The Lioness of Morocco

by Julia Drosten

  “Mummy!” The boys struggled to free themselves from the servants’ arms. Sibylla uttered a cry and ran to them.

  “We’ve been held here since the soldiers came and pulled us out of our beds at dawn three days ago,” Consul Willshire told her as the excitement over the new arrivals died down. “We don’t know why. I have demanded an explanation from the qaid, but to no avail. They don’t let us out, but they leave us in peace. We get water and something to eat twice a day—”

  “If you refer to that slop as food!” the French consul’s wife objected. “Many children are suffering from stomachaches and diarrhea!”

  “And none of us has ever done anything to harm a Moor!” a Portuguese merchant said indignantly.

  “Perhaps we all have to atone for the deeds of the slave trader,” a woman said and pointed accusingly to Sibylla. Hostile murmurs became louder.

  André immediately stepped in front of her and her children. “The sultan himself has ordered the release of Mr. Hopkins. So he is innocent!”

  “Can you prove that?” Consul Willshire asked.

  Sibylla pulled out the scroll, which she had worn under her tunic this whole time, unfurled it, and held it up so that all could see the sultan’s seal. Again the murmurs grew, some in doubt, some in agreement.

  André raised his voice again. “Friends, I believe I know why we are here.” He briefly explained about Abd el-Kader, the fighting along the Algerian border, and the retaliatory actions of the French. “When we left Marrakesh, the sultan received news that Tangier had been bombarded by the French navy. Everything in Mogador indicates that this city is also facing the threat of bombardment. I assume that we are being held as hostages.”

  His last words caused an uproar. Several of the men wanted to subdue the guards and flee, while others feared being used as human shields. Still others swore that their imprisonment would have diplomatic consequences for the sultan and his qaid. Suddenly, a door flew open and guards stormed into the church interior, screamed, and fired into the air. Sibylla threw herself over her children. Sara Willshire went deathly pale and moved her lips in silent prayer. Firyal wailed and closed her eyes. But the soldiers vanished just as quickly as they had appeared.

  “So we owe this treatment to the French!” an English merchant cried out in a voice filled with hate. People muttered their agreement.

  André raised his arms. “I do not believe that anyone will harm us. Abd al-Rahman does not wish to risk war with all the European powers. We have about one more hour of daylight. I am going to climb the clock tower. There are almost certainly no guards there, so I shall be able to have a look around.”

  A little brown owl flew from its nest as André climbed the dilapidated tower.

  “This will bring ill luck,” Firyal whispered and buried her face in her hands. But no one was listening to her. Two hundred people had their eyes glued to the cracked walls of the clock tower. What would Monsieur Rouston see up there? What news would he bring? What would happen to them all if he was discovered?

  Sibylla thought of the enchanted afternoon they had spent in this place. Was it really only three months since they had lain right here in each other’s arms, kissed for hours, and talked about their lives, oblivious to the world and happy?

  “Mummy!” Tom had climbed out of Nadira’s lap and was clinging to her. “Where is Daddy? Did the soldiers take him too?”

  She stroked his soft curls. “Daddy is going to be with us soon, darling.”

  “Really?” He beamed at her.

  Sand and small stones rained down from the clock tower as André carefully descended.

  “I saw some ships’ masts,” he announced as soon as he had safely reached the ground. “They were just visible through the fog—twelve, maybe fifteen. They are French, I saw the flag. There is also what looks like an English frigate, although it was difficult to make out the flag in the fog. Perhaps it is an observation vessel, or perhaps they came to take the British citizens out of Mogador and the qaid stopped them.”

  The room was silent. Tears streamed down Sara Willshire’s face.

  “Might those ships not be merchant vessels?” her husband finally asked.

  André shook his head. “No. Except for the English one, they all had their battle flags hoisted. I recognized the pennant of the commander in chief. It is the Prince de Joinville, who served in the Algerian War. As soon as the fog lifts, Mogador will be bombarded.”

  Twenty-six hours later, when the blazing sun stood high above the churning gray ocean, the cannons finally fell silent. The qaid had surrendered his city after the Island of Mogador was taken by five hundred French soldiers.

  André stood with the qaid on the roof of the governor’s palace and looked through a telescope at the British frigate Warspite, anchored among the French warships in the harbor entrance. Several longboats full of people bobbed like nutshells around it in the waves.

  After the cease-fire, French soldiers had crossed over and freed the prisoners in the Portuguese church, which fortunately had avoided a direct hit. Now they were being safely taken to the Warspite. André was the only foreigner to remain in the city. He had learned from one of the French commander in chief’s adjutants that the victors would take Moroccan officers and soldiers hostage until the sultan had agreed to all their demands for the surrender of Abd el-Kader. André had offered his services as translator and mediator.

  His eyes wandered from the longboats to the Warspite, where the sailors were helping the men, women, and children to climb the swaying jack ladder. But try as he might, he could not make out Sibylla, the children, or her two servants. She had wanted to go to her house to see what damage, if any, the cannons had done, but André had urged her to go with the others to the Warspite.

  “You’ll be safer on the ship,” he’d told her, not mentioning that he feared looting and retaliatory attacks on foreigners.

  Now, the qaid watched as French soldiers emptied barrels full of gunpowder into the water. “The French soldiers have defiled the Blue Pearl of the Atlantic and now they are plundering her!” he moaned. Others loaded captured guns and flags onto longboats and pushed artillery along the quay to show to the admiring crowds in Paris later on.

  “The Prince de Joinville will acknowledge that you did not harm the foreign hostages, Your Excellency. Furthermore, I am convinced that the government of France has no intention of humiliating His Imperial Majesty the Sultan,” André said, trying to mollify the governor.

  Hash-Hash snorted contemptuously. “Do you really believe that, Rouston? The British, French, Spaniards, and other European powers have been struggling for the greatest possible influence in Morocco for years. This morning, a carrier pigeon from the north delivered the news that Tangier too has surrendered. After such a victory, you French are going to dictate your demands and it is only a matter of time until you have subjugated proud Morocco just as you did Algeria!”

  “Algeria was subjugated by the Ottomans in the sixteenth century.”

  “The Ottomans are our brothers. But it means profound humiliation for the children of God to be under the rule of infidels!” shouted the qaid.

  André chose not to reply and pointed his telescope at the island. Frenchmen were taking the surviving Moroccan soldiers to their ships in rowboats. He saw a number of corpses floating in the water. The Prince de Joinville’s adjutant had reported that the Moroccan losses were considerable while the French had hardly any casualties. This did not surprise André. He knew that the Moroccans had very bad weapons and little training.

  The wind carried the acrid stench of death and fire. He peered at the western bastion, where Sibylla had told him Benjamin was being held. Dense smoke still wafted from the area hours after the cannonade. Charred ruins rose out of the smoke. The French must have firebombed the island.

  “The prisoner Hopkins was being held in the western bastion,” he said to Hash-Hash. “His Imperial Majesty has ordered his release. Do you think that he has survived?”


  The qaid took the telescope from André and looked through it. “That would be a miracle, Rouston. You French have ravaged that island like hungry wolves!”

  Sibylla stood at the bow of the Warspite and stared at the smoldering remains of the island fortifications. The deck was crowded with exhausted men, women, and children. The crew fed them and the ship’s doctor examined them.

  “You wanted to speak to me, Mrs. Hopkins?” Captain Wallis bowed politely.

  She turned around with a smile. “Thank you for taking the time, Captain! I have an enormous request: Do you think you could find out if my husband is among the survivors on the island? He was in the western bastion at the time of the bombardment.” She dispensed with any explanation.

  The captain nodded solicitously. “I will dispatch an officer to the Suffren at once and obtain information from the French staff of command. Do not despair, Mrs. Hopkins, we will soon know more. In the meantime, may I have a cup of tea brought to you? And if I may say so, the battlefield on the island is no sight for a lady.” He bowed and missed Sibylla’s grimace of irritation.

  Two hours later, he returned, accompanied by a French naval officer. “May I present Lieutenant de Maillard, Mrs. Hopkins. He is the personal adjutant to Commander in Chief Joinville.”

  She greeted him and asked, “Do you have news of my husband, Lieutenant? Is he on one of your ships?”

  The young officer bowed. “I fear, madame, I’m not bearing good news. Your husband is not on any of our fifteen ships. He was neither among the prisoners of war nor any of the casualties.”

  “So he is missing?”

  “You might say so, madame,” Lieutenant de Maillard replied uneasily. “The fortifications on the island were utterly destroyed. The western bastion, where your husband was being held, is completely gutted . . .” He swallowed hard. “I am afraid, madame, you must prepare yourself for the worst.”

  “That he is dead,” Sibylla whispered.

  The captain and the officer both stepped forward to catch her should she collapse, but she raised her hand to stop them.

  “Thank you, gentlemen, I shall manage.” She looked again at the smoldering ruins and back to the two men. “Is the destruction really so devastating? Could he not have survived somehow? Be buried under the rubble?”

  De Maillard shook his head regretfully. “I am very sorry, madame, but it is very unlikely.”

  “Unlikely or impossible? Please, Lieutenant, tell me the truth!”

  The young officer helplessly glanced over to the captain, who shrugged his shoulders. “The western bastion was bombarded and was fully engulfed in flames. Even the iron mountings and artillery pieces melted in the heat. No one there could possibly have survived. We found only a few charred bones in the ashes.”

  “Good God!” Sibylla put her hand over her mouth.

  “My sincerest sympathy, madame.” Once more, the young officer bowed. Then, upon a signal from the captain, he withdrew.

  Wallis motioned a sailor to get a chair and compelled a reluctant Sibylla to sit. “Mrs. Hopkins, the Warspite is going to sail for England in a few days’ time. I am sure you will want to return home to your family.”

  Sibylla numbly shook her head. “Right now, I wish to speak with my sons. Thank you for your trouble, Captain.”

  She got up and went to look for Tom and Johnny. They were standing at the railing with Nadira and Firyal and were engaged in a spitting contest. When they spotted their mother, they came running to her. She took them by the hand and led them to a quiet corner.

  “What are we doing, Mummy?” Johnny looked around curiously.

  Sibylla squatted down and embraced first him and then his brother. “Thomas, Jonathan, you must be very brave, big boys now!”

  Island of Mogador, one week later

  “Mummy, it smells funny!” squawked Johnny. He was standing next to his mother in front of the ruins of the western bastion and holding his nose.

  His brother asked with great concern, “Are you crying, Mummy?”

  She forced herself to smile. “No, Tom, dear, it’s just that the strong smell is burning my eyes.”

  Tom, satisfied with that answer, leaned against his mother. His brother, however, whined. “Too dirty here, Mummy. I want to go home.”

  “The soldiers have said that we can go home today,” Sibylla consoled him. “You two run along to Nadira and Firyal. I’ll be there in a minute.”

  Her sons ran away, laughing. They seemed so unaffected by their father’s death. Apparently, they were still too young to understand.

  “The angels carried him off to heaven,” she had told the boys.

  They had been intrigued by the idea. Johnny had asked if the angels would lend his father a pair of wings or if he would grow his own. They still failed to grasp the finality of death, even though Sibylla had taken them with her to the western bastion so that they could all recite the “Our Father” for Benjamin together.

  They had been camping on the island for six days. Just as the sailors were lowering the longboats into the water to take the foreigners back to the mainland, a sloop from the Suffren had arrived and they had been told that Haha Berbers had invaded Mogador and were looting the city.

  Since the Warspite was not equipped to accommodate so many additional people, the foreigners were staying in an improvised camp with tents made from sails and blankets. But a few hours ago Commander in Chief Joinville had announced that the Berbers had retreated, driven out with the help of his soldiers.

  Even more than a week after the bombardment, the destroyed western bastion still emitted a pungent stench. Sibylla coughed and held a handkerchief over her nose.

  Maybe I can find some sign of Benjamin after all, she thought, as she held up her hems and stepped through the cold ruins. A button, a seal, something. It was difficult to deal with Benjamin’s death when there was no body for her to bury. She hesitated when she discovered a small object under a charred beam. But once she had removed the soot, she had to admit the deformed lump of metal could just as easily have come from a door hinge as a button from Benjamin’s jacket.

  I was too late, Sibylla thought with a heavy heart. If she had ridden to Marrakesh just one week earlier, her husband would still be alive! Now she had to reconcile herself to the fact that he had died an excruciating death.

  “The boats are ready. We are going to cross to the mainland.”

  Surprised, Sibylla turned around. Sara Willshire was standing behind her, looking with horror at the ruins.

  “Thank you.” Sibylla wanted to walk past her, but Sara held her back.

  “What a terrible misfortune!” she whispered. “I . . . we all have done you an injustice. I am so sorry!”

  Sibylla looked into Sara’s eyes and thought of the long months when the support she had so desperately needed had been denied her. She did not want to be bitter. After all, they had all endured hardship now. But she simply could not forget how the people she had considered friends had let her down.

  “As indeed you should be,” she replied coolly. “You and your husband abandoned me in my hour of need. There is nothing more to say.”

  Sara broke down sobbing as Sibylla walked away.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “God be praised, my lady, you have returned!” Hamid’s cries had alerted the cook and the other servants. They all came running, and they also thanked God for returning their mistress safe and sound.

  Sibylla greeted her servants warmly. “What a relief to see that you are all well! How did you fare during the attack? Were you at home the whole time?”

  “When the French attacked, we were here, my lady, but when the Haha Berbers came, we hid in the cemetery outside the city. The Haha avoid the cemetery because they are the sons of oxen and are afraid of the djinns,” Hamid proclaimed, clearly proud of having thought to hide everyone among the graves.

  “Oh, how good it feels to be back home!” Sibylla sighed.

  “And the master?” inquired Hamid.

>   She shook her head and told them Benjamin had been killed during the bombardment of the island.

  The gatekeeper immediately began to wail loudly and tear his hair. “Inna lillahi wa inna ilaihi rajiun . . . we belong to God and to him we return . . .”

  “We should be grateful that we are still alive and that the house was not damaged by the cannons,” Sibylla said, trying to console him.

  But at that, the cook threw his hands in the air. “God protected the house from the cannons, but not from the Haha. They destroyed everything! Oh, what a disaster, my lady!”

  It soon became apparent that the house had not entirely been spared from the cannonballs. One had landed in the courtyard and hit Benjamin’s sundial. As Sibylla checked the damage, she discovered that the base had lifted a little, so it was now crooked. The bronze globe with the serpents’ heads was undamaged, but the Union Jack lay next to it, burned and shredded. Benjamin’s exotic carp were missing from the pond.

  “The Haha stabbed them with their bayonets,” Hamid said glumly.

  “And fried them,” added the cook.

  The inside of the house looked as though a whirlwind had swept through. Furniture was broken, books were ripped up, clothing was torn, and toys were destroyed. The Haha had stolen everything of value. Except for the half-empty bottle of whisky in his desk, they had even broken all the bottles in Benjamin’s hoard of alcohol.

  “These louts have caused more havoc than the qaid’s henchmen,” Sibylla remarked grimly.

  Still, she rolled up her sleeves and, with the help of Nadira, Firyal, and Hamid, began to clean. The cook disappeared in the kitchen to prepare supper with the paltry remnants the Berbers had overlooked. Sibylla’s sons had found their marbles and were playing in the courtyard.

  “Mummy! Johnny threw my prettiest marble in the hole by Daddy’s sundial and it’s gone!” Tom stood in the doorway of Sibylla’s room and wiped his tears.