was related to a French artist by the name of Vernet.
The two had seen each other but a handful of times in the intervening decades, and Holmes hesitated, on finding himself in Morocco, to inflict familial duties on someone with as much pressing business as Lyautey. However, he had discovered in this distant cousin a complex and intriguing mind, and the alternative was to remain under the jurisdiction of Randolph Fflytte and his band of merry film-makers, forced to carry out a prolonged act of imbecility. So, he wrote to the Maréchal (using the surname Vernet) and the Maréchal wrote back immediately, to say that the turmoil on the Protectorate’s northern border was keeping him in Fez, but he was well pleased to have a house-guest, if the guest did not mind a host who was somewhat préoccupé .
Holmes seized this opportunity, and five days ago he had made a coward’s exit from Rabat, abandoning his wife to her task. In truth, Russell had been looking forward to the experience of emoting before the cameras, although she would never have admitted it, and certainly not to Holmes.
Or so he told himself.
Morocco had come under French control twelve years earlier. A land of Islamic feudalism, a country with neither railroads nor telegraph lines, its roads were the tracks of camel caravans, its only wheeled vehicles the toys of children. The 1912 treaty had divided the country between Spain in the north and France in the south, and within weeks, native troops in Fez rose up and massacred their French officers. European shops and offices were ransacked, the Jewish quarter was in ruins, the Sultan locked himself inside the palace, for fear of being rescued by his supporters. When Lyautey dismounted at the gates of Fez, in May 1912, tribal gunmen were inside the walls, and the new Resident General was greeted by the news that all was lost.
Lyautey’s response had been to walk without hesitation into the medina, to the house that had been set aside for his use, and dress for the formal reception.
On the surface, a blue-blood cavalry officer would seem a most unlikely choice for escorting a Mediaeval country into the modern world, but whether through accident or intent, the appointment of Hubert Lyautey had been a stroke of genius. Even as the Great War approached Europe, he had seized the Moroccan problem as one would a fractious young horse, taking its reins in a grip both iron-like and respectful.
Unlike Spain to the north.
“A miracle is called for,” Lyautey now told his English cousin, “to negotiate a path between Spain and the Rif rebels.”
“Have they put someone sensible in charge of those negotiations, at least?”
“That’s not for me to say, although I try.”
“You?”
“Me. France appointed the current Sultan; France controls Fez and the major portion of Morocco; therefore, France is responsible for any foreign negotiations the Sultan might wish to make. Et la France? C’est moi .”
Resident General, military commander, governor of the state, and foreign minister. No wonder the man was looking his age.
“I heard rumours about the Rif while I was in Rabat, but little hard fact,” Holmes remarked.
“Extraordinary, is it not, how disconnected the parts of Morocco are? Always has been—the Sultans have never really controlled the Atlas mountains, or even the Rif. Rif means ‘edge,’ did you know? As in sharp. Of course you know that. Very appropriate. No, identity in this country is tribal, not national. The north is in a riot of bloodthirsty savagery, while down in Rabat, French ladies sip their tisanes in sidewalk cafés. Morocco is like a man walking his dog while his hat is in flames.”
Holmes’ mouth twitched at the image. “Forgive me, but I have spent most of the past year travelling in places where news is sporadic, inaccurate, and maddeningly out of date. I understand that Spain is having little luck in quelling the Rif Revolt?”
“The Spanish have combined wholesale
The two had seen each other but a handful of times in the intervening decades, and Holmes hesitated, on finding himself in Morocco, to inflict familial duties on someone with as much pressing business as Lyautey. However, he had discovered in this distant cousin a complex and intriguing mind, and the alternative was to remain under the jurisdiction of Randolph Fflytte and his band of merry film-makers, forced to carry out a prolonged act of imbecility. So, he wrote to the Maréchal (using the surname Vernet) and the Maréchal wrote back immediately, to say that the turmoil on the Protectorate’s northern border was keeping him in Fez, but he was well pleased to have a house-guest, if the guest did not mind a host who was somewhat préoccupé .
Holmes seized this opportunity, and five days ago he had made a coward’s exit from Rabat, abandoning his wife to her task. In truth, Russell had been looking forward to the experience of emoting before the cameras, although she would never have admitted it, and certainly not to Holmes.
Or so he told himself.
Morocco had come under French control twelve years earlier. A land of Islamic feudalism, a country with neither railroads nor telegraph lines, its roads were the tracks of camel caravans, its only wheeled vehicles the toys of children. The 1912 treaty had divided the country between Spain in the north and France in the south, and within weeks, native troops in Fez rose up and massacred their French officers. European shops and offices were ransacked, the Jewish quarter was in ruins, the Sultan locked himself inside the palace, for fear of being rescued by his supporters. When Lyautey dismounted at the gates of Fez, in May 1912, tribal gunmen were inside the walls, and the new Resident General was greeted by the news that all was lost.
Lyautey’s response had been to walk without hesitation into the medina, to the house that had been set aside for his use, and dress for the formal reception.
On the surface, a blue-blood cavalry officer would seem a most unlikely choice for escorting a Mediaeval country into the modern world, but whether through accident or intent, the appointment of Hubert Lyautey had been a stroke of genius. Even as the Great War approached Europe, he had seized the Moroccan problem as one would a fractious young horse, taking its reins in a grip both iron-like and respectful.
Unlike Spain to the north.
“A miracle is called for,” Lyautey now told his English cousin, “to negotiate a path between Spain and the Rif rebels.”
“Have they put someone sensible in charge of those negotiations, at least?”
“That’s not for me to say, although I try.”
“You?”
“Me. France appointed the current Sultan; France controls Fez and the major portion of Morocco; therefore, France is responsible for any foreign negotiations the Sultan might wish to make. Et la France? C’est moi .”
Resident General, military commander, governor of the state, and foreign minister. No wonder the man was looking his age.
“I heard rumours about the Rif while I was in Rabat, but little hard fact,” Holmes remarked.
“Extraordinary, is it not, how disconnected the parts of Morocco are? Always has been—the Sultans have never really controlled the Atlas mountains, or even the Rif. Rif means ‘edge,’ did you know? As in sharp. Of course you know that. Very appropriate. No, identity in this country is tribal, not national. The north is in a riot of bloodthirsty savagery, while down in Rabat, French ladies sip their tisanes in sidewalk cafés. Morocco is like a man walking his dog while his hat is in flames.”
Holmes’ mouth twitched at the image. “Forgive me, but I have spent most of the past year travelling in places where news is sporadic, inaccurate, and maddeningly out of date. I understand that Spain is having little luck in quelling the Rif Revolt?”
“The Spanish have combined wholesale
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