command of the sea, but leisure to deal with the open sore of Algerian
piracy. She was not slow to use it. At the beginning of 1816 Lord
Exmouth was ordered to visit the Barbary States and obtain the release
of such slaves as were British subjects—chiefly Ionians—or subjects of
Great Britain’s allies. At Algiers the Dey readily released the Ionians,
and also the Neapolitans and Sardinians, on payment of a ransom. Lord
Exmouth proceeded to Tunis and Tripoli, and concluded treaties with the
Beys, who agreed to abolish the institution of Christian slavery
altogether. He then returned to Algiers and endeavoured to get the Dey
to make a similar treaty. The Dey declined to accede, but finally
consented to treat at London and Constantinople. Lord Exmouth took a
high hand; he told the Dey that he evidently had little idea of the
power of a British man-of-war, and that he would engage, if hostilities
became necessary, to blow the place to pieces with five line-of-battle
ships. Shortly after he had sailed for England matters were brought to a
climax by an attack by Turks and Arabs on a large number of
coral-fishermen, sailing under French and English colours, who had
landed at Bona on Ascension Day. About two hundred were massacred in a
church and hundreds more wounded. The British consul was killed, the
houses of Christians pillaged, and the British flag trampled under foot.
The British Government considered that the cup was now full, and that
strong measures must be taken against these barbarians. On Lord
Exmouth’s arrival a fresh fleet was fitted out. He was offered any force
he required, but he determined to rely on the five battleships he had
mentioned to the Dey. To these were added five frigates and some smaller
vessels. At Gibraltar he found a Dutch squadron of five frigates and a
corvette under Admiral van Capellan, who asked and obtained leave to
co-operate.
After some vexatious delays Exmouth arrived off Algiers on August 26th,
1816. His despatch, dated August 28th, is very interesting reading. He
had previously sent on the _Prometheus_, to endeavour to bring away the
British consul, Captain Dashwood. A landing party brought off his wife
and daughter, disguised in midshipmen’s uniforms. The surgeon was
following with the consul’s infant child concealed in a basket. As he
was entering a boat the child, unfortunately, cried, with the result
that the surgeon, three midshipmen, and others, in all eighteen persons,
were seized and confined as slaves in the usual dungeons. “The child was
sent off next morning by the Dey, and as a solitary instance of his
humanity it ought to be recorded by me,” says his lordship. Captain
Dashwood was closely confined in irons.
The _Prometheus_ brought word that energetic measures of defence had
been taken; that additional works had been thrown up, and a large army
assembled. The whole Algerine fleet was collected within the mole. On
the morning of the 27th the fleet was lying in sight of the city
becalmed, and Exmouth sent ashore a flag of truce with the demands he
was instructed to make. Receiving no answer, and the day breeze
landwards having sprung up, he moved his fleet in towards the mole, the
_Queen Charlotte_, the flagship, leading. The shore batteries opened the
engagement with a tremendous fire, whereupon the leading ship commenced
action. Before nightfall the enemy’s fleet was completely destroyed, his
batteries abandoned, and half the town in ruins. At midnight the ships
and parts of the town were still burning. Thus did Lord Exmouth
demonstrate to the Dey the power of five English ships of the line. The
battle was of quite an unprecedented nature; it was a new departure to
bring a fleet up close under the guns of formidable batteries. The fleet
had poured 50,000 shot, weighing over 500 tons of iron, into the town,
and used 118 tons of powder. A little touch illustrates the close
quarters of the combatants. A vast crowd of Arabs was collected on the
shore, and before he opened fire Lord Exmouth called out and waved to
them to depart. The warning had no effect, and thousands were killed.
The English losses were considerable, 123 men killed and 690 wounded.
The Dutch had 13 killed and 52 wounded. Lord Exmouth himself was struck
three times, but escaped unhurt. It was pointed out at the time that, in
proportion to the number of men in the English ships engaged, the
casualties were far higher than in any of Nelson’s victories.
The Dey must have passed an uncomfortable night, and morning found him
in a very humble mood. He agreed to all the English demands; these were,
the abolition of Christian slavery for ever, and an undertaking to treat
prisoners of war according to the usage of civilized nations; the
immediate delivery of all slaves; the repayment of the ransom of the
Neapolitan and Sardinian captives; an apology and reparation to the
English consul. Having accepted these comprehensive and ignominious
terms, not as regards the apology to the consul with a very good grace,
the Dey consoled himself by beheading his prime minister.
It has been given to another nation to break down for good and all the
Turkish tyranny, and to restore these fair lands to Europe and
civilization, but we may congratulate ourselves that the gallantry of
our own navy dealt the first serious blow, and exposed the hollowness of
the game of bluff which the corsairs of Algiers had played against
Christendom for centuries. Yet nothing can quench our wonder that the
hand was held up so long, even into the lifetime of men still living and
vigorous.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_III—NEW ROADS AND OLD CITIES_
Rome’s successors—The Road and its influence—Algerian highways—The
motor-car and modern travel—An aqueduct—Cherchel—Cleopatra’s
daughter—Tipasa—The French as Colonists—Viticulture.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Among the ruins of old Rome, the grandeur of the
Commonwealth shews itself chiefly in temples, highways,
aqueducts, walls and bridges.”—ADDISON.
From many points of view the modern French may be regarded as
representing most fully among the peoples of Europe the Romans of the
Empire. The sturdy physique and unrivalled endurance, the unsurpassed
gallantry and devotion to duty of their soldiers, recall the qualities
of the legions. Their absorbing pride in and love for their native land
is an echo of the tremendous sentiment of Roman citizenship. The logical
coherence of their legal system is frankly based on the jurisprudence of
Rome. Their faculty, for producing the most perfect work in the more
refined forms of engineering and the manufacture of delicate tools and
machines is a natural development of Roman thoroughness in constructive
matters. And like the Romans they are the slaves of convention.
Everything Roman was according to a settled plan. The empire was a vast
aggregation of cities which aspired to be little Romes. From the borders
of Scotland to the fringe of the Sahara, from Portugal to Asia Minor,
cities were raised more or less, as circumstances permitted, fulfilling
the conventional design; conventional not only in town-planning, and in
the scheme of public buildings, but in the architecture of private
houses and the most minute details of decoration. We grow weary in the
museums of to-day of the repetition of the same motives in sculpture, in
mosaic and in bronze-work. The only variety is in the quality of the
execution. So, too, must a French town, a French house, a Frenchman’s
manners and a Frenchwoman’s clothes be in accordance with a sealed
pattern deposited in the temple of the great goddess Comme-il-faut. The
French are the most law-abiding of nations, but their laws are _les
convenances_. The occasional licence exhibited in their art and
literature and morals is but the effort of a few eccentric individuals,
not always of unmixed French breeding, to break through the trammels in
which the mass of the race is bound.
In this country the French have set themselves from the first to carry
on the Roman tradition in the making of roads. In a land which for
twelve centuries has known little but destruction and decay they have
built, as the Romans built before them, solid, uncompromising,
inevitable highways, roads on which armies may march secure of ambush,
and almost regardless of the hostility of natural forces;—roads which
create not only peace, but prosperity in their course. The road is one
of the most effective as it is one of the most permanent works of man.
In England quite a large proportion of our main roads still follows the
lines laid down by the Romans. We are ourselves rather road-menders than
road-makers. Our genius finds its work in other directions. We have been
in South Africa far longer than the French in North Africa, and what
have we to show there at all comparable with the Algerian roads?
In one of the most notable books of our generation, Mr. Hilaire Belloc
has set before us the uses, the influence, the interest, and the
fascination of the road. In the course of an exploration of one of those
ancient highways which we English have permitted to fall into decay and
in part to disappear, he has taken occasion to impress on us the part
which the road has played in the spread of civilizing influences.
Algeria—roadless and anarchical for centuries, orderly and webbed with
roads to-day—may add point to his argument. “More than rivers and more
than mountain chains, roads have moulded the political groupings of men.
The Alps with a mule-track across them are less of a barrier than
fifteen miles of forest or rough land separating one from that track.
Religions, which are the principal formers of mankind, have followed the
roads only, leaping from city to city and leaving the ‘Pagani,’ in the
villages off the road, to a later influence. Consider the series,
Jerusalem, Antioch, Ephesus, Athens and the Appian Way; Rome, all the
tradition of the Ligurian Coast, Marseilles and Lyons. I have read in
some man’s book that the last link of that chain was the river Rhone;
but this man can never have tried to pull a boat upon the Rhone
upstream. It was the Road that laid the train. The Mass reached Lyons
before, perhaps, the last disciple of the apostles was dead; in the
Forez, just above, four hundred years later, there were most probably
offerings at night to the pagan gods of those sombre and neglected
hills. And with religions all that is built on them: letters, customs,
community of language and idea, have followed the Road, because
humanity, which is the matter of religion, must also follow the road it
has made. Architecture follows it, commerce of course, all information;
it is even so with the poor thin philosophies, each in its little day
drifts, for choice, down a road.”[2]
Footnote 2:
“The Old Road,” 1904, p. 5.
The making of the Algerian highways has been no light matter. They have
frequently demanded much engineering skill. Their repair is a difficult
and expensive business, the heavy winter rains and the fierce summer sun
have a rapidly disintegrating effect on the friable materials available.
Algeria is not only an exceedingly mountainous country, but its physical
conditions are very peculiar, and, except by those who have explored
them, not as a rule very fully understood. The common idea of a fertile
belt, more or less hilly and of varying width, between the sea on the
north and the Sahara on the south, is imperfect and incorrect. As a very
rough generalization, subject to innumerable variations of mountain and
valley and plain, Algeria may be said to consist of two parallel ranges
of mountains running north-east and south-west. The northern range
slopes very gradually to the sea, often in a series of plains, providing
with its copious rainfall that fertile tract known as the Tell, once the
granary of Rome, and now again developing a great export trade. The Tell
itself contains numerous ranges of lesser hills, called Sahels. The
southern range faces the desert, in the east, in the great rocky mass of
the Aures, with steep cliffs; in the west less abruptly. Between the two
ranges is contained a lofty plateau, of convex form, in the main barren
and sandy, but covered here and there with scrub. In many of its
features it imitates the true desert. It has its shallow depressions
filled with brackish water; and its inhabitants dwell in rare oases
where fresh water occurs. The mountains attain no great elevation, their
summits seldom exceeding 6000 feet. This is a pity. A lofty range
treasuring copious stores of eternal snow would perhaps have made of the
high plateau a veritable garden; and its influence would have been felt
far southwards into the Sahara. The direction of the mountain lines
causes the Tell, the land of tilth and colonization, to be wide at the
western end of the Colony, in the province of Oran, and narrow at the
eastern end, in the province of Constantine.
Where the desert breaks in waves of shifting sand against the southern
range, where the streams run southwards and lose themselves,—there and
not on the seaboard of France and Spain would seem to lie the destined
boundaries of Europe; this the proper limit of European enterprises. The
sea is to-day less than ever a barrier, _dissociabilis_; it is rather a
link. The Mediterranean may lash itself in rage, but its rage is
impotent to check the progress of the great steamers. The southern
frontier of the Roman Empire is once more the southern frontier of
Europe. The burning sands of the great Sahara are the true divide. Yet
French enterprise is loth to admit this. The indomitable spirit of
adventure, of adventure however profitless,—the spirit which led their
Crusaders to the Holy Land, the army of Napoleon to Moscow, and Marchand
on his interminable desert march to anticipate Kitchener at Fashoda,—
this spirit is still at work. Further into the Sahara the outposts are
continually being pushed; a railway is projected to Timbuctoo, now a
journey of three months for caravans; and the connection of the French
Colonies in North and West Africa has long been mooted. We may admire
this spirit and its manifestation, but in all deference may ask, Is it
business?
At the time of the French invasion, eighty years ago, there was not a
single road in the interior of Algeria. The Roman roads had disappeared.
The Arab paths only permitted the passage of horsemen, and wheeled
vehicles were unknown. In the Tell transport was by mules, in the south
by caravans. The army no sooner landed than it began to lay out roads,
and for some time afterwards their construction was in the hands of the
military engineers. They are now in the care of a special department.
The system which has been evolved consists of a great artery running
east and west from the frontier of Tunis to the frontier of Morocco,
united by branch roads to the chief ports on the coast, and sending
forth great feelers southward to the Sahara. These are the great
national trunk roads constructed and maintained by the state for
strategic purposes, and they have a total length of about 2500 miles.
Besides these, the state has assisted in the making of a great number of
roads partly strategic, but for the most part designed to open up new
regions to colonization. These, with the ordinary country roads, make up
a total of nearly 10,000 miles.
It would almost seem that in the design of the great highways running
east and west, and north to sea, and south to the desert, the French had
some prescience of the invention of the motor-car. The roads are, in
fact, most admirably adapted to its use, often from their open character
and long straight stretches (a part, no doubt, of their military
intention), at almost any possible speed. And their surface is commonly
excellent. Remote places formerly only to be reached by painful journeys
in jolting diligences are now within easy reach. And although the
automobile is still the luxury of the few, it may not be long before
popular “omnibus” vehicles will extend its advantages to the many. The
railway train is becoming the inferior beast of burden,—crawling wearily
along at its African pace of fifteen or twenty miles an hour; while the
sprightly motor-car flies past, perhaps at a speed of fifty. It is true
that Article 14 of the _Règlements_ for Algeria provides that “en aucun
cas, la vitesse n’excédera celle de 30 kilomètres à l’heure en rase
campagne et celle de 20 kilomètres à l’heure dans les agglomérations,”
but there seems to be no disposition to enforce this; and there are no
police traps, and no A.A. scouts. The really important provision is, “le
conducteur de l’automobile devra rester constamment maître de sa
vitesse.”
We may take it therefore that travel in Algeria is entering on a new
phase; that this most beautiful and interesting country has at a blow
become accessible to the traveller who has neither time nor inclination
for primitive methods of journeying; and that in the matter of country
hotels French enterprise will surely rise—it is already rising—to the
new opportunities. There are motorists and motorists; to one class the
car itself is all-important, the country traversed a minor matter, the
surface of the road on which “she” is to display her powers being the
first consideration. Such enthusiasts will bring their own cars, and
will perhaps not regret doing so. But there are also persons of
grovelling mind, who cannot rise to any enthusiasm over carburetters and
petrol consumption, who, in fact, regard the motor-car as merely a very
agreeable means to a very desirable end. Such lowly souls will perhaps
be satisfied with hiring a car in Algiers. They will find no difficulty
in selecting an adequate vehicle at a reasonable rate; no Black Care
will sit behind them,—if a breakdown occurs they have only to study the
scenery until it is repaired; and they will have the advantage of a
chauffeur who knows the country, and will not forget the rule of the
road at a critical moment. He may have other qualities;—ours was a
sportsman, and would produce a gun and shoot thrushes for our dinner
while we photographed Roman temples. Our murmured pity at their death
missed its mark; he regarded them simply as very good—to eat. And so
they are.
Before he sets forth on more ambitious journeys, the master, temporary
or permanent, of a motor-car may make several interesting expeditions in
the neighbourhood of Algiers. The guide-book will suggest his objective,
the excellent maps of the “Voies de Communication” will point out the
way. If his tastes run in the direction of visiting historic sites, he
may spend a very interesting day in motoring to Cherchel, the ancient
Julia Cæsarea, situate on the coast about seventy miles west of Algiers.
He has a choice of routes; he may proceed inland to Blidah, and thence
to Marengo, and so to Cherchel, and return by the coast road, or vice
versa. We chose a middle course. We followed the Blidah road as far as
Boufarik and then turned westwards by country roads to Marengo. With
occasional interludes of roughness, especially where the marshy nature
of the country renders their maintenance difficult, these roads are very
good. They traverse a well-cultivated district of the great plain
between the coast-hills and the Lesser Atlas, of which the snowy summits
are brilliant in the morning sun. On a hill to our right we catch a
glimpse of the curious Tombeau de la Chrétienne, so called;—in all
probability the mausoleum of Juba II and Selene his wife, the founders
of Cæsarea. It is placed on the summit of a hill 756 feet above the sea,
and is a circular building of about 130 feet in height. Like most Roman
buildings it has been used as a quarry by subsequent peoples; perhaps
the solitary capital of a column which I noticed on a farm gateway came
from this source.
[Illustration: CHERCHEL: THE AQUEDUCT]
Between Boufarik and Marengo the country is fairly well cultivated;
substantial farmhouses, surmounted by groves of eucalyptus trees, stand
amid great fields of vine and corn. It is difficult to realize that, in
spite of its long history, this is essentially a new country, far newer
than the Colonies of South Africa, newer than a good deal of Australia.
At Marengo we join the main road from Blidah to Cherchel and descend
rapidly by the side of the newly-constructed railway. From a
contemplation of the enterprise of modern France, we are taken back at a
bound to the works of ancient Rome by the appearance on a hill to the
left of a portion of the aqueduct of Cæsarea. At this point it spans a
lateral valley in a triple series of arches, rendered perhaps more
impressive by a breakage in the middle. Leaving the car we scramble up
by the side of a stream and reach the great watercourse itself. Passing
beneath its arches we ascend the valley a little, and turn to look down
on its immense proportions. Amid the rough mountain scrub we have passed
from all evidence of modern cultivation, and are alone with this mighty
fragment of the past. It is difficult to find a reason for the feeling,
but few of Rome’s monuments impart a fuller sense of her magnificence
than the aqueducts which survive at so many different points of her
Empire. They are a symbol perhaps of her relentless power over nature
and man, of her determination to have what she wanted at all cost.
Sometimes, as in the Campagna, it is the long lines of interminable
arches which impress us; here it is rather their soaring height. Many
modern peoples would have carried the open watercourse by a circuitous
cutting on the hill-side round the head of the little valley; such a
proceeding was alien to the directness of Rome.
“See distant mountains leave their valleys dry,
And o’er the proud arcade their tribute pour,
To lave imperial Rome.”
The city to whose fountains and baths the aqueduct brought copious
streams of fresh water from the hills has disappeared. A squalid little
port fills some of its site, and entombs its marbles, but the aqueduct,
situate too far from the habitations of subsequent man to serve his
purpose as a quarry, and too threatening with its mass to encourage any
hasty attempt at demolition, has survived.
A mile or two lower down are a few arches of a branch of the same
aqueduct; perhaps more picturesque in their greater ruin, but less
impressive in their situation and height. All around as we enter
Cherchel are evidences of its ancient glory. The fashioning of the
ground, the great squared stones which are built into the walls, the
marble columns lying about in the town square, and the huge masses of
shapeless brickwork on the shore prepare us for the collection of
statues and other objects gathered together in a well-arranged museum.
The city of Cæsarea, renowned for its magnificence in the splendid Roman
world of the first century, rose under the hand of a woman, as Carthage
under Dido’s. To the loves of Antony and Cleopatra was born the Princess
Selene. In her veins flowed the blood of the Ptolemies,—perhaps of the
Pharaohs,—and of the paramount family of Rome. Truly, to adapt the
language of the turf, was she bred for building. Possibly with the idea
of providing for this inconvenient young lady at a safe distance from
Rome, Augustus mated her to Juba, a descendant of that Masinissa, King
of Numidia, who had been the staunch ally of the Romans in their long
struggle with Hannibal. Juba, educated at Rome, had developed literary
tastes. He is lauded by Pliny for his erudition, and we learn from
Plutarch that he merited a place among “Royal and Noble Authors.” Save
perhaps for the dark blood of his ancestry, he was a fitting match for
Cleopatra’s daughter, especially as he was restored to the Numidian
throne of his family, with all the power of Rome behind him. Retiring to
the ancient Phœnician town of Iol, the Royal pair set to work to
raise a noble city, which perhaps with a punning reference to its former
name they called Julia Cæsarea; and to gather around them a circle
representing the best culture of the time. Marble colonnades and
porticoes, baths and theatres and temples sprang into being on the fair
curve of the bay beneath the wooded hills. Great libraries enshrined the
literary labours of the monarch and the learning of the age. The
scholars of Greece found a comfortable and inspiring home at the court
of the pedantic king, and the existence of a hundred thousand citizens
attested the material wealth of the new city. Juba and Selene lived here
in peace to old age. The king died in A.D. 19, and was succeeded by his
son Ptolemy, who inherited none of his father’s good qualities. A
debauched tyrant, he plunged his kingdom into anarchy and was summoned
to Rome. He was received with every mark of honour, but was put to death
by Caligula, because, as it was said, the splendour of his attire unduly
excited the attention of the populace.
Ptolemy’s sister Drusilla was the wife of that Felix, Governor of Judæa,
before whom Paul reasoned of righteousness, temperance and judgment to
come, so that Felix trembled, and answered, “Go thy way for this time;
when I have a convenient season I will call for thee.” Drusilla is
described in the Acts of the Apostles as a Jewess, which she was not, by
birth at any rate.