“What happens to the Africans who end up as slaves in Morocco?” Sibylla finally asked.
“Many of the men become soldiers. Some become farmworkers, and the ablest among them gain influential positions at the sultan’s court. Many become domestic servants, but the most beautiful women are sold into harems.”
Mary’s eyes grew wide. She had learned about harems in her novels. “Did you ever visit such a place, Mr. Moffat?”
He shook his head. “That would surely have cost me my life. No stranger is allowed to see a Moor’s women.”
“So one must acquire one’s own harem to find out how it works.” Benjamin chuckled, swirling his wine.
Richard, seeing that Benjamin was ready to launch into cruder remarks, shifted the topic back to business. “As you know, our commercial agent in Mogador has passed away. Do you know anyone who could be entrusted with that post?”
“I’m sorry, but I’m afraid the local British consul is in a much better position to help you with such matters.”
Richard furrowed his brow. “I fear it’ll take us a good six months before we’re back in business.”
“But, Father, we already have someone for Mogador,” Sibylla announced, placing her hand on Benjamin’s arm. “My husband.”
Chapter Four
Mogador, early May 1836
“Why, it’s like we never left London.” Benjamin peevishly handed the binoculars back to Captain Brown. According to Captain Brown, the Queen Charlotte was within striking distance of Mogador’s harbor, but dense fog obscured everything.
The captain placed the binoculars in his pocket. “Like I’ve been tellin’ ya. Foggy a lot along the coast here. The Canary Current cools the Atlantic air and the result is this damned mess.”
“Captain, we’ve been anchored out here for two days now. How much longer can this last?” Sibylla stood at the railing between Brown and her husband, fighting the impulse to retch. She’d been battling a debilitating case of seasickness ever since coming aboard at the end of March.
“It’s clearing. We’ll reach port today.”
Surprised, she and Benjamin followed his outstretched arm and were able to make out a thin tower through the swirling curtain of fog.
“Minaret on the big mosque,” Brown explained. “Only thing that can stop us now is a northwest trade wind. But I should think a British West Indies sailor can handle it!”
“The wind is strong here, but nothing like those storms in the North Sea.” Sibylla shivered as she recalled the first days of their voyage.
Brown laughed. “Well, if you can’t handle a bit of a breeze, you’re in the wrong place. Mogador’s windy year-round. Excuse me, I best speak with my helmsman if we’re to get the Queen to port in one piece.” He gave a brief bow and hurried away.
The next wave came and the ship bucked like a horse. Sibylla retched and clutched Benjamin’s right hand.
“You ought to go and lie down in the cabin.”
She shook her head vehemently. “Absolutely not. I have spent the entire journey there, with the exception of the time ashore in Lisbon when we had to wait for the wind to change.”
“I had thought it would be much hotter here, so close to the Sahara,” said Benjamin. “But spring in England is just as mild, only with more rain.”
Again, the ship lurched in the strong swell. Sibylla closed her eyes in resignation.
In the night, the watchman’s yells had roused her from restless sleep. She had heard orders being shouted, the sound of boots tromping across the deck, and shrill whistles. After two days at anchor, the ship had finally begun to move again, only not forward, as expected. Instead, it seemed to go in circles. Benjamin, worried, had hurried on deck to find out what the matter was and returned to the cabin to tell her that the anchor chain had broken; they had ended up on a shoal and were now spinning in an eddy. Only he had not been able to finish explaining all this to Sibylla, who had begun vomiting again into the bowl that was always next to her bunk. At least by dawn the Queen Charlotte was once more securely anchored by means of a spare chain.
Sibylla heard a loud screech above her head. Two seagulls had alighted on the yardarm of the foremast. The curtain of fog was thinning above their white heads, and she caught a promising glimpse of blue sky.
“Could you ever have imagined actually being here so soon when Mr. Moffat first came to dinner?” she asked Benjamin.
Richard Spencer had expressed no objections to Sibylla’s suggestion that he send Benjamin to Mogador. On the contrary, he had wanted him to depart as soon as possible.
However, Richard had been categorically opposed to the idea of Sibylla accompanying her husband. He had only reluctantly given his consent once Moffat assured him that many European ladies lived with their husbands in the foreigners’ quarter, safely separated from the rest of the city.
Sibylla and Benjamin were the only passengers on the Queen Charlotte, which was laden with tea, cotton cloth, and hardware. Their London servants, upon hearing that they would henceforth be required to live among Moors, had quit their service. The couple had very little luggage. Sibylla’s consisted mainly of boxes of books, among them her copies of One Thousand and One Nights and the Koran. Benjamin, for his part, had stocked up on French wine, Scotch whisky, and smoked ham, aware that these delicacies were prohibited in a Muslim country. Knowing they would be moving into Mr. Fisher’s already-furnished house, they had brought no furniture, and instead packed an abundance of gifts. The sultan, his court, the tribal chief of Mogador, several sheikhs, and various Arab merchants must all be taken into consideration in the interests of good business.
“That old sea dog was right,” Benjamin grumbled. “The fog is lifting. But it remains to be seen if we can make it into the harbor. I wonder if it might not have been wiser to approach from the south.”
“I’m confident the captain knows what he’s doing better than we. This is not his first time here,” Sibylla countered.
The Queen Charlotte slowly fought her way forward against the waves. The closer the entrance grew, the narrower it seemed. The heavy ship had to squeeze between the harbor mole on the left and the small Isle of Mogador on the right. Waves crashed against the rocks. A fortress emerged out of the last wafts of fog. Suddenly, the wreckage of a frigate appeared. Sibylla grabbed Benjamin’s hand and gave Captain Brown a horrified look. He was standing at the bow next to a sailor, measuring the depth of the water with a plummet. The first officer was on his other side awaiting his orders and shouting them to the helmsman at the stern. It seemed like an eternity to Sibylla, but they finally made it through the narrow passage and saw the harbor of Mogador extend before them like a long, thin crescent. As it was filled with sand, they had to drop anchor at quite a distance from the mole.
“We’ll have to change boats.” Benjamin pointed to the vessel heading their way from the shore. There was an Arab standing at the stern, shouting one command after another to the twenty black-skinned men rowing in tandem. As the boat came alongside theirs, the first mate shouted an order to lower the ladder.
Sibylla peered down. “He can’t be serious.”
“I’m afraid he is, dear.”
“No!” She grabbed his arm. “I could lose the baby.”
He looked at her in disbelief. “What baby?”
She bit her lip. This was not how she had planned to tell him. Her doctor in London had warned her not to embark on the strenuous sea voyage, but she had sworn him to secrecy. She wanted to get to Mogador at all costs, and neither Benjamin nor her doctor was going to stop her.
She had been wanting to inform Benjamin of his impending fatherhood ever since they departed, but kept silent for fear he would send her back from one of the ports where they stopped for provisions along the way.
“We are going to have a baby,” she said so softly he could barely hear her above the wind and the waves. “In the fall.”
“And when were you planning to tell me? When the midwife was on her way?”
<
br /> She blushed. “You and Father would never have permitted me to go on this journey had you known! I planned to tell you as soon as we were safely in Mogador.”
Benjamin shook his head. After thinking for a bit, he told her, “We’re going to do it the way we did it that day at the London docks, only in reverse. I’ll climb down first. You follow right behind and hold on to both ropes.” She nodded bravely but looked pale.
“Don’t be afraid,” he reassured her. “It’ll be all right.”
Half an hour later, they finally reached terra firma. After so many days at sea, Sibylla felt the ground sway under her feet. Still, she was overcome by a feeling of solemnity.
I am in Africa, she thought. How many English can claim to have been here? I am sure I can count the women on my fingers!
She looked up to the fortress with its brightly colored flags flapping above the towers and battlements. Mogador—the Blue Pearl of the Atlantic, as the Arabs called it—rose up behind the ramparts. Cube-shaped houses with no more than two stories were lined up close to each other. Their whitewashed walls gleamed in the sunlight. The tall tower of the minaret rose into a sky so blue as to make the recent fog seem like a dream. The national flags of the foreign consulates were hoisted high above the roofs. Seagulls screeched above. The wind tore at Sibylla’s dress and tousled her hair. Tiny grains of sand stung her skin.
There were other high-sea ships besides the Queen. Sibylla recognized French, American, Spanish, and Prussian ensigns, but compared to the bustling Port of London, they were few. Several smaller boats were berthed at the mole. Fishermen sat along the water’s edge, mending their nets. There was also a small wharf where the wooden frame of a fishing boat was being readied. Sibylla noticed a group of men emerging from the darkened arches of one of the massive entrances to the city.
“The welcoming committee,” remarked Captain Brown, who had accompanied them to deal with the customs formalities.
At the head of the small troop was an Arab with a carefully trimmed silver beard. He wore a white turban, a white tunic under an open black burnoose, and flat slippers. His suntanned face radiated the confidence of a man accustomed to power.
“Is that the qaid?” Sibylla wanted to know.
Brown nodded. “A high-level official. One of Morocco’s ruling elite, the Makhzen—a frequent visitor to the court.”
The other younger Arab, similarly dressed, hung back, as did a man in a black kaftan and turban. The fourth man, a middle-aged European dressed elegantly in a fine tailored suit, stepped forward.
“Welcome to Mogador, Mrs. Hopkins, Mr. Hopkins,” he said with a bow. “William Willshire, British consul, at your service. I am accompanied by His Excellency Qaid Hash-Hash, governor of Mogador; his translator, Nuri bin Kalil; and Mr. Philipps, the harbormaster.” As he spoke, Willshire gestured to the two Arabs and the man dressed in black.
Sibylla’s excitement rose. She had resolved to make the best possible first impression, not merely out of politeness, but for the benefit of her father’s business.
She smiled at the qaid and said slowly but clearly, “Assalamu alaikum, peace be upon you.”
Expecting the governor to be delighted at being greeted in his mother tongue, she was shocked when the man looked right past her—as did his translator. Had she somehow offended the qaid? She had practiced the greeting so carefully. She turned to Mr. Willshire, who shrugged his shoulders and said quietly, “It is not that His Excellency wishes to offend you, Mrs. Hopkins. Quite the contrary, he would never consider being so disrespectful as to address you or even look at you in the presence of your husband. This is his way of honoring you both.”
“Oh,” she whispered. Her first faux pas.
Benjamin was annoyed by Sibylla’s forwardness. Did she want the governor to think that, in England, women considered themselves the equals of men? He stepped forward with his right hand extended. “My pleasure, Your Excellency. My name is Hopkins, of Spencer & Son.”
The governor did not take Benjamin’s hand, but he did bow slightly. “Assalamu alaikum, Mr. Hopkins.” He continued in Arabic. “You have brought us a stiff breeze, as they say at sea. Many a ship has wrecked on our breakwaters. But not the English, kings of the seas.”
Bin Kalil translated and the qaid smiled at every word. But Benjamin felt slighted nonetheless. He turned and asked the consul, “Why the devil didn’t he shake my hand?”
“Well,” said Willshire, clearly embarrassed as bin Kalil translated every word. “His Excellency would never touch an infidel.”
The qaid smiled even more broadly and had the translator tell them, “His Excellency hopes that you will feel at home in Mogador and is looking forward to receiving you in his residence soon.”
The two Arabs bowed and returned to the city. Captain Brown went to the customs station with Mr. Philipps and the rest of the group headed for the city gate.
Having overcome her nausea, Sibylla now watched the bustling port with fascination. Just like in London, the harbor here was teeming with sailors. Some loaded and unloaded ships, using the yardarm of the mainmast as a hoist, while others were busy cleaning or carrying out repairs. She could hear hammering and sawing, and she saw sailors filling holes in ships’ hulls, restoring broken masts, and mending torn sails. Small rowboats in the harbor basin transported crates and barrels of wares and provisions to be checked by the harbormaster’s clerks before disappearing into warehouses or the belly of a ship.
On the other side of the city gate, two adolescent Arab boys held the reins of the donkeys that Mr. Willshire had arranged to transport the new arrivals. Benjamin made a face and muttered that they would look foolish. Exhausted as she was, though, Sibylla was grateful for the opportunity to ride.
They entered the city from the south and rode across the square behind the city gate.
“This gate is called the Bab El Mersa,” Mr. Willshire explained. “There are, of course, other entrances to the city. The caravans from the northeast, for instance, enter through the Bab Doukkala because of its easy access to the souk.”
They passed the qasbah, the fortress. Sibylla noticed some cannons on the fortifications and a pair of storks nesting on one of the towers. The birds, busy feeding their young, made Sibylla think of the baby in her belly. Benjamin also spotted the storks and, when his eyes met hers, they smiled at each other.
The medina was behind the qasbah. Hardly any sunlight reached into the narrow alleys. This form of construction offered protection against the heat of the midsummer sun and the unrelenting wind. Sibylla was surprised by the plainness of the buildings in the medina. The walls were unadorned and whitewashed with unwelcoming blue doors without windows. No sounds could be heard from behind the thick walls. She was disappointed, having pictured palm trees and citrus groves, fig trees and fountains. Yet all she saw here were stray cats, children playing on the well-trodden clay, and a few gaunt beggars cowering on the ground. “In God’s name, please give me something to eat!”
“Is it just me, or were the streets here drawn with a ruler?” Benjamin remarked.
“You are quite right,” Willshire answered. “A French architect designed Mogador on a drafting table seventy years ago. He was the sultan’s prisoner, but after his work found favor with his captor, he was allowed to return home.”
“And why did the sultan want to build this city?” Sibylla inquired.
“Sidi Mohammed Ben Abdallah, the sultan at the time, wanted to turn Mogador into his country’s biggest port. And he was successful!”
The deeper into the medina they went, the livelier the alleyways became. Sibylla stared in amazement at the dark-skinned women in colorful garments carrying purchases from the souk on their heads as they made their way back to their masters’ homes. Arabs were returning from prayers at the mosque, and bearded Jews, with their dark turbans and dusty black kaftans—which, according to Willshire, the sultan required them to wear—hurried past with their heads bowed. The visitors also saw several Berbers, dres
sed in brown woolen wraps with sables flung over their shoulders. Mr. Willshire told them the Berbers from this region belonged either to the Chiadma or the Haha tribes. The former had settled down, practicing agriculture on the plains, while the latter were nomadic cattle herders in the Atlas region. At times, the tribes waged war against each other.
Mr. Willshire explained that the residences of the European merchants were situated around the governor’s palace, not far from the western fortification and the port. Indeed, in no time they stopped in front of one of the plain whitewashed buildings. The open door was guarded by a tall, broad-shouldered black man.
“This is Hamid,” the consul said.
Hamid bowed before allowing them to enter a narrow, dimly lit hallway.
Looking to Sibylla, Willshire said, “I trust that you won’t object, but my wife had everything cleaned and polished for your arrival. Incidentally, we’re your neighbors to your right. The Silvas are to your left: a Portuguese merchant family. We also have some French, Spanish, Dutch, and a few Danish families here. Oh, and there are some Brazilian families. Altogether, we are almost two hundred foreigners, a tight-knit community in a city comprising some ten thousand Arabs and Jews each.”
“How do you all communicate?” Sibylla marveled.
Willshire smiled. “We all speak a little bit of everything, mainly English, French, and Spanish. Ah yes, and you should know that your predecessor’s servants are still here. You have already met the gatekeeper. There is also a cook, a gardener, and two female servants. The women are former slaves who have worked in various English households and are, therefore, acquainted with our customs and language. But you do owe the servants back pay. They have not been paid since Mr. Fisher’s death.”
“You mean to say that our servants are not slaves?” Benjamin wanted to know.
Willshire shook his head. “The cook and the gardener are Arabs and, as such, not slaves. The others were freed because the sultan has forbidden foreigners in his country to keep slaves. And as a good Christian, one should not indulge in such barbaric customs anyhow,” he added sternly as he led them down the hallway.
The Lioness of Morocco Page 4