THE PASSING OF MOROCCO
[Illustration: _Frontispiece._
A SAINT HOUSE.]
THE
PASSING OF MOROCCO
BY
FREDERICK MOORE
AUTHOR OF ‘THE BALKAN TRAIL’
_WITH ILLUSTRATIONS AND MAP_
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN, AND COMPANY
1908
TO
CHARLES TOWNSEND COPELAND
INTRODUCTION
For several years I had been watching Morocco as a man who follows
the profession of ‘Special Correspondent’ always watches a place that
promises exciting ‘copy.’ For many years trouble had been brewing
there. On the Algerian frontier tribes were almost constantly at odds
with the French; in the towns the Moors would now and then assault
and sometimes kill a European; round about Tangier a brigand named
Raisuli repeatedly captured Englishmen and other foreigners for the
sake of ransom; and among the Moors themselves hardly a tribe was not
at war with some other tribe or with the Sultan. It was not, however,
till July of last year that events assumed sufficient importance to
make it worth the while of a correspondent to go to Morocco. Then, as
fortune would have it, when the news came that several Frenchmen had
been killed at Casablanca and a few days later that the town had been
bombarded by French cruisers, I was far away in my own country. It was
ill-luck not to be in London, five days nearer the trouble, for it
was evident that this, at last, was the beginning of a long, tedious,
sometimes unclean business, that would end eventually--if German
interest could be worn out--in the French domination of all North
Africa west of Tripoli.
Sailing by the first fast steamer out of New York I came to London, and
though late obtained a commission from the _Westminster Gazette_. From
here I went first to Tangier, _viâ_ Gibraltar; then on to Casablanca,
where I saw the destruction of an Arab camp and also witnessed the
shooting of a party of prisoners; I visited Laraiche against my will
in a little ‘Scorpion’ steamer that put in there; and finally spent
some weeks at Rabat, the war capital, after Abdul Aziz with his
extraordinary following had come there from Fez.
Of these brief travels, covering all told a period of but three months,
and of events that are passing in the Moorish Empire this little book
is a record.
* * * * *
Six letters to the _Westminster Gazette_ (forming parts of Chapters I.,
IV., VI., XIV., XV., and XVI.) are reprinted with the kind permission
of the Editor.
I have to thank Messrs. Forwood Bros., the Mersey Steamship Company,
for permission to reproduce the picture which appears on the cover.
_March 15, 1908._
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
INTRODUCTION vii-ix
I. OUT OF GIBRALTAR 1
II. NIGHTS ON A ROOF 12
III. DEAD MEN AND DOGS 30
IV. WITH THE FOREIGN LEGION 38
V. NO QUARTER 52
VI. THE HOLY WAR 59
VII. FORCED MARCHES 71
VIII. TANGIER 79
IX. RAISULI PROTECTED BY GREAT BRITAIN 95
X. DOWN THE COAST 102
XI. AT RABAT 111
XII. THE PIRATE CITY OF SALLI 129
XIII. MANY WIVES 139
XIV. GOD SAVE THE SULTAN! 147
XV. MANY SULTANS 157
XVI. THE BRITISH IN MOROCCO 173
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
A SAINT HOUSE _Frontispiece_
TANGIER THROUGH THE KASBAH GATE _To face page_ 10
THE FRENCH WAR BALLOON } ” 38
AN ALGERIAN SPAHI }
ARAB PRISONERS WITH A WHITE FLAG } ” 60
A COLUMN OF THE FOREIGN LEGION }
ON THE CITADEL, TANGIER ” 80
A RIFF TRIBESMAN } ” 96
A MAGHZEN SOLDIER }
THE CASTLE AT LARAICHE ” 104
A CAMP OUTSIDE THE WALLS OF RABAT ” 126
SHAWIA TRIBESMEN ” 136
A FEW OF THE SULTAN’S WIVES ” 144
CHAINED NECK TO NECK: RECRUITS FOR THE SULTAN’S ARMY } ” 154
ABDUL AZIZ ENTERING HIS PALACE }
A PRINCELY KAID } ” 162
THE ROYAL BAND }
MAP OF MOROCCO ” 188
THE PASSING OF MOROCCO
CHAPTER I
OUT OF GIBRALTAR
It was in August, 1907, one Tuesday morning, that I landed from a P. &
O. steamer at Gibraltar. I had not been there before but I knew what
to expect. From a distance of many miles we had seen the Rock towering
above the town and dwarfing the big, smoking men-of-war that lay at
anchor at its base. Ashore was to be seen ‘Tommy Atkins,’ just as one
sees him in England, walking round with a little cane or standing
stiff with bayonet fixed before a tall kennel, beside him, as if for
protection, a ‘Bobbie.’ The Englishman is everywhere in evidence,
always to be recognised, if not otherwise, by his stride--which no one
native to these parts could imitate. The Spaniard of the Rock (whom the
British calls contemptuously ‘Scorpion’) is inclined to be polite and
even gracious, though he struggles against his nature in an attempt
to appear ‘like English.’ Moors from over the strait pass through the
town and leisurely observe, without envying, the _Nasrani_ power, then
pass on again, seeming always to say: ‘No, this is not my country; I
am Moslem.’ Gibraltar is thoroughly British. Even the Jews, sometimes
in long black gaberdines, seem foreign to the place. And though on the
plastered walls of Spanish houses are often to be seen announcements of
bull fights at Cordova and Seville, the big advertisements everywhere
are of such well-known British goods as ‘Tatcho’ and ‘Dewar’s.’
I have had some wonderful views of the Rock of Gibraltar while crossing
on clear days from Tangier, and these I shall never forget, but I
think I should not like the town. No one associates with the Spaniards,
I am told, and the other Europeans, I imagine, are like fish out of
water. They seem to be of but two minds: those longing to get back to
England, and those who never expect to live at home again. Most of
the latter live and trade down the Moorish coast, and come to ‘Gib’
on holidays once or twice a year, to buy some clothes, to see a play,
to have a ‘spree.’ Of course they are not ‘received’ by the others,
those who long for England, who are ‘exclusive’ and deign to meet with
only folk who come from home. In the old days, when the Europeans in
Morocco were very few, it was not unusual for the lonesome exile to
take down the coast with him from ‘Gib’ a woman who was ‘not of the
marrying brand.’ She kept his house and sometimes bore him children.
Usually after a while he married her, but in some instances not till
the children had grown and the sons in turn began to go to Gibraltar.
My first stop at the Rock was for only an hour, for I was anxious to
get on to Tangier, and the little ‘Scorpion’ steamer that plied between
the ports, the _Gibel Dursa_, sailed that Tuesday morning at eleven
o’clock. I seemed to be the only cabin passenger, but on the deck
were many Oriental folk and low-caste Spaniards, not uninteresting
fellow-travellers. Though the characters of the North African and the
South Spaniard are said to be alike, in appearance there could be no
greater contrast, the one lean and long-faced, the other round-headed
and anxious always to be fat. Neither are they at all alike in style
of dress, and I had occasion to observe a peculiar difference in their
code of manners. I had brought aboard a quantity of fresh figs and
pears, more than I could eat, and I offered some to a hungry-looking
Spaniard, who watched me longingly; but he declined. On the other hand
a miserable Arab to whom I passed them at once accepted and salaamed,
though he told me by signs that he was not accustomed to the sea and
had eaten nothing since he left Algiers. As I moved away, leaving some
figs behind, I kept an eye over my shoulder, and saw the Spaniard
pounce upon them.
The conductor, or, as he would like to be dignified, the purser, of
the ship, necessarily a linguist, was a long, thin creature, sprung
at the knees and sunk at the stomach. He was of some outcast breed of
Moslem. Pock-marked and disfigured with several scars, his appearance
would have been repulsive were it not grotesque. None of his features
seemed to fit. His lips were plainly negro, his nose Arabian, his
ears like those of an elephant; I could not see his eyes, covered
with huge goggles, black enough to pale his yellow face. Nor was this
creature dressed in the costume of any particular race. In place of the
covering Moorish _jeleba_ he wore a white duck coat with many pockets.
Stockings covered his calves, leaving only his knees, like those of
a Scot, visible below full bloomers of dark-green calico. On his feet
were boots instead of slippers. Of course this man was noisy; no such
mongrel could be quiet. He argued with the Arabs and fussed with the
Spaniards, speaking to each in their own language. On spying me he
came across the ship at a jump, grabbed my hand and shook it warmly.
He was past-master at the art of identification. Though all my clothes
including my hat and shoes had come from England--and I had not spoken
a word--he said at once, ‘You ’Merican man,’ adding, ‘No many ’Merican
come Tangier now; ’fraid _Jehad_’--religious war.
‘Ah, you speak English,’ I said.
‘Yes, me speak Englis’ vera well: been ’Merica long time--Chicago,
New’leans, San ’Frisco, Balt’more, N’York’ (he pronounced this last
like a native). ‘Me been Barnum’s Circus.’
‘Were you the menagerie?’
The fellow was insulted. ‘No,’ he replied indignantly, ‘me was freak.’
Later when I had made my peace with him by means of a sixpence I asked
to be allowed to take his picture, at which he was much flattered and
put himself to the trouble of donning a clean coat; though, in order
that no other Mohammedan should see and vilify him, he would consent to
pose only on the upper-deck.
Sailing from under the cloud about Gibraltar the skies cleared rapidly,
and in less than half-an-hour the yellow hills of the shore across
the strait shone brilliantly against a clear blue sky. There was no
mistaking this bit of the Orient. For an hour we coasted through the
deep green waters. Before another had passed a bleak stretch of sand,
as from the Sahara, came down to the sea; and there beyond, where the
yellow hills began again, was the city of Tangier, the outpost of the
East. A mass of square, almost windowless houses, blue and white,
climbing in irregular steps, much like the ‘Giant’s Causeway,’ to the
walls of the ancient _Kasbah_, with here and there a square green
minaret or a towering palm.
We dropped anchor between a Spanish gunboat and the six-funnelled
cruiser _Jeanne d’Arc_, amid a throng of small boats rowed by Moors
in coloured bloomers, their legs and faces black and white and shades
between. While careful to keep company with my luggage, I managed at
the same time to embark in the first boat, along with the mongrel in
the goggles and a veiled woman with three children, as well as others.
Standing to row and pushing their oars, the bare-legged boatmen took us
rapidly towards the landing--then to stop within a yard of the pier and
for a quarter of an hour haggle over fares. Three reals Moorish was all
they could extort from the Spaniards, and this was the proper tariff;
but from me two pesetas, three times as much, was exacted. I protested,
and got the explanation, through the man of many tongues, that this
was the regulation charge for ‘landing’ Americans. In this country, he
added from his own full knowledge, the rich are required to pay double
where the poor cannot. While the Spaniards, the freak and I climbed up
the steps to the pier, several boatmen, summoned from the quay, came
wading out and took the woman and her children on their backs, landing
them beyond the gate where pier-charges of a real are paid.
At the head of the pier a rickety shed of present-day construction,
supported by an ancient, crumbling wall, is the custom-house. Not in
anticipation of difficulty here, but as a matter of precaution, I had
stuffed into my pockets (knowing that my person could not be searched)
my revolver and a few books; and to hide these I wore a great-coat and
sweltered in it. Perhaps from my appearance the cloaked Moors, instead
of realising the true reason, only considered me less mad than the
average of my kind. At any rate they ‘passed’ me bag and baggage with
a most superficial examination and not the suggestion that _backsheesh_
would be acceptable.
But on another day I had a curious experience at this same
custom-house. A new kodak having followed me from London was held
for duty, which should be, according to treaty, ten per cent. _ad
valorem_. It was in no good humour that after an hour’s wrangling I was
finally led into a room with a long rough table at the back and four
spectacled, grey-bearded Moors in white _kaftans_ and turbans seated
behind.
‘How much?’ I asked and a Frenchman translated.
‘Four dollars,’ came the reply.
‘The thing is only worth four pounds twenty dollars; I’ll give you one
dollar.’
‘Make it three--three dollars, Hassani.’
‘No, one.’
‘Make it two--two dollars Spanish.’
This being the right tax, I paid. But I was not to get my goods yet;
what was my name?
[Illustration: TANGIER THROUGH THE KASBAH GATE.]
‘Moore.’
‘No, _your_ name.’
‘I presented my card.’
‘Moore!’ A laugh went down the turbaned line.
A writer on the East has said of the Moors that they are the Puritans
of Islam, and the first glimpse of Morocco will attest the truth of
this. Not a Moor has laid aside the _jeleba_ and the corresponding
headgear, turban or fez. In the streets of Tangier--of all Moorish
towns the most ‘contaminated’ with Christians--there is not a tramway
or a hackney cab. Not a railway penetrates the country anywhere, not a
telegraph, nor is there a postal service. Except for the discredited
Sultan (whose ways have precipitated the disruption of the Empire) not
a Moor has tried the improvements of Europe. It seems extraordinary
that such a country should be the ‘Farthest West of Islam’ and should
face the Rock of Gibraltar.