marrakesh. Take whatever price is offered.”
“Yes, yes!” Si said. He translated the orders to the man in the red scarf, who nodded.
“Good day, general,” Dietrich said, and this time he meant it, and they left the room.
But then a peculiar thing happened. Instead of leaping upon us like his fellow Moroccans had been doing all day, Ayush stayed rooted in place. He looked down at his sword, deep in thought. Abd Ghailan and Rais Uli exchanged questioning glances. These desperados seemed reluctant to carry out their Dietrich’s order.