In Camp again—Departure from Fez—Consular agents—Infantry
drill—Closing of gates—Source of Wad el Fas—Defences of
Marocco—Chances of invasion.
_Camp, Nedja, Monday, 10th May 1880._
[Illustration: CAMP BETWEEN FEZ AND MEQUINEZ.]
Here we are once more on the march, all of us feeling as if our life at
the Moorish capital had been a dream, and that only the usual
twenty-four hours had elapsed since last the tents were pitched. The
camp is on precisely the old plan, and this, combined with the familiar
but unearthly shrieks of the Moors, and other well-known sounds, seems
to bridge over the time between our former wanderings and the present.
On my right, at the end of the front line, is the Doctor’s tent, from
which issues, as usual, his melodious cry of “Máho,” by which he essays
to attract the attention of his servant, a native of Sús. On the left,
next me, is Zouche, calling in a minor key for George; and farther off
the Bashador, having run up the gamut of servants’ names, arrives at
that of Boomgheis, which is at once echoed by all the other ruffians who
have lain _perdus_ the while, and which is a sort of trump card played
by us all when in difficulties, and unable to get the man we want. Síd
Búbakr alone is absent; but he is only a town acquaintance, so his
spasmodic cry (like a peacock’s in pain) of “Náam, Sídi,”[70] with which
he always, in our garden at Fez, responded to His Excellency’s very
frequent summons, is not associated with camp life. We expect, however,
to see him again, as he is to overtake us in a day or two with some
papers of importance, which the Vizier explained “Sídna[71] had not had
time to sign.” It is to be hoped they will follow all right, but with
His Excellency’s departure the good resolves of His Majesty grow weak;
and as the personal influence of the English minister’s presence is
withdrawn the old state of things is apt to return, and tyranny and
injustice to resume the even tenour of their way. A good many years ago,
Sir John proposed that a British resident should always live at Fez, and
himself volunteered to be the first, but the proposal fell flat with the
representatives of the other powers, and the then Sultan, Mulai
Abd-er-Rahman, was most unwilling to be responsible for his safety. In
our treaty with him, however, in 1856, it was stipulated that the
English might have agents in any _town_, while the other powers were
limited to _ports_—a distinction which was by no means appreciated by
our Continental neighbours. Rohlfs states this arrangement was made by
treaty in 1861, but I think his date in this instance is inaccurate. _A
propos_ of this treaty, M. Duval, writing three years later, urges the
appointment of Consuls in the interior—a measure which, he affirms, was
adopted by his country in bygone days, when “Le roi de France, Henri
III., avait, sur l’invitation même du chérif régnant en 1577, nommé un
Consul et institué une agence consulaire à Fez.”[72] The present Sultan
might not be averse from following the precedent of his ancestors, but
without the hearty co-operation of the Grand Vizier and others, it could
not be adopted; and as the present holder of that office cordially
detests all Christians, he is not likely to counsel such a proceeding.
From this minister downwards, the whole governing staff of the country
is an Augean stable of corruption and iniquity, which nothing but the
increase of trade and consequent march of civilisation is likely to
sweep away.
As we did not leave Fez till noon, I got up at six o’clock, and rode to
a parade of some 1500 of the troops outside the town. There were two
complete regiments with six companies of thirty files each; the
remainder were all boys and recruits at “company drill,” the favourite
movement of their instructors being to wheel them round and round in a
single rank of about 150 strong. Last but not least was an enormous band
of about 100, marching round and playing tunes which were calculated to
strike terror into the heart of any ordinary foe. All commands were in
English, even to the numbering and some of the “cautions,” as, “Dress
back on the left,” “Steady,” and so on. Kaïd Ali (not the old gentleman
of that name who commands our escort), with whom I had tea the other day
at the barrack, was in command of the better drilled of the two
regiments, and seemed thoroughly at home and to enjoy his work,
deploying, forming squares, &c., with much success. The drill was
carried on at the top of the rising-ground overlooking the palace
square, so, if I had been a little earlier, I should have seen the
artillery practice they are so anxious to keep dark. As it was, I made
out with my glasses the commanding figure of the Sultan, sitting in the
bathing-machine-like vehicle which attracted our attention before in the
outer court of the palace, and in which he was now receiving his
ministers. He looks on at the practice on Mondays and Thursdays,
sometimes laying the guns himself. A wooden post is the mark they fire
at, the projectile being stopped by the wall of the enclosure about 500
yards or less from the guns. The Sultan is much taken up at present with
entrenching tools—a subject I had touched on in my report—and has
ordered Kaïd Maclean to have a “battery built at once,” with some
double-headed picks, which have made their appearance lately out of a
neglected store. I had a talk with Síd Drís ben Abd-el-Wáhad, who was
very anxious to accompany us to Mequinez, but who at that hour had been
unable to get the Sultan’s leave; he turned up, however, in camp here at
seven, having ridden out with Sir John, who did not leave Fez till five,
having been closeted with Síd Búbakr and some other notables all day. I
rode back from the parade through the Gordon Cummings’ camp to say
good-bye. They, too, left to-day for Tangier; so Fez is rid of all her
obnoxious visitors at once. I then passed on through the market, where,
the Amín[73] having finished his prayer, the jugglers, hill-tribe
dancers, and the ape-like individual who makes faces, were all hard at
work; and on the outside of all was the comical-looking man, whose
histrionic treat was so heartlessly cut short the other day at the
Summer Palace, amid an enthusiastic audience, who did not scruple to
hear him to the end. The streets were crammed with our tents and
baggage, and the garden of the Legation, where we have spent three such
pleasant weeks, was swept and garnished; while among the walks wandered
the old gardener who is in charge, eyeing sadly some of his best
orange-trees, from which the accursed Nazarenes had cut sticks as a
memento of their visit.
With the exception of His Excellency and the khalífa, we had all cleared
out of the place by twelve o’clock; not with flourish of trumpet and
beat of drum as we entered, but sneaking quietly away with a very
limited escort, the greater part having remained as a guard to the
Envoy. The populace, who had been coerced into welcoming the coming, did
not trouble themselves to speed the parting guest, and, except at the
gates of the town, where a few of the more religious had assembled to
bestow on us a parting curse, the streets presented their usual
appearance. _A propos_ of the gates, I have always forgotten to come and
see the ceremony of closing them, which takes place every Friday during
the hours of prayer from ten to twelve, in consequence of an ancient
Mussulman prophecy, that all kingdoms lost once by Christians to the
Turks and Saracens will be restored to the former on that day, and
between the above hours. The custom is also observed in Mequinez and
Marocco.
About eight miles from Fez on the left or south side of the track, and
two miles off it, we noticed a large fort-like building, and hearing
that the source of the Wad el Fas was there, I rode over to it with Miss
Hay and Zouche. The fort, which in former times must have been a
building of great strength, was built on rising ground, below which, in
a rocky amphitheatre, was a pool of water not very deep, but clear as
crystal, with a gravel and sandy bottom. Into the reservoir the spring
gushed, in two streams or jets, out of the side of the rock below the
building. To me it looked as if the whole mound and one side of the
basin were artificial, though dating from some very ancient period.
Lower down, in the middle of the river, which, on leaving the pool,
assumes its normal width, was some solid mason-work like the ruins of an
old bridge. We rode up the hill to the house or fort, which is a large,
square, high-walled enclosure, covering all the level part of the mound;
but whether it was roofed in or not we were unable to see, as the
inhabitants of a few huts at the back would not even let us go near the
gate. They were a most ill-looking lot, and at first I thought we had
got among a small colony of lunatics, as they kept making queer faces
and odd signs of silence if we attempted a closer inspection. The
soldier who was with us gave us no assistance, but tried to make us come
away, saying it was “harámi[74] for us to be there;” so there was
nothing for it but to get back to the track and come on here. I
questioned him through the interpreter afterwards, but it appeared he
had “forgotten the circumstance,” and also “did not know anything about
the place.” I have never seen any mention made of this singular spring
or the adjacent fortress by other travellers, but I cannot help thinking
that a competent observer might here discover some trace of Roman or
other occupation of the country, and that the place deserves the
attention of the archæologist, for whom, indeed, this land of Marocco is
one vast field.
Our camp is on the bank of the Wad el Nedja, a small stream which we
crossed by a stone bridge—an accommodation one rarely meets with here.
The village opposite us on the right bank merely consists of a
guardhouse, this being a bad neighbourhood, and subject to visits from
the Beni Mtír, the same tribe who attacked our camp at Mikkès just
before we reached Fez. I watched the guards for the camp being told off,
about a hundred of them, armed with guns and posted a few yards apart.
They chant in unison every few minutes to keep themselves awake, and the
mounted patrol who visits them always has some excellent joke at which
they laugh loudly, probably for the same purpose. His Excellency and
escort came galloping into camp just at dinner-time, having ridden out
fast in a downpour of rain. In his suite were Síd Muhammed Gavass and
the “son of the slave of the one God.” Both of them are putting up in
old Kaïd Ali’s tent. I am glad to have seen the parade of troops this
morning outside Fez, as on other occasions of my trying to do so the
Commander-in-Chief, who always attends, has either stopped the parade or
marched the men off as soon as I came on the ground. Owing to his
detention to-day at the “Court,” I saw all I wanted, and was much struck
with the bearing of the men and their knowledge of drill, which fully
equalled that of our native regiments in India. What kind of show they
would make, if properly armed, against a European foe, it is hard to
say, and during the present reign there has been no opportunity of
judging; but the constant guerilla warfare which the levying of tribute
from disaffected tribes entails should keep them in practice. The
isolated position of Marocco, which prevents its serving as a highway to
other lands, makes it comparatively valueless as a possession for any
power unconnected with this part of Africa; and protected as it is on
two sides by a rocky and surf-bound coast, in which are no harbours
worthy of the name, it is not from that quarter the Moors need look for
an attack. On the east, however, they have awkward neighbours in the
conquerors of Algeria; and the tendency of the French to transgress
their frontier line, as fixed by the treaty of 1845, makes the approach
of an enemy in that direction possible. Frenchmen I have met do not
scruple to talk openly of the advantages of an occupation of Marocco,
and, having settled on the expulsion of the present dynasty, are only in
doubt as to whether the country should be “divided among the Powers, or
annexed to Algeria.” It is probable that certain of the Powers might
dissent from the latter alternative, or indeed from either, and should
matters come to an issue, and a European army ever find itself face to
face with France, with Marocco as a battlefield, the assistance they
would derive from the native cavalry and infantry in this land of
soldiers would be no mean factor in the contest. It would be difficult
to calculate what number of allies could thus be raised, as there are no
available means of information, though a French writer boldly asserts
that “le Maroc pourrait lever _plus de_ 500,000 soldats ou cavaliers,
tant bien que mal équipés.” Though this is a high figure, representing,
as it does, about one-twelfth of the population, it is possibly not
above the mark, when one considers the fact that almost every adult in
Marocco possesses a gun and a knife, with a fair knowledge of the use—or
abuse—of both.
[Illustration: VIEW OF MEQUINEZ ENTERING FROM THE EAST.]