“Oh yes.” André grinned at her. “The word is that he is personally footing the bill to have the Mogador harbor basin dredged. Though not much beyond that is likely. He is much too valuable to the ruler.”
“Stop!” She held her hands over her ears. “Is every single person in this country thoroughly corrupt?”
“That seems to be true of your husband in any case,” André said before he could stop himself. He was jealous at seeing the woman he loved fighting so fiercely for her untrustworthy husband. Upon seeing Sibylla’s face, he added, “Forgive me. That was tactless.”
“If only the qaid would grant me permission to visit Benjamin!” Sibylla sighed. “There are so many questions I have for him.”
She needed information about the shipping business, of course, if she was to take it over. But more important, she needed to hear Benjamin himself deny the terrible accusations. A few days earlier, Tommy had asked her what a slave trader was. Apparently, one of his playmates in the street had called his father that. Her helpless stuttering had told him the expression was less than an accolade and, since then, he had repeatedly come home with torn pants and bloody knees.
“I beat up anyone who says my daddy is a slave trader!” he had told his horrified mother.
Sibylla rested her head in her hands. “Oh, I am so sick of it all! But things must go on somehow. I am handling the shipping company’s affairs by myself.”
“What do you mean?” André inquired.
She reported that she had accepted a fifty-camel delivery of leather from Fez, verified its quality, arranged for it to be stored in the harbor, and even discussed the formalities of its shipment to London with the harbormaster.
“Sibylla, I am impressed. I had no idea you knew about leather.”
“I don’t, honestly. But I remembered a few things Benjamin has told me about the qualities of good leather and I somehow managed to pass myself off as an expert. And my husband kept meticulous business records, so I was able to glean some information there.”
She smiled at him sadly. There were dark shadows under her eyes. André went to her and drew her into his arms. She laid her head on his shoulder, felt the rough fabric of his jacket against her cheek, and thought about how good it felt to be able to lean on someone for just a moment. He stroked her hair.
“If you want, I’ll accompany you to Marrakesh in the fall to help you negotiate with the sultan.”
She wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed herself closer to him. “I am already so deeply in your debt. You rode to Marrakesh for me and now you are offering to go again. And yet I know that you have probably long wanted to return to the Chiadma and your life there.”
He gently kissed her forehead. “It is settled. I shall see you in the fall. Sibylla, never forget that you are as strong as a lioness!”
Chapter Fifteen
Mogador, April 1840
It was a tranquil day in April and the sun shone warmly on the festivities. More than two hundred people had assembled on the beach. The air buzzed with English, French, Spanish, Danish, Dutch, Italian, and Portuguese. The shrieks and laughter of the children, who were hunting for eggs and sweets behind sand dunes, under rocks, and between clumps of grass, nearly drowned out the sound of the waves rolling onto the beach.
With the qaid’s approval, the Christian families of Mogador celebrated Easter together every year. Dressed in their finest clothes, they gathered on the shore in the morning to read the Bible, pray, and sing, and many crew members from ships in the harbor joined them. There were so few Christians in the city that they all celebrated together: Catholics, Lutherans, Calvinists, and Anglicans.
When André jumped off his horse, the service was already over. He threw the reins to one of the Arab boys who had gathered to watch the spectacle, and slowly walked over to the crowd. At times, he stopped to greet acquaintances and exchanged a few words with them, but he was distracted, his gaze wandering from group to group.
I shall see you in the fall, he had told Sibylla.
And yet, here he was again in Mogador, just eight weeks later. A few days earlier, the city’s French consul had come to his camp with the Chiadma. He had disturbing news from the north and needed André’s help. Berber tribes led by Abd el-Kader were attacking the French military along the border between Algeria and Morocco. They ambushed and shot soldiers, set garrisons on fire, then fled with lightning speed over the border to Morocco and their allies, the Ait Bouyahia Berbers. Their leader, Thabit al-Khattabi, supported Abd el-Kader in driving the French out of Algeria. In return, the Algerian was going to help him in overthrowing Morocco’s Sultan Abd al-Rahman, so that al-Khattabi would become ruler.
The consul pleaded with André to ride to Marrakesh and warn the sultan. He was to persuade him to hand over Abd el-Kader to the French in return for this warning and to inform the ruler that his refusal would result in military retaliation in important commercial ports like Tangier and Mogador.
André had agreed to carry out this difficult mission. However, instead of riding to Marrakesh, he had gone first to Mogador. He wanted to warn Sibylla and offer her family the protection of his friends, the Chiadma, in case Mogador was bombarded.
André reached a magnificent red-and-green tent that had been set up near the city wall. Inside, people sat conversing on plush benches, while still others gathered around small round tables. A sumptuous banquet was being set up along the rear wall. Servants arranged tableware, glasses, and porcelain. Others hefted baskets and earthenware vessels filled with food just unloaded from pack donkeys. Spits with roasting lamb turned over several fires burning in front of the tent. André’s nose was tickled by the aroma of seasoned meat, which mingled with that of freshly baked bread a servant carried past.
“?Felices Pascuas, Se?or Rouston!” A Spanish merchant who had often purchased saffron from him took him by the arm and, before André knew what was happening, the man had cracked a hardboiled egg on his head. “It remains intact! You will have one year of good luck!” the Spaniard shouted and convulsed with laughter. But then he saw the Frenchman’s expression. “Why the serious look? Have your saffron seedlings been eaten by mice?”
André forced a smile. “That would be a disaster, indeed, but everything is in order. I am looking for Madame Hopkins. I want to wish her a happy Easter. Have you seen her?”
“Lo siento.” The Spaniard shook his head apologetically. “But perhaps she is with my wife somewhere in the tent.”
André found the se?ora with a group of five ladies, among whom he recognized Sara Willshire, but he did not see Sibylla.