Sibylla was horrified. “He cannot be serious!”
“That is difficult to say at this moment,” André replied. “I have known Abd al-Rahman for several years and know that, in contrast to many of his predecessors, he is not a bloodthirsty ruler. But he is facing domestic problems. Many Berber princes are not happy about the presence of foreigners in this country and are urging him to make an example of Benjamin.”
“But Benjamin is an Englishman!” Sibylla protested. “I shall write a letter to the queen!”
André scrutinized her with a strange expression. She blushed. “He is the father of my children. They should not grow up in the belief that their father was a criminal and slave trader.”
“There is no use in any speculations now. You must be patient until September,” André replied after a brief pause. “If all else fails, you might try to buy your husband’s freedom. But that is going to be a costly affair. Toledano alleges that Benjamin shipped as many as two to three thousand slaves.”
Sibylla looked at him in dismay. “Does Abd al-Rahman really believe that Samuel Toledano has nothing to do with the whole affair? Is he not being called to account at all?”
“Oh yes.” André grinned at her. “The word is that he is personally footing the bill to have the Mogador harbor basin dredged. Though not much beyond that is likely. He is much too valuable to the ruler.”
“Stop!” She held her hands over her ears. “Is every single person in this country thoroughly corrupt?”
“That seems to be true of your husband in any case,” André said before he could stop himself. He was jealous at seeing the woman he loved fighting so fiercely for her untrustworthy husband. Upon seeing Sibylla’s face, he added, “Forgive me. That was tactless.”
“If only the qaid would grant me permission to visit Benjamin!” Sibylla sighed. “There are so many questions I have for him.”
She needed information about the shipping business, of course, if she was to take it over. But more important, she needed to hear Benjamin himself deny the terrible accusations. A few days earlier, Tommy had asked her what a slave trader was. Apparently, one of his playmates in the street had called his father that. Her helpless stuttering had told him the expression was less than an accolade and, since then, he had repeatedly come home with torn pants and bloody knees.
“I beat up anyone who says my daddy is a slave trader!” he had told his horrified mother.
Sibylla rested her head in her hands. “Oh, I am so sick of it all! But things must go on somehow. I am handling the shipping company’s affairs by myself.”
“What do you mean?” André inquired.
She reported that she had accepted a fifty-camel delivery of leather from Fez, verified its quality, arranged for it to be stored in the harbor, and even discussed the formalities of its shipment to London with the harbormaster.
“Sibylla, I am impressed. I had no idea you knew about leather.”
“I don’t, honestly. But I remembered a few things Benjamin has told me about the qualities of good leather and I somehow managed to pass myself off as an expert. And my husband kept meticulous business records, so I was able to glean some information there.”
She smiled at him sadly. There were dark shadows under her eyes. André went to her and drew her into his arms. She laid her head on his shoulder, felt the rough fabric of his jacket against her cheek, and thought about how good it felt to be able to lean on someone for just a moment. He stroked her hair.
“If you want, I’ll accompany you to Marrakesh in the fall to help you negotiate with the sultan.”
She wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed herself closer to him. “I am already so deeply in your debt. You rode to Marrakesh for me and now you are offering to go again. And yet I know that you have probably long wanted to return to the Chiadma and your life there.”
He gently kissed her forehead. “It is settled. I shall see you in the fall. Sibylla, never forget that you are as strong as a lioness!”
Chapter Fifteen
Mogador, April 1840
It was a tranquil day in April and the sun shone warmly on the festivities. More than two hundred people had assembled on the beach. The air buzzed with English, French, Spanish, Danish, Dutch, Italian, and Portuguese. The shrieks and laughter of the children, who were hunting for eggs and sweets behind sand dunes, under rocks, and between clumps of grass, nearly drowned out the sound of the waves rolling onto the beach.
With the qaid’s approval, the Christian families of Mogador celebrated Easter together every year. Dressed in their finest clothes, they gathered on the shore in the morning to read the Bible, pray, and sing, and many crew members from ships in the harbor joined them. There were so few Christians in the city that they all celebrated together: Catholics, Lutherans, Calvinists, and Anglicans.
When André jumped off his horse, the service was already over. He threw the reins to one of the Arab boys who had gathered to watch the spectacle, and slowly walked over to the crowd. At times, he stopped to greet acquaintances and exchanged a few words with them, but he was distracted, his gaze wandering from group to group.
I shall see you in the fall, he had told Sibylla.
And yet, here he was again in Mogador, just eight weeks later. A few days earlier, the city’s French consul had come to his camp with the Chiadma. He had disturbing news from the north and needed André’s help. Berber tribes led by Abd el-Kader were attacking the French military along the border between Algeria and Morocco. They ambushed and shot soldiers, set garrisons on fire, then fled with lightning speed over the border to Morocco and their allies, the Ait Bouyahia Berbers. Their leader, Thabit al-Khattabi, supported Abd el-Kader in driving the French out of Algeria. In return, the Algerian was going to help him in overthrowing Morocco’s Sultan Abd al-Rahman, so that al-Khattabi would become ruler.
The consul pleaded with André to ride to Marrakesh and warn the sultan. He was to persuade him to hand over Abd el-Kader to the French in return for this warning and to inform the ruler that his refusal would result in military retaliation in important commercial ports like Tangier and Mogador.
André had agreed to carry out this difficult mission. However, instead of riding to Marrakesh, he had gone first to Mogador. He wanted to warn Sibylla and offer her family the protection of his friends, the Chiadma, in case Mogador was bombarded.
André reached a magnificent red-and-green tent that had been set up near the city wall. Inside, people sat conversing on plush benches, while still others gathered around small round tables. A sumptuous banquet was being set up along the rear wall. Servants arranged tableware, glasses, and porcelain. Others hefted baskets and earthenware vessels filled with food just unloaded from pack donkeys. Spits with roasting lamb turned over several fires burning in front of the tent. André’s nose was tickled by the aroma of seasoned meat, which mingled with that of freshly baked bread a servant carried past.
“¡Felices Pascuas, Señor Rouston!” A Spanish merchant who had often purchased saffron from him took him by the arm and, before André knew what was happening, the man had cracked a hardboiled egg on his head. “It remains intact! You will have one year of good luck!” the Spaniard shouted and convulsed with laughter. But then he saw the Frenchman’s expression. “Why the serious look? Have your saffron seedlings been eaten by mice?”
André forced a smile. “That would be a disaster, indeed, but everything is in order. I am looking for Madame Hopkins. I want to wish her a happy Easter. Have you seen her?”
“Lo siento.” The Spaniard shook his head apologetically. “But perhaps she is with my wife somewhere in the tent.”
André found the señora with a group of five ladies, among whom he recognized Sara Willshire, but he did not see Sibylla.
The French consul’s wife, an elegant, capricious woman, leaned over to her friends. “Just look at the unusual visitor who is gracing us with his presence.” Her brown eyes scrutinized André’s physique approvingly. “A handsome
man, don’t you think?” she whispered to her Spanish counterpart and the ostrich feathers in her elaborate hairdo bobbed coquettishly.
The Spanish woman looked at her over the top of her fan. “Is it true that he rode to Marrakesh at the request of Señora Hopkins to intercede on behalf of her husband?”
“That is what they say, oui.” The Frenchwoman nodded. “Do you think that this dedication has anything to do with Madame’s beautiful blue eyes?”
“What do you mean?” Sara Willshire interrupted, a touch irritated. But the Frenchwoman merely raised her thinly plucked eyebrows.
“Oh, don’t pretend to be so shocked, Senhora Willshire!” the Brazilian consul’s wife butted in. “You told us yourself that this Frenchman called on Senhora Hopkins at her house after her husband’s arrest. Just imagine—at her house!”
Sara blushed. “Perhaps he was there to inquire about her well-being.”
“I’m sure, my dear, I’m sure,” the Frenchwoman sneered.
“In any case, it is unseemly to receive a gentleman visitor when one’s husband is not at home,” the wife of a Dutch merchant piped up as she smoothed her high-necked, dark dress. “But then, this Mrs. Hopkins conducts business with Moorish women. She even dresses like one of them. She is an immoral woman!”
“If a man like Rouston showed an interest in me, I would be an immoral woman as well,” the Frenchwoman countered, unimpressed. “Ah, bonjour, Monsieur Rouston! Quel plaisir!” she called out and extended her gloved hand. “So you have left your secluded mountain home to celebrate Easter with us. Or is there another reason for your visit? A secret love, perhaps?” She winked at him.
André ignored her words and leaned over to kiss her hand. Then he smiled at the group. “I wish you all a happy Easter, ladies. Permit me to remark that you are more beautiful than birds of paradise.”
The women smiled, and even the Dutchwoman’s mouth twitched a little. Only Sara seemed uncomfortable. The Frenchwoman beckoned a servant carrying a tray. “I am sure you’ll drink a cup of tea with us, Monsieur Rouston?” She took one of the white porcelain cups and handed it to him with a charming smile.
To her chagrin, the gesture was answered with a vacant expression. “Have you seen Madame Hopkins?” he asked Sara. “I was sure I would find her with you.”
“I’m very sorry, but I don’t know where Mrs. Hopkins is. I have not seen her for a very long time.”
André looked at her in consternation.
“I doubt she would dare show up here anyway,” the Spanish woman remarked snidely.
“But why do you judge Madame Hopkins so harshly, ladies? I am certain that she does not merit your low opinion!”
The Spanish woman said nothing, but the Dutchwoman hissed, “We have those people to thank for the fact that the qaid interrogated our husbands as though they were common criminals! He ordered the houses of some merchants searched. And yet Mr. Hopkins is the only foreign slave trader in this town!”
“As far as I know, his guilt has not been proven,” André replied sharply.
“He is under suspicion for good reason, I imagine, and that reflects on the entire foreign community in Mogador,” the Brazilian woman argued heatedly. “Mr. Hopkins has discredited honorable citizens. I, for one, do not like being associated with swindlers and slave traders!”
André could hardly contain his anger. “Did your ‘honorable’ husband not make his fortune on the slave market in Salvador da Bahia?”
The Brazilian woman glared at him. “How dare you!”
“If you were a man, I would dare a great deal more,” André snapped at her.
“It is to your credit that you are speaking up for us, Monsieur Rouston—but please, leave it be.”
Sibylla stood behind him, white-faced. But her back was straight and her chin up. To her right and left were her sons. Tom and Johnny clung to her legs and looked wide-eyed from one woman to the other.
“You’re silent, ladies? Go ahead, have no fear! Repeat your accusations in front of me and my children.” Sibylla’s voice was glacial.
André turned to her. He was desperate to shield her from these witless and self-righteous women. But her look stopped him.
“Should the accusations against my husband turn out to be true—which I do not believe—the fault lies solely with him. Neither my children nor I have even the slightest thing to do with it. Although we are not obliged to justify ourselves to you, if these lies preoccupy you to such an extent, you may come to me in confidence with any questions you have. I shall answer them as best I can.” Sibylla looked around. “Well, then?”
Everyone was silent. The Brazilian woman coughed, Sara stared at her hands, and the Spanish woman hid behind her fan. The Dutchwoman looked supercilious, and only the Frenchwoman smiled. The tension between Monsieur Rouston and the Englishwoman interested her far more than any nonsense about slave trading.
“Well, that’s settled then,” Sibylla continued. “I have one more piece of news for you. As long as my husband is the qaid’s prisoner, I am conducting the business affairs of the Spencer & Son Shipping Company in Mogador. Effective immediately, I am responsible for everything, and believe you me: the slave trade is no part of it!” She added somewhat more gently, “Today we are celebrating the feast of our Lord’s resurrection and I want to contribute to the annual gathering.” She stepped aside and they only now noticed her servant, who had been standing behind her with a large market basket.
“I have baked a traditional English treat. Other countries”—she nodded to the French consul’s wife—“may have a more renowned cuisine. But hot cross buns are among my most beloved childhood memories of Easter. Yours too, Sara?”
Sara was tugging at the ruffle on her sleeve and pretended not to hear. Sibylla raised her shoulders. Then she turned to Nadira. “Please give the buns to the ladies and Monsieur Rouston. They must be eaten while they are still warm.”
“I have never seen a woman with your courage, Sibylla! You overwhelmed that whole gang of resentful biddies with your wit and your baking.”
André had pulled Sibylla behind the tent. Her sons were inside playing with the French consul’s little daughter. Here, they could steal a few undisturbed minutes.
Sibylla laughed. She felt liberated and carefree for the first time in weeks. The ordeal with Benjamin was far from over. But tomorrow, she would at last be able to visit him and ask him all the questions that had been weighing so heavily on her mind. Rusa had obtained permission for her.
“This son of a donkey! I am going to teach him some wisdom!” the governor’s mother had exclaimed when Sibylla told her the qaid had been denying her permission to see her husband for three months.
Sibylla squinted provocatively at André. “Are you out to ruin my reputation or are you back in Mogador so soon because you have missed me?”
André loved the fact that she was flirting with him, yet he had no choice but to ruin her carefree mood. “I would like nothing better than to ruin your reputation in every conceivable way, but unfortunately, the reason for my visit is somewhat grave. War is brewing on the border with Algeria. I have been asked by the French government to travel to Marrakesh with important news for the sultan.”
“What kind of news? And why Marrakesh? I thought the sultan was going to be in Fez.”
“He has canceled his stay there. The news concerns Abd el-Kader and one of his own insurgent subjects.”
“Abd el-Kader? He’s the Berber leader who called for the jihad in Algeria against the French, is he not?”
“Yes. And he is serious about this. He has joined forces with a Moroccan tribal leader to overthrow the sultan.”
“Oh no! But what can that have to do with me?” Sibylla asked.
“The Moroccan Berber leader is sheltering Abd el-Kader. Now my job is to convince Abd al-Rahman to surrender him to France. In return, I am going to reveal to the sultan that the insurgents are planning his overthrow. Should Abd al-Rahman not agree to this deal, the French will
begin bombarding Moroccan harbor cities. And you know what that would mean for Mogador.”
“War,” Sibylla concluded quietly. “Dear Lord!”
They were both silent as Sibylla let André’s news sink in. “When do you leave for Marrakesh?”
“First thing tomorrow.”
“Please wait one more day. Please! I am finally going to be permitted to visit Benjamin tomorrow. But after that, I shall accompany you to Marrakesh.”
“You wish to do what?”
“If what you say is true, I cannot wait until the fall to petition the sultan for Benjamin’s release. I must do it now.”
“Never! This is absolutely the wrong time!” André was aghast.
“I’ll decide what the wrong time is,” she snapped at him. “And if you won’t take me, I’ll ride by myself. Benjamin cannot stay marooned on that island any longer. If war really were to break out, he would need to be with his family.”
“But you are completely mad! Can you really believe the sultan is going to give you Benjamin? You told me yourself that the qaid’s henchmen took all of your money. Abd al-Rahman is going to want more than a handful of dirhams borrowed from a maid for the life of your husband!”
Sibylla smiled mischievously. “There is a simple solution: we buy my husband’s freedom with the information about the conspiracy.”
The following morning, Sibylla was taken to the Island of Mogador by the same team of rowers who had carried her husband there three months earlier almost to the day. She was nervous and exhausted, having spent the night packing and thinking about her impending visit to the sultan. Now she was focused on her first encounter with Benjamin since his arrest. She had questions about the shipping business: details of merchant meetings, when she needed to consult Toledano, how to deal with the harbormaster and the captains. In addition, she wanted to inform Benjamin that she was now conducting the affairs of the company. And most of all, she needed to hear at long last what he had to say about the accusations of slave trading. This last question had occupied her days and her nights.
The Lioness of Morocco Page 16