André bent over to tie his boots, trying to hide his disappointment. “I’ll ride alone then. I don’t have any idea how much work awaits me, but I would like to visit you now and again.”
She beamed at him. “That would be wonderful!”
Qasr el Bahia in the Atlas Mountains, May 1840
André slid out of his saddle, kneeled on the ground, and picked up a clump of soil and crumbled it. Was this soil suitable for his great dream of growing saffron? He let the soil run through his fingers.
Sultan Moulay Abd al-Rahman’s present lay on a plateau a quarter mile above sea level in the foothills of the Atlas Mountains. At this altitude, the little sand-colored bulbs of the Crocus sativus received sufficient warmth without being parched by the desert heat. At the same time, it was not so high that the valuable bulbs would freeze in the cold earth during winter. The air and the chalky ground stored enough moisture, although the region was dry and deficient in rain. Irrigation was also provided. The sultan’s architects had installed the same underground rhetaras as on the caravan route to Marrakesh and thereby irrigated the magnificent pleasure garden that had flourished here at one time. He would build low protective walls out of quarry stones to prevent the thin layer of soil from being blown away by the wind. André got up, placed one foot in the stirrup, and mounted his mare.
I shall do this, he thought as his gaze wandered over the area and he felt a deep sense of contentment.
He had been filled with pride a week before, when he rode through the gate of the impressive four-part complex that was half palace, half fortress. The sultan had named this property Qasr el Bahia, the Palace of Beauty, and André immediately understood why.
It had taken him almost a whole day ride’s from Mogador on the rocky, winding path along the riverbed of the Oued Igrounzar, first east and then south, until he had found the tributary of the Oued Zeltene and first seen the property from afar. Its majestic walls were painted red-golden by the evening sun and the cedar forest on the hills behind it almost black with the coming night. All of it—the mud-and-stone fortification walls, the stables, storage buildings, and farm buildings—reminded him of a Chiadma tighremt: a closed-off compound that could be easily defended against enemies. In the residential buildings, however, he found the colorful opulence of Moorish architecture.
Although a closer look revealed that the erstwhile splendor of the Palace of Beauty had faded, this did not dampen his enthusiasm. The wind, heat, and cold had taken their toll on the walls, the two-winged cedar gate hung crookedly from its hinges, and wild animals had taken up residence in the buildings. When André entered the stables, he disturbed a family of jackals. Swallows and sparrows nested in the rafters, and wild pigeons filled the two towers to the right and left of the gate.
Upon entering the rooms of the former lord and his court, he discovered mice living in the torn upholstery of cushions and sofas. In one room, he stumbled over a fallen chandelier and, in another, moth-eaten rugs. Floor tiles were broken and the roof had holes in several places. There was much work to be done, but his Chiadma friends would surely help him.
André was completely alone here and grateful for the solitude. He made himself a bed in the stable next to his horse and awoke in the middle of the night when a predatory animal slunk around outside, growling and hissing. Yet he was not frightened. He was happy and full of plans for the future.
The following morning, he saddled his mare and explored the grounds. Bees buzzed among the poppies and thistles. There were wild roses and sprawling bougainvillea. He even discovered an olive grove and the remnants of water basins. Standing in the center of the courtyard was the emblem of Qasr el Bahia, a magnificent Atlas cedar tree. He planned to build terraced fields to ensure his saffron crocuses would get ample sun. In between, he would plant pomegranate trees. The juice of their fruit was in great demand by rug makers as a dye. And he would plant a new flower garden. Or better yet, he would ask Sibylla to do that, so that she could see that Qasr el Bahia was her home as well.
When he returned to the residential buildings around noon, he encountered two thin, ragged shepherd boys eyeing him suspiciously. The bigger one, who had a conspicuous port-wine stain across his face, stared at him with hostility and squeezed a rock in his hand. However, when André shifted his gun to the front of his saddle, the boy dropped his rock. André greeted them, first in Arabic, and, when they did not respond, in Tachelhit, a Berber language spoken mainly in the south of Mogador. Now the one with the port-wine stain replied that they belonged to the Ait Zelten, a clan belonging to the Haha tribe.
André thought it wise to explain the ownership situation right away. “His Imperial Majesty Moulay Abd al-Rahman, the ruler of this country, has given me Qasr el Bahia as a gift. Go and tell your sheikh that Qasr el Bahia now belongs to André Rouston, and also tell him that I look forward to smoking shisha with him.”
“This land always belonged to our people until the sultan stole it from us. He has no right to give it away!” the boy explained angrily.
The little one chimed in. “Where are our goats going to graze now?”
André pointed to the entire area around them. “There is plenty of land around this estate. And anyway, I’ll need some skilled hands to help me rebuild. With the money I pay, your sheikh will be able to buy feed as well as comestibles.”
“The Ait Zelten are no accursed slaves!” The older one spat on the ground in front of André. He motioned to the younger one and the two of them and their herd went on their way.
Mogador, June 1840
Shortly before dinner, Sibylla was sitting at the table in her drawing room. She wanted to write a letter to her father, but her mind kept returning to her meeting with Qaid Hash-Hash that afternoon. He had deigned to speak with her only after she had had him informed that she was in possession of something for which he was searching. Of course, he had known what it was and had flown into a terrible rage when she had refused to divulge Benjamin’s hiding place for his treasure. But she had shocked and subdued him with her proposal that the entire amount be used to rebuild Mogador with only one stipulation: that he proclaim to the whole city that Benjamin Hopkins had always been a respectable businessman and never involved in the slave trade.
“Why did you not just keep the money, Mrs. Hopkins?” he wanted to know when she was leaving.
“Because I wish to give it to someone who really needs it,” she said, thinking of André. She added, “And no one needs it more than the citizens of Mogador.”
How grand, she thought triumphantly, to see such respect on the governor’s face!
Sibylla dipped her quill in the inkwell and returned to the letter. She wanted to inform her parents about the bombardment of Mogador and tell them that Benjamin was killed as a result. She also wanted to suggest to her father that she continue managing Spencer & Son’s business in Mogador permanently. She would not, however, mention the slaves or the money under the sundial.
There was a knock at the door.
“Yes,” Sibylla called.
Nadira entered. “The captain of the Queen Charlotte is here, my lady. He insisted on seeing the master. I told him that the master was dead. And so he wants to speak with you.”
“Where is he?” Sibylla shot out of her chair. Brown! At last! For months she had waited to confront him.
“I have shown him into the master’s old office.”
“Thank you, Nadira.” She ran along the gallery. But when she reached the door to Benjamin’s office, she stopped dead in her tracks. The red-haired, bearded man inside might have been wearing the uniform of a captain for the Spencer & Son Shipping Company, but he was definitely not Nathaniel Brown.
When the stranger beheld Sibylla, he quickly removed his bicorne and bowed awkwardly. “My sincerest sympathy, Mrs. Hopkins, for the death of your husband. My name is William Comstock, and I’m helmsman and temporary captain of the Queen Charlotte.”
Sibylla motioned to the divan and sat on a chair. “Why temporary captain? What has happened to Brown?”
“Dead, Mrs. Hopkins. Killed in a mutiny.”
She was horrified. Mutiny was a serious crime, punishable by hanging. “Tell me,” she demanded.
Comstock reported that they had been on the open seas when some of the crew had mutinied. Brown, all the officers, and the first mate, who had tried to overpower the leader, were murdered. But then a quarrel had broken out among the mutineers and the leader had had several of his cronies hanged on the mainmast.
“That was good for us loyalists, Mrs. Hopkins, ’cause then it was easier to kill the leader and those other criminals. And now we are here, because we had got off course quite a bit and Mogador was the nearest port.”
Sibylla needed a moment to recover from the shock. The only good that had come out of the mutiny was that the contemptible Nathaniel Brown had descended into hell!
She crossed her arms and looked at Comstock. “You have acted bravely, Comstock, but there is something I must ask. How was it possible to transport so many slaves on the Queen Charlotte without my father’s knowledge?”
The man grew pale. “I don’t understand, madam . . . what do you mean?”