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.
“You wanted to speak to me, Mrs. Hopkins?” Captain Wallis bowed politely.
She turned around with a smile. “Thank you for taking the time, Captain! I have an enormous request: Do you think you could find out if my husband is among the survivors on the island? He was in the western bastion at the time of the bombardment.” She dispensed with any explanation.
The captain nodded solicitously. “I will dispatch an officer to the Suffren at once and obtain information from the French staff of command. Do not despair, Mrs. Hopkins, we will soon know more. In the meantime, may I have a cup of tea brought to you? And if I may say so, the battlefield on the island is no sight for a lady.” He bowed and missed Sibylla’s grimace of irritation.
Two hours later, he returned, accompanied by a French naval officer. “May I present Lieutenant de Maillard, Mrs. Hopkins. He is the personal adjutant to Commander in Chief Joinville.”
She greeted him and asked, “Do you have news of my husband, Lieutenant? Is he on one of your ships?”
The young officer bowed. “I fear, madame, I’m not bearing good news. Your husband is not on any of our fifteen ships. He was neither among the prisoners of war nor any of the casualties.”
“So he is missing?”
“You might say so, madame,” Lieutenant de Maillard replied uneasily. “The fortifications on the island were utterly destroyed. The western bastion, where your husband was being held, is completely gutted . . .” He swallowed hard. “I am afraid, madame, you must prepare yourself for the worst.”
“That he is dead,” Sibylla whispered.
The captain and the officer both stepped forward to catch her should she collapse, but she raised her hand to stop them.
“Thank you, gentlemen, I shall manage.” She looked again at the smoldering ruins and back to the two men. “Is the destruction really so devastating? Could he not have survived somehow? Be buried under the rubble?”
De Maillard shook his head regretfully. “I am very sorry, madame, but it is very unlikely.”
“Unlikely or impossible? Please, Lieutenant, tell me the truth!”
The young officer helplessly glanced over to the captain, who shrugged his shoulders. “The western bastion was bombarded and was fully engulfed in flames. Even the iron mountings and artillery pieces melted in the heat. No one there could possibly have survived. We found only a few charred bones in the ashes.”
“Good God!” Sibylla put her hand over her mouth.
“My sincerest sympathy, madame.” Once more, the young officer bowed. Then, upon a signal from the captain, he withdrew.
Wallis motioned a sailor to get a chair and compelled a reluctant Sibylla to sit. “Mrs. Hopkins, the Warspite is going to sail for England in a few days’ time. I am sure you will want to return home to your family.”
Sibylla numbly shook her head. “Right now, I wish to speak with my sons. Thank you for your trouble, Captain.”
She got up and went to look for Tom and Johnny. They were standing at the railing with Nadira and Firyal and were engaged in a spitting contest. When they spotted their mother, they came running to her. She took them by the hand and led them to a quiet corner.