This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2013 Julia Peczynsky and Horst Drosten
Translation copyright © 2017 Christiane Galvani
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Previously published as Die Löwin von Mogador by Kindle Direct Publishing in 2013 in Germany. Translated from German by Christiane Galvani. First published in English by AmazonCrossing in 2017.
Published by AmazonCrossing, Seattle
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Amazon, the Amazon logo, and AmazonCrossing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503941922
ISBN-10: 1503941922
Cover design by Rex Bonomelli
Contents
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Part Two
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Afterword and Acknowledgments
About the Authors
About the Translator
Part One
The Blue Pearl of the Atlantic 1835 to 1840
Nothing shall ever happen to us except that which God has ordained for us. And if you put your faith in God, He will guide your heart. For God knows all things.
—the Koran
Chapter One
London, June 1835
The fifteen clerks taking their lunch break in the counting house of the Spencer & Son Shipping Company almost choked on their food.
There at the door stood Sibylla Spencer, visibly out of breath and pressing an envelope against her chest as she looked from one startled face to the next. The boss’s twenty-three-year-old daughter normally visited only once a year, when she and her stepmother distributed Christmas presents.
Yet it was not Christmas but the middle of June. It did not bode well that Sibylla had appeared unannounced, distraught, and, it would seem, unaccompanied in the rough masculine world of the Port of London. At least this was what Mr. Donovan, the lead accountant, feared. He stepped away from his desk with some hesitation.
“Your father is in a meeting with the dock committee, Miss Spencer. He should be back within half an hour. Do you wish to wait for him? Peter”—he motioned to one of the apprentice clerks—“get a chair for Miss Spencer.”
As Sibylla impatiently shook her head, another voice came from a desk near the window. “This seems urgent. I shall escort you, Miss Spencer, if you will allow me. I was on my way to the docks anyway.”
A tall young man with an elaborately tied silk cravat, stylishly tight vest, and highly polished shoes took a briefcase from his desk, walked over to Sibylla, and bowed briefly, folding his tall frame in half like a pocketknife.
“Benjamin Hopkins,” he said in a slightly nasal, vaguely arrogant voice. “I’m your father’s leading purchasing agent.”
Relieved, Donovan retreated to his desk. Benjamin heard muttering and felt the piercing eyes of his coworkers on his back. All of twenty-eight years old, he had managed to become the right-hand man of shipping and business magnate Richard Spencer. And he never missed an opportunity to make the boss aware of his colleagues’ smallest mistakes. That, along with his fastidious attire and affected speech, led to widespread dislike and ridicule.
Yet if Benjamin was sweating under his high-collared shirt, it was not because of the palpable hostility from his coworkers, but rather the scrutiny of Sibylla’s sapphire-colored eyes. She studied him for some time without uttering a word and, just as he feared he would be turned down, she nodded. “Very well, Mr. Hopkins.”
Benjamin breathed a sigh of triumphant relief. “I certainly hope that you are not bearing bad news,” he said, looking at the envelope in her hand.
“That’s hardly any concern of yours, Mr. Hopkins.” She turned on her heel and hurried down the stairs.
As Benjamin snatched his coat off the hook and slipped it on, he overheard someone say quietly, yet distinctly, “Just look at that bootlicker; now he’s going after the boss’s daughter.”
“What’s keeping you, Mr. Hopkins? I’m in a hurry,” Sibylla called.
Benjamin strode through the door with his head held high.
Sibylla was already settled in her elegant two-seater. “Come on, Mr. Hopkins! Or are you averse to a woman holding the reins?”
“Oh, on the contrary, I would consider it an honor to be your passenger!” he exclaimed, climbing in next to her.
“Let’s not exaggerate now, Mr. Hopkins.” She clicked her tongue and the brown hackney mare pulled so forcefully that Benjamin lost his balance and fell against the seat. But even Sibylla’s disdainful look was not enough to shake his confidence.
Over the course of yearly company Christmas parties, he had seen Sibylla turn from a child to a graceful young woman. She’d had many suitors, but her willfulness and sharp wit had proved too daunting for all of them. Before long, she had gained a reputation for being intent on controlling a man, and this deterred many. Benjamin, on the other hand, saw an opportunity. Company gossip was swirling around Richard Spencer’s fear that his daughter might end up an old maid. And the greater that fear, the less likely he would be to object to a son-in-law like Benjamin, who had neither an impressive family tree nor a fortune of any note.
“What is this meeting my father is attending?” Sibylla asked as she maneuvered through the hustle and bustle of carts, stevedores, sailors, dock agents, laborers, and employees of the surrounding offices.
“I’m certain a lovely young lady such as you would rather talk about more entertaining subjects,” Benjamin replied with his most charming smile. Alas, what had proven so effective with other women earned him no more than a look of annoyance.
“Would I be asking if I weren’t interested?”
Benjamin laughed sheepishly. “Well, it’s about trade with the Maghreb, that is to say, trade with Northern and West Africa. Your father, as president of the West India Dock Company, received a letter from the general consul of the British government in Morocco. The sultan is extending an invitation to British and Continental traders. His coffers are empty after many years of war against the rebellious Berbers. Trade with the Moroccan Jews has stimulated the domestic economy, and now we are supposed to improve overseas trade.”
“Isn’t it dangerous there? I’ve heard of pirates taking Christians hostage and selling them as slaves.”
“I’m impressed by your knowledg
e, Miss Spencer.”
“I read often. Most of all about foreign lands I’ll probably never see.”
He nodded as he wondered if she might be satisfied with the carefree society life of attending tea parties or receptions wearing the latest fashions and exchanging the latest gossip.
“Fortunately, the pirate problem along the coast is under control,” he explained. “Some local rulers have been effectively bribed and others intimidated by our navy. The sight of our battleships is very impressive, I can assure you. And Sultan Abd al-Rahman’s invitation means lucrative business.”
“So the members of the dock association are deciding whether to send ships to Morocco?”
“Yes, they’re discussing the port of Tangier on the Mediterranean and Mogador on the Atlantic. The trouble is that it’s difficult to find people willing to work in an uncivilized Arab country.”
“Mogador,” Sibylla muttered to herself. “How mysterious!”
Benjamin eyed her surreptitiously. She was slender, with a straight back, and almost too tall for his taste. The wind played with her hat and the lace flounce of her dress that stuck out from under her light coat. Her blonde hair blew a bit around her face, but he was able to see her lashes and her elegant nose. Her delicate white skin and wind-reddened cheeks intensified his impression that this English rose belonged at an elegant ball rather than at the loud and dirty Port of London.
“Well, Mr. Hopkins. What’s your verdict, having examined me so intensely? Do you judge me with a businessman’s eye, assessing the same way you do barrels of rum and sacks of coffee? Do you deem me a pretty but useless package?” Her tone was mocking but her look was searching.
“F-f-f-forgive me,” he stammered. “But if I may say so, you are a balm to the eyes of any man, and it would never occur to me to compare you to a barrel of rum or a sack of coffee. That would insult not only your beauty but also your integrity, which you have once again demonstrated to me.”
“What a shameless flatterer you are, Mr. Hopkins!” she said, shaking her head.
Benjamin wisely decided to dispense with any further compliments. “Turn left up ahead and then go along the high brick wall.”
Sibylla guided the gig from the frontage road onto a narrower path running parallel to a canal that connected the Thames with the West India Docks.
“My goodness!” she exclaimed as they passed a hall from which emanated the pounding noises of steam engines. “This place is nearly as busy as Oxford Street.”
“And the urgency to unload wares is the same, only in much greater quantities,” Benjamin added.
Her eyes sparkled with excitement. “Now I understand why my father always says that the port is London’s raison d’être.”
Three- and four-mast barques—big, stable West Indian ships—were lined up close to each other. The entire dock was on a peninsula, the Isle of Dogs, surrounded on three sides by a wide bight in the Thames. Thirty years ago, the West India Docks were built as part of the first commercial harbor installation in London separate from the river, with two large basins that could accommodate a total of six hundred boats and were connected to the Thames by a sophisticated system of canals.
“Here, on the east side, is the entrance and exit passage for the ships,” Benjamin explained to Sibylla. “First, they go to the import dock to unload their freight. Then they go on to the export dock to take new freight on board, and then on to a wider canal to head out into the world.”
“How marvelous to think that, thanks to these ships, people all over England are able to enjoy coffee, tea, and sugar from the Caribbean.”
Benjamin nodded absentmindedly, his mind back on the young woman’s letter. “Surely it must have been very urgent news that prompted a respectable young lady to set foot in this place?”
“Nicely put, but still much too inquisitive, don’t you think?” she retorted.
Miffed, he turned his attention to some gulls fighting over a dead fish and missed Sibylla’s amused glance. She looked at him sitting there sulkily, leather briefcase cradled against his chest. His face was pleasant, if a bit soft. His eyebrows and eyelashes were fair, his eyes light blue, his lips small, and his nose rather long and protruding. He was clean shaven with neat sideburns, an impeccably knotted cravat, and highly polished shoes, all of which suggested a penchant for luxury and vanity.
Some of her previous suitors had attempted to treat her like a child. Others had offered advice and, when she did not obey, retracted it in indignation. One had even acted impudently with her, and she had boxed his ears. It had been this questionable candidate who spread the rumor that Sibylla Spencer wanted to control the men in her life.
Ever since leaving the Lady Eleanor Holles School for Young Ladies at sixteen, Sibylla had been expected to marry and start a family. No one seemed to take into account her wishes, which were to experience life in all its richness and to see the world’s wonders with her own eyes. Left to her own devices, she would not marry for a long time. But she was twenty-three now and almost all of her friends were married with their own children while she was still at home, living by the same rules as her sixteen-year-old half brother, Oscar. She was well aware of the fact that an unmarried woman was treated the same as a child. Perhaps marriage was indeed the only way to win more freedom.
She guided her carriage past the eastern gate to the docks to get behind the wall surrounding the entire area.
“This letter is from my half brother, Oscar,” she began without prompting. “He says that he’s going to be able to play in the cricket match against Harrow on Sunday after all. He’s been working very hard to be able to do this. And now he wants us to stand on the side of the field and cheer him on, of course.”
“Of course,” Benjamin echoed. Though flattered that Sibylla had shared the content of the letter after all, he could not make out why this message was important enough to warrant her urgent trip.
“I could have waited until this evening to tell Father the news, it’s true,” she continued. “But we have all wished so fervently for Oscar to make it onto the team. As a child, he was weak and so often ill that Father feared seeing his company without an heir. And besides,” she said, with a mischievous smile, “I was in the mood for a little adventure.”
At a click of her tongue, the mare picked up speed. In no time, they had left behind the fire station, the barrel makers, rope makers, and cabinet makers, the passenger waiting area, the wood merchants’ offices, a blacksmith’s, and the stables for the workhorses, and arrived at the ledger house. The building housing the offices and administration of the West India Dock Company was a striking edifice, with its yellow and maroon bricks and shiny copper roof. It held not only the conference room for the partners, but also a writing room, a canteen, and offices for harbor police and dock security. There was a group of gentlemen standing under the arches, engaged in intense discussion. While Sibylla recognized several members of the dock association, she did not see her father.
One waved animatedly as he rushed over. “Dear Miss Spencer, what on earth are you doing here? Your family is well, I hope? Surely nothing has happened at home?” He scowled at Benjamin as though he were to blame.
“Everything is fine,” Sibylla replied curtly. “Is my father still here?”
The man shook his head. “I’m afraid not. He has gone to the dock to ensure that we have enough warehouse space for the merchandise coming in from Morocco. I can send a messenger, if you’d like.”
“Many thanks, but I’ll go myself.” Sibylla clicked her tongue and the mare began to pull. As they reached the west gate of the docks, she turned to Benjamin. “Would you like me to let you off anywhere in particular?”
Benjamin responded with a look of indignation. “Surely you don’t think I would leave you alone? Your father would have my head!”
The day laborers who gathered outside the gate every morning looking for work as porters were long gone. In their place stood several horses and carts waiting to be admitted. As
Sibylla joined the line, her gaze wandered over the large memorial plaque on the wall, commemorating the founding fathers of the dock association. It filled her with pride when she recognized the name of her grandfather, Horatio Spencer, one of the men who, at the end of the previous century, had realized their vision of the largest dock installation in England with boundless patience and foresight, and in the face of great financial risk.
The guard at the gate stared at Sibylla and her elegant little gig in disbelief, but when he recognized Benjamin, he gave a quick nod and waved them through. Before them lay a long street. To the right was the harbor basin, in which so many ships lay anchored that Sibylla wondered how in the world they didn’t constantly ram into one another. To the left were the warehouses, five-story brick buildings with ramps, cargo hatches, and rope hoists.
“The heaviest wares, such as barrels of rum, are stored at the bottom, above that, the sacks of coffee and sugar or bales of cotton, and at the very top are the lightest deliveries, normally spices. A total of nine warehouses are filled with merchandise from the import dock. At the moment, two of them are being leased to the East India Company, which uses them to store tea,” explained Benjamin.
The dock was bustling. Sibylla caught snippets of all the languages of the world, and barrels rumbled over the cobbles. Workers in shirtsleeves pushed carts laden with bulging brown jute sacks back and forth between the pier and the warehouses, and the metal chains of the massive cranes rattled and squeaked. A group of flaxen-haired sailors disembarked, laughing and singing, from a ship bearing the flag of the kingdom of Denmark. The next boat over, an officer was bellowing in Portuguese at some dark-skinned sailors as they scrubbed the deck. There were dozens of barrels set along the pier, waiting for transport. The air smelled of pine tar, sticky-sweet rum, and fishy, brackish water.
Sibylla would have loved to take in every detail, but she had her hands full trying to calm her horse. The mare was overwhelmed by the great number of smells, the relentless noise, and the flurry of activity. She snorted, pricked her ears, and made several attempts to bolt.
“Fear not, Mr. Hopkins. I’ve got her under control!”
The Lioness of Morocco Page 1