corruption with abject stupidity, and now de Rivera—you know that Spain has become a military dictatorship?”
“That I did hear.”
“Primo de Rivera. A dictator determined to replicate the catastrophic decisions and attitudes of his predecessors. As we speak, men are dying. You heard of Annual?”
“A town, and a battle.”
“A catastrophe, for the Spanish. From childhood, the Berbers of the Rif are taught violence and blood. They scorn a man who has not killed before his marriage. Three years ago, in the summer of 1921, some five or six thousand Rifi tribesmen bearing antiquated rifles came down from the mountains against fifty thousand Spaniards armed with everything from machine guns to aeroplanes, and slaughtered them. Twenty thousand Spanish soldiers and civilians died. A Moroccan Verdun—and the Rifi picked up all that equipment as they left. Tens of thousands of rifles, hundreds of machine guns, artillery—enough to furnish an army. Which is what they now have. They’re calling it a war for independence. And thanks to the Spaniards, it’s on my doorstep.”
“Sounds remarkably effective, for tribal warfare.”
“The two brothers at its head—Mohammed and M’hammed bin Abd el-Krim—are a clerk and an engineer of mines. The Rif has enormous mineral potential. Iron, phosphates—you’ll recall that The Great War nearly broke out in 1911 over the Agadir mines?”
“Gunboat diplomacy at its most flagrant.”
“And if the response dissuaded the Germans from colonial claims here, it didn’t stop them from economic colonisation. They were happily burrowed into one of the world’s largest iron deposits, just south of Melilla, when the rebellion came down and smashed everything to pieces. The mine, the port, the equipment, all now in rebel hands.
“Extraordinary country, this,” Lyautey mused. “Terrible and beautiful. A gem. And like a gem, hard, multi-faceted, and tough to hold on to. The hills rich with minerals, the central plains as fertile as anything in Europe, the people lively and intelligent, located in a place vital to world trade. If we can bring to bear what I like to call our ‘arsenal pacifique’ —medicine, education, and hygiene—if we can nurture the social framework here instead of the usual mindless European destruction that leads to resentment and anarchy, we have a chance to witness the birth of a vibrant and beautiful new nation. Yes, the only thing Morocco lacks is natural harbours, and once we’ve built a couple of sea-ports, this land will blossom.”
“Assuming the rebellion doesn’t spill over to the French side.”
“As you say. These brothers Abd el-Krim, I don’t know what to make of them. They’re modern. And somehow, they have managed to unite tribes across the Rif into one fighting force—they even have Arab and Berber fighting side by side, unheard of in this land. As we speak, a major battle is going on, scarcely 150 kilometres to the north. More problematic for us, reports indicate that Rifi troops are moving in along the boundary, which is only a day’s ride from here. Ah, but come, you’re not interested in matters military, my dear cousin.”
“To the contrary,” Holmes said. “It makes a refreshing change from moving pictures. That is, if you are willing …?”
“Very well, if you like. Ah, Youssef, how did you know that I was thinking my coffee needed a drop of brandy? The man’s a mind-reader,” he said to Holmes. “Would you like some in yours, cher cousin ? No? In a glass, then, Youssef, and that will be all. Lift your glass, my English friend, that you might drink to the stupidity of your fellow man.
“To the north of here,” the Maréchal began, “deep in the Rif mountains, lies a town called Chaouen. It is a sacred town built by Moors expelled from Spain—I am told it resembles Granada—with a multiplicity of mosques and shrines, a town to which previously (so legend has it) only three Europeans had ever come; two of
“That I did hear.”
“Primo de Rivera. A dictator determined to replicate the catastrophic decisions and attitudes of his predecessors. As we speak, men are dying. You heard of Annual?”
“A town, and a battle.”
“A catastrophe, for the Spanish. From childhood, the Berbers of the Rif are taught violence and blood. They scorn a man who has not killed before his marriage. Three years ago, in the summer of 1921, some five or six thousand Rifi tribesmen bearing antiquated rifles came down from the mountains against fifty thousand Spaniards armed with everything from machine guns to aeroplanes, and slaughtered them. Twenty thousand Spanish soldiers and civilians died. A Moroccan Verdun—and the Rifi picked up all that equipment as they left. Tens of thousands of rifles, hundreds of machine guns, artillery—enough to furnish an army. Which is what they now have. They’re calling it a war for independence. And thanks to the Spaniards, it’s on my doorstep.”
“Sounds remarkably effective, for tribal warfare.”
“The two brothers at its head—Mohammed and M’hammed bin Abd el-Krim—are a clerk and an engineer of mines. The Rif has enormous mineral potential. Iron, phosphates—you’ll recall that The Great War nearly broke out in 1911 over the Agadir mines?”
“Gunboat diplomacy at its most flagrant.”
“And if the response dissuaded the Germans from colonial claims here, it didn’t stop them from economic colonisation. They were happily burrowed into one of the world’s largest iron deposits, just south of Melilla, when the rebellion came down and smashed everything to pieces. The mine, the port, the equipment, all now in rebel hands.
“Extraordinary country, this,” Lyautey mused. “Terrible and beautiful. A gem. And like a gem, hard, multi-faceted, and tough to hold on to. The hills rich with minerals, the central plains as fertile as anything in Europe, the people lively and intelligent, located in a place vital to world trade. If we can bring to bear what I like to call our ‘arsenal pacifique’ —medicine, education, and hygiene—if we can nurture the social framework here instead of the usual mindless European destruction that leads to resentment and anarchy, we have a chance to witness the birth of a vibrant and beautiful new nation. Yes, the only thing Morocco lacks is natural harbours, and once we’ve built a couple of sea-ports, this land will blossom.”
“Assuming the rebellion doesn’t spill over to the French side.”
“As you say. These brothers Abd el-Krim, I don’t know what to make of them. They’re modern. And somehow, they have managed to unite tribes across the Rif into one fighting force—they even have Arab and Berber fighting side by side, unheard of in this land. As we speak, a major battle is going on, scarcely 150 kilometres to the north. More problematic for us, reports indicate that Rifi troops are moving in along the boundary, which is only a day’s ride from here. Ah, but come, you’re not interested in matters military, my dear cousin.”
“To the contrary,” Holmes said. “It makes a refreshing change from moving pictures. That is, if you are willing …?”
“Very well, if you like. Ah, Youssef, how did you know that I was thinking my coffee needed a drop of brandy? The man’s a mind-reader,” he said to Holmes. “Would you like some in yours, cher cousin ? No? In a glass, then, Youssef, and that will be all. Lift your glass, my English friend, that you might drink to the stupidity of your fellow man.
“To the north of here,” the Maréchal began, “deep in the Rif mountains, lies a town called Chaouen. It is a sacred town built by Moors expelled from Spain—I am told it resembles Granada—with a multiplicity of mosques and shrines, a town to which previously (so legend has it) only three Europeans had ever come; two of
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