GOD SAVE THE SULTAN!
The principal cause of the Moorish revolution, which threatens to
terminate the reign of Abdul Aziz, was his tendency--up to a few months
ago--to defy the religious prejudices which a long line of terrible
predecessors had carefully nurtured in his people. The incident of
the mosque of Mulai Idris at Fez was his culminating offence. To the
uttermost corners of the Empire went the news that the young Sultan
had defiled the most holy tomb of the country through causing to be
taken by force from its sacred protection and murdered one of the
Faithful who had slain a Christian dog. To the punishing wrath of the
dishonoured saint and of the Almighty has been put down every calamity
that has since befallen either the Sultan or the Empire; and the Moors
will tell you that by this act has come the ruin of Morocco. It was in
dramatic fashion that the feeling Driss, our man, stopped abruptly in
the street when I mentioned the affair. We were nearing a picturesque
little mosque with a leaning palm towering above it, and good old Driss
was urging me to turn away and not to pass it--because he was a friend
of mine and did not want me stoned. ‘Driss,’ said I, ‘they would not
dare; the Sultan is here and they know that even a mosque won’t save
them if they harm a European now.’ Driss stopped short and turned upon
me. ‘You know that, Mr. Moore,’ he said with emphasis, ‘that about the
Mulai Idris! That was the finish of Morocco!’
While with such breaches of the Moslem law Abdul Aziz has roused among
the people a superstitious fear of consequences, he has also, by
lesser defiances of recognised Moorish customs, sorely aggravated them.
His many European toys--the billiard table, the costly photographic
apparatus, the several bicycles, and the extravagant displays of
fireworks--while harmless enough, were regarded by the Moors with no
good grace. But worst of all these trivial things was, to the Moors,
the young man’s evident lack of dignity. At times he would ride out
alone and with Christians (who were his favourite companions), whereas
the Sultans before him were hardly known to appear in public without
the shade of the authoritative red umbrella.
An Englishman who knows Abdul Aziz and has for years advised him, tells
me of a ride they took together accompanied only by their private
servants, when the Court was formerly at Rabat, five years ago. The
Sultan left the palace grounds with the hood of his _jeleba_ drawn well
down over his face, his servant likewise thoroughly covered in the
garment that levels all Moors, men and women, to the same ghost-like
appearance. Sultan and man met the Englishman outside the town walls at
the ruins of Shella, a secluded place grown over with cactus bushes,
and rode with him on into the country fifteen miles or more. On the way
back they encountered a storm of rain, and drenched to the skin, their
horses floundering in the slipping clay, they drew up at the back walls
of the palace and tried to get an entrance by a gate always barred.
‘What shall we do?’ asked the Sultan.
‘Get your servant to climb the wall,’ said the Englishman.
‘No; you get yours,’ said Abdul Aziz, always contrary.
So the Englishman’s servant climbed the wall, dropped on the other
side, and made his way to the palace, where he was promptly arrested
and flogged for a lying thief, no one taking the trouble to go to see
if his tale was true. After the Sultan and the Englishman had waited
for some time, they rode round to another gate and entered. Then
the unfortunate servant of the Christian was set free and given five
dollars Hassani to heal his welted skin.
But things have changed. On the present visit of the Sultan to Rabat
he no longer rides out except in great State; and this he does (on the
advice partly of that particular Englishman of the wall adventure)
every Friday regularly.
In September, while Abdul Aziz was on the road from Fez, hastening to
anticipate his brother in getting to this, the war capital of Morocco
(where, as the Moors say, the Sultan might listen with both ears, to
the North and to the South), public criers from the rival camp of Mulai
Hafid declared that Abdul Aziz was coming to the coast to be baptized
a Christian under the guns of the infidel men-of-war. But this lie was
easy to refute without the humiliation of a deliberate contradiction.
Though at Fez it has always been the custom of the Sultan to worship
at a private mosque within the grounds of his palace, it is likewise
the custom for him at Rabat to go with a great fanfare and all his
household and the Maghzen through lines of troops as long as he can
muster, to a great public mosque in the open fields between the town’s
outer and inner walls.
It was with a party of Europeans, mostly English correspondents, that
I went to see the first Selamlik here. In the party there was W. B.
Harris of the _Times_, and Wm. Maxwell of the _Mail_, as well as Allan
Maclean, the brother of the Kaid. We had as an escort two soldiers
from the British Consulate, without whom we could not have moved. The
soldiers led the way shouting ‘Balak! balak!’ as we rode through the
narrow crowded streets. But in all the throng no other Europeans were
to be seen, until some way out we met at a cross-road and mingled for
a moment with the delegation of French officials and correspondents,
bound also for the great show.
Passing the _Bab-el-Had_, the Gate of Heads (fortunately not decorated
at this time), the road led through grassy fields to a height from
which is visible the whole palace enclosure. We could see, over the
high white walls, the two lines of stacked muskets sweeping away in
a long, opening arc from the narrow gate beside the mosque to the
numerous doors of the low white-washed palace. Behind the guns the
soldiers sat, generally in groups on the grass, only a few having life
enough to play at any game. Considerably in the background were groups
of women, garbed consistently in white, and heavily veiled.
Our soldiers, always glad to spur a horse, climbed through a break in
the cactus that lined the road and led a hard canter down the slight,
grassy slope, straight for one of the smaller gates. Two sentries
seated on either side, perceiving us, rose nervously, retired and swung
the doors in our faces, the rusty bars grating into place as we drew
up. Our soldiers shouted, but got no answer, and we rode round to the
_Bab_ by the mosque, which could not be closed. As we drew up here
a sentinel with arbitrary power let in two negro boys, clad each in
a ragged shirt, riding together on a single dwarfed donkey not tall
enough to keep their long, black, dangling legs out of the dust. But we
could not pass--no; there was no use arguing, we could not pass. Slaves
went in and beggars; the man was anxious, and shoved them in--but no;
we, we were not French!
While our soldiers argued, the Frenchmen came up and passed in; then
the guard, seeing we looked much like them, changed his mind and
permitted us, too, to enter.
[Illustration: CHAINED NECK TO NECK--RECRUITS FOR THE SULTAN’S ARMY.]
[Illustration: ABDUL AZIZ ENTERING HIS PALACE.]
For some distance we passed between the lines of stacked guns,
attracting the curious gaze of everybody, especially the women, who
rose and came nearer the soldiers. One youth, a mulatto, got up and
took a gun from a stack, and pretending to shove a cartridge
into it, aimed directly at my head. The incident was, as one of the
Englishmen suggested, somewhat boring.
Within a hundred yards of the palace we got behind the line and took
up our stand. We had not long to wait. Shortly after the sun began to
decline a twanging blast from a brassy cornet brought the field to its
feet.
There was no hurry or scurry--there seldom is in Mohammedan countries.
The soldiers took their guns, not with any order but without clashing;
the women and children came up close; tribesmen, mounted, drew up
behind. The Sultan’s band, in white, belted dresses, with knee
skirts, bare legs, yellow slippers, and red fezzes, began to play a
slow, impressive march--‘God save the King!’ with strange Oriental
variations. It would not have been well if the Moors had known, and our
soldier, for one, was amazed when we told him, that the band played the
Christian Sultan’s hymn.
The mongrel soldiers, black and brown and white, slaves and freemen,
presented arms uncertainly, as best they knew how; the white-robed
women ‘coo-eed’ loud and shrill. A line of spear-bearers, all old men,
passed at a short jog-trot; following them came six Arab horses, not
very fine, but exceedingly fat, and richly caparisoned, led by skirted
grooms; then the Sultan, immediately preceded and followed by private
servants, likewise in white, except for their chief, a coal-black negro
dressed in richest red. Beside the Sultan, who was robed in white and
rode a white horse, walked on one side the bearer of the red parasol,
and on the other a tall dark Arab who flicked a long scarf to keep
flies off his Imperial Majesty. In and out of the ranks, disturbing
whom he chose, ran a mad man, bellowing hideously, foaming at the
mouth. This, on the part of Abdul Aziz, was indeed humouring the
prejudices of the people.