SIDI-HASSEM.
The province we were about to enter was a kind of colony divided into
farms among a large number of soldiers’ families, in each of which
military service is obligatory for all the sons; thus, every boy is born
a soldier, serves, as he can, from his very infancy, and receives a
fixed pay before he is able to handle a musket. These military families
are also exempt from taxes, and their property is inalienable as long as
male descendants exist. They thus constitute a regular militia,
disciplined and faithful, by means of which the government can _devour_,
according to the popular expression, any rebellious province, without
fear that the tool will fly off the handle. They may be called a militia
of collectors of revenue, paying the government more than they cost, for
in Morocco the army is a servant of the finances, and the principal tool
of the administrative machine is the sword.
We had scarcely passed the boundaries of Beni-Hassan when we saw in the
distance a troop of horsemen galloping toward us, preceded by a great
banner. Contrary to custom, they were spread out in two long lines, one
behind the other, with their officers in front.
At about twenty paces off they stopped abruptly. Their commandant, a big
old man with a white beard, a benevolent aspect, and a lofty turban,
came forward and took the Ambassadors hand, saying, “You are welcome!
you are welcome!” And then to us, “Welcome! welcome! welcome!”
We resumed our march. The new horsemen, were very different from the
Beni-Hassan. They had clean garments and shining arms; almost all wore
yellow boots embroidered with red; their sabres had handles of
rhinoceros hide, their mantles were blue, their caftans white, with
green girdles. Many of them were old—those petrified old men for whom
eternity seems to have begun; some were very young—two in particular not
more than ten years old, handsome and full of life, looking at us with a
smiling air, as though they were thinking, “Come, you are not such
scarecrows as we had expected to see.” There was one black old man of
such tall stature that if he had taken his feet out of the stirrups they
would have touched the ground. One of the officers wore stockings.
In about half an hour we met another company with a red banner,
commanded by an old _caid_, who joined themselves to the first; and from
time to time other groups of four, eight, fifteen horsemen, each with
its banner, who came to swell our escort. When all had arrived, the
usual firing and charging went on.
It was evident that they were regular soldiers; they manœuvred with more
regularity and order than any we had seen. They had a new play. One
would dart forward at full speed, another behind him, _ventre à terre_.
Suddenly the first would rise in his stirrups, turn and fire right into
the chest of his pursuer, who at the same instant discharged his musket
into the first one’s side; so that had they been firing with ball both
would have fallen dead at the same moment. The horse of one who was
flying in full career fell, and threw his rider to such a distance that
we thought he must be killed. But in a moment he was up and in the
saddle, and rushing about with more fury than ever. Each one had his
cry. “Take care!—take care! Bear witness all! It is I! Here comes death!
Place for the barber!” (he was the soldiers’ barber). And one shouted,
to the manifest amusement of his companions, “_Alla mia depinta!_” The
interpreters explained that he meant, “To my lady, who is as beautiful
as a picture,” odd enough for one of a people who have portraiture in
horror, and who cannot even have a clear idea of it. The two little lads
fired and shouted together, “Place for the brothers!” pointing their
muskets downward, and bending to the saddle-bow.
In this manner we arrived near the _cuba_ of Sidi-Hassem, where our camp
was to be pitched.
Poor Hamed Ben-Kasen Buhammei! Until now I have but glanced at him; but
remembering how I saw him that morning, he, general of the armies of the
Scherif, helping to plant the supports of the Ambassador’s tent, I feel
the need of expressing my admiration and gratitude toward him. What a
good fellow of a general! From the moment of our departure he had not
bastinadoed soldier or servant; had never shown ill temper; always the
first to rise, and the last to go to bed; never had allowed to
transpire, even to the most prying eye, that his stipend of forty francs
a month might seem a trifle scanty; had not a particle of self-conceit;
helped us to mount, saw that our saddles were secure, gave a passing
blow with his stick to our restive mules; was always ready for every
thing and everybody; rested, crouched like a humble mule-driver near our
tents; smiled when we smiled; offered us _cùscùssù_; sprang to his feet
at a sign from the Ambassador, like a puppet on wires; prayed, like a
good Mussulman, five times a day; counted the eggs of the _muna_,
presided at the killing of sheep, looked over the artists’ sketch-books
without blenching; was, in short, _the_ man of all others whom his
Imperial Majesty should have chosen for that mission among all the crew
of barefooted generals. Hamed Ben-Kasen often related with pride that
his father had been a general in the war with Spain, and sometimes spoke
of his sons who were with their mother at Mechinez, his native city. “It
is three months,” he would say, with a sigh, “since I have seen them.”
That day, after having witnessed the presentation of the _muna_, when
there was a monstrous dish of _cùscùssù_ that took five men to carry it,
we took refuge, as usual, in our tents, to endure, also as usual, the
forty degrees centigrade which lasted from noon until four o’clock,
during which time the camp was immersed in profound silence. At four
life woke again. The artists took their brushes, the doctor received the
sick, one went to bathe, another to fire at a mark, another to hunt,
another to walk, another to visit a friend in his tent, to see the
escort charge, to visit the cook in his struggle with Africa, to go to
the nearest _duar_, and thus, every one at dinner-time had something to
tell, and conversation burst forth like a firework.
At sunset I went with the commandant to see the escort at their usual
exercises, in a vast field near the camp. There we found about a hundred
Arabs sitting in a row along the edge of a ditch looking on. As soon as
they discovered us they rose and came in groups to follow us. We
pretended not to see them. For a few minutes not one of them spoke; then
one said something that set the others laughing. Then another, and a
third spoke, and everybody laughed as before. They were evidently
laughing at us, and we were not long in discovering that their laughter
corresponded with our movements and the inflections of our voices. It
was the most natural thing in the world; to them we were ridiculous. We
were curious to know what they were saying, and as one of the
interpreters was passing, made a secret sign for him to come and
translate, which he did.
Presently one made an observation which was received with a burst of
laughter. “He says,” said Morteo, “that he does not know what the skirts
of your coats are for, unless to hide your tails.” Again, “He says that
the parting up the back of your head is the road where certain insects
make the _lab-el-baroda_.” A third speech, and a third shout of
laughter. “He says that these Christians are strange creatures; that in
their ambition to seem tall they put vases on their heads and two props
under their heels.”
At this point a dog from the camp came and lay down at our feet. There
was a remark and a loud yell of laughter. “This is rather too much!”
said Morteo; “he says that a dog has come to lie down with the other
dogs. I will teach them——” As he spoke, he turned abruptly to the Arabs
and said something in a tone of menace. It was like a flash of
lightning. In one instant they had all vanished.
Poor fellows, let us be just! they were not so far wrong after all! Ten
times a day, while they skirmished about us on their superb horses, we
remarked to each other: “Yes, we are civilized, we are the
representatives of a great nation, we have more science in our heads, we
ten men, than exists in the whole empire of the Scherifs; but planted on
our mules, dressed in these clothes, with these hats, in these colors,
among them, goodness knows, we are hideous!” And it was true. The least
among those ragged figures on horseback was more noble, more dignified,
handsomer, more worthy of a lady’s glance, than all the dandies of
Europe in a bunch.
At table that evening there was another curious little scene. The two
oldest of the caids of the escort came in and sat down, one on each side
of the Ambassador. He asked them whether they had ever heard of Italy.
Both together, eagerly making the sign of “no” with the hand, replied,
in the tone of those who wish to dissipate a suspicion, “Never! never!”
The Ambassador, with the patience of a master, gave them some
geographical and political information respecting our mysterious
country. They listened with wide-open eyes and gaping mouths, like
children.
“And how many people live in your country?” one asked.
“Twenty-five millions,” answered the Ambassador.
They gave a sign of astonishment. “And Morocco,” asked the other, “how
many millions has it?”
“Four,” replied the Ambassador, feeling his ground.
“Only four!” they exclaimed ingenuously, looking at each other.
Evidently these two brave generals knew no more about Morocco than they
did about Italy; and perhaps as little about their own province in
Morocco.
Signor Morteo showed them a photograph of his wife, saying, “Allow me to
present my wife.”
They looked and looked at it with much complacency, and then asked in
one voice, “And the others?” Either they did not know, or had forgotten,
that we unhappy Christians are limited to one.
That night there was no possibility of sleep. The hens clucked, the dogs
barked, the sheep bleated, the horses neighed, the sentinels sang, the
water-sellers tinkled their bells, the soldiers quarrelled over the
_muna_, the servants tumbled over the tent cords; the camp was like a
market-place. But we had only four more days to travel, and—a magic word
of consolation—Fez!
[Illustration: The Camel Conveyance.]