André raised his voice again. “Friends, I believe I know why we are here.” He briefly explained about Abd el-Kader, the fighting along the Algerian border, and the retaliatory actions of the French. “When we left Marrakesh, the sultan received news that Tangier had been bombarded by the French navy. Everything in Mogador indicates that this city is also facing the threat of bombardment. I assume that we are being held as hostages.”
His last words caused an uproar. Several of the men wanted to subdue the guards and flee, while others feared being used as human shields. Still others swore that their imprisonment would have diplomatic consequences for the sultan and his qaid. Suddenly, a door flew open and guards stormed into the church interior, screamed, and fired into the air. Sibylla threw herself over her children. Sara Willshire went deathly pale and moved her lips in silent prayer. Firyal wailed and closed her eyes. But the soldiers vanished just as quickly as they had appeared.
“So we owe this treatment to the French!” an English merchant cried out in a voice filled with hate. People muttered their agreement.
André raised his arms. “I do not believe that anyone will harm us. Abd al-Rahman does not wish to risk war with all the European powers. We have about one more hour of daylight. I am going to climb the clock tower. There are almost certainly no guards there, so I shall be able to have a look around.”
A little brown owl flew from its nest as André climbed the dilapidated tower.
“This will bring ill luck,” Firyal whispered and buried her face in her hands. But no one was listening to her. Two hundred people had their eyes glued to the cracked walls of the clock tower. What would Monsieur Rouston see up there? What news would he bring? What would happen to them all if he was discovered?
Sibylla thought of the enchanted afternoon they had spent in this place. Was it really only three months since they had lain right here in each other’s arms, kissed for hours, and talked about their lives, oblivious to the world and happy?
“Mummy!” Tom had climbed out of Nadira’s lap and was clinging to her. “Where is Daddy? Did the soldiers take him too?”
She stroked his soft curls. “Daddy is going to be with us soon, darling.”
“Really?” He beamed at her.
Sand and small stones rained down from the clock tower as André carefully descended.
“I saw some ships’ masts,” he announced as soon as he had safely reached the ground. “They were just visible through the fog—twelve, maybe fifteen. They are French, I saw the flag. There is also what looks like an English frigate, although it was difficult to make out the flag in the fog. Perhaps it is an observation vessel, or perhaps they came to take the British citizens out of Mogador and the qaid stopped them.”
The room was silent. Tears streamed down Sara Willshire’s face.
“Might those ships not be merchant vessels?” her husband finally asked.
André shook his head. “No. Except for the English one, they all had their battle flags hoisted. I recognized the pennant of the commander in chief. It is the Prince de Joinville, who served in the Algerian War. As soon as the fog lifts, Mogador will be bombarded.”
Twenty-six hours later, when the blazing sun stood high above the churning gray ocean, the cannons finally fell silent. The qaid had surrendered his city after the Island of Mogador was taken by five hundred French soldiers.
André stood with the qaid on the roof of the governor’s palace and looked through a telescope at the British frigate Warspite, anchored among the French warships in the harbor entrance. Several longboats full of people bobbed like nutshells around it in the waves.
After the cease-fire, French soldiers had crossed over and freed the prisoners in the Portuguese church, which fortunately had avoided a direct hit. Now they were being safely taken to the Warspite. André was the only foreigner to remain in the city. He had learned from one of the French commander in chief’s adjutants that the victors would take Moroccan officers and soldiers hostage until the sultan had agreed to all their demands for the surrender of Abd el-Kader. André had offered his services as translator and mediator.
His eyes wandered from the longboats to the Warspite, where the sailors were helping the men, women, and children to climb the swaying jack ladder. But try as he might, he could not make out Sibylla, the children, or her two servants. She had wanted to go to her house to see what damage, if any, the cannons had done, but André had urged her to go with the others to the Warspite.
“You’ll be safer on the ship,” he’d told her, not mentioning that he feared looting and retaliatory attacks on foreigners.
Now, the qaid watched as French soldiers emptied barrels full of gunpowder into the water. “The French soldiers have defiled the Blue Pearl of the Atlantic and now they are plundering her!” he moaned. Others loaded captured guns and flags onto longboats and pushed artillery along the quay to show to the admiring crowds in Paris later on.
“The Prince de Joinville will acknowledge that you did not harm the foreign hostages, Your Excellency. Furthermore, I am convinced that the government of France has no intention of humiliating His Imperial Majesty the Sultan,” André said, trying to mollify the governor.
Hash-Hash snorted contemptuously. “Do you really believe that, Rouston? The British, French, Spaniards, and other European powers have been struggling for the greatest possible influence in Morocco for years. This morning, a carrier pigeon from the north delivered the news that Tangier too has surrendered. After such a victory, you French are going to dictate your demands and it is only a matter of time until you have subjugated proud Morocco just as you did Algeria!”
“Algeria was subjugated by the Ottomans in the sixteenth century.”
“The Ottomans are our brothers. But it means profound humiliation for the children of God to be under the rule of infidels!” shouted the qaid.
André chose not to reply and pointed his telescope at the island. Frenchmen were taking the surviving Moroccan soldiers to their ships in rowboats. He saw a number of corpses floating in the water. The Prince de Joinville’s adjutant had reported that the Moroccan losses were considerable while the French had hardly any casualties. This did not surprise André. He knew that the Moroccans had very bad weapons and little training.
The wind carried the acrid stench of death and fire. He peered at the western bastion, where Sibylla had told him Benjamin was being held. Dense smoke still wafted from the area hours after the cannonade. Charred ruins rose out of the smoke. The French must have firebombed the island.
“The prisoner Hopkins was being held in the western bastion,” he said to Hash-Hash. “His Imperial Majesty has ordered his release. Do you think that he has survived?”
The qaid took the telescope from André and looked through it. “That would be a miracle, Rouston. You French have ravaged that island like hungry wolves!”
Sibylla stood at the bow of the Warspite and stared at the smoldering remains of the island fortifications. The deck was crowded with exhausted men, women, and children. The crew fed them and the ship’s doctor examined them.