them, in heavy disguise, left safely; the third, a missionary, died from poison.
“Four years ago, a Spanish general by the name of Castro Girona talked his way into Chaouen to tell the city leaders that they ought to surrender.
“Incredibly enough, they did—and equally incredibly, the Spaniards marked this triumph by stabling horses in the mosques and abusing the ladies of the town. Offensive behaviour, so short-sighted.
“This past summer, Spain had to draw back, stranding some three or four thousand troops in Chaouen. In September, they moved several divisions—Intelligence reports say forty thousand men—to Tetuán, some fifty kilometres off, and sent them to Chaouen’s relief.
“The Spanish troops reached Chaouen around the first of October, having lost far more men along the way than the number they were relieving. And six weeks later, just in time for the heavy rains, they began their retreat. Through mountainous terrain. With no proper roads for their artillery and armoured cars, while a whole nation of skilled and well-armed guerrillas lay among the rocks like shadows. The Rifi waited until the last Spaniard was free of the town—their Foreign Legion brought up the rear, under a young madman by the name of Franco—and fell on them like wolves.
“I can’t imagine what is going on up there now—no, I can imagine. Every Rif male has a gun and a reason to hate the Spanish. Thousands will be dying. Tens of thousands.”
“Under Mohammed and M’hammed ibn Abd el-Krim.”
“The two brothers. Their names are about all we know of them, other than the older one having a limp. Their only photographs could be any man in Fez. The younger one, the Revolt’s strategist, was educated in Spain as a mine engineer—they were born to the Beni Urriaguel, whose land holds most of Morocco’s iron deposits. The elder brother—Mohammed, the Emir of the Rif Republic—worked as a Spanish journalist and native affairs officer until he was gaoled during the war—his limp is from an escape attempt. Both bear long witness to the insults, corruption, harassment, and general contempt with which the Spanish treat their Moroccan possession.
“And yet, if you’d told me five years ago that there would be a rebellion, I’d have wagered that it would have Sherif Raisuli at its head.”
Holmes stirred. “Raisuli as in ‘Perdicaris free or Raisuli dead’? Brutal and corrupt Raisuli, the last of the Barbary pirates? The man has made a career out of kidnapping Europeans—Perdicaris and Varley, Harris, Maclean. I wonder how much he’s made altogether from his various extortion schemes?”
“Raisuli lives in considerable luxury—more to the point, he pays his men well. But it’s not just ransoming prisoners, or selling them as slaves. The Sherif’s a master in the art of playing European countries against one another. During the War, he took German money to foment a tribal revolt against us. More recently, I’m told that he’s tried to collect their bounty on Abd el-Krim—the Germans are determined to get their iron mines back. He’s even made a couple of attempts on my life—he has his eye on the Moroccan throne. Claims to be of the blood.
“He’s given the Spanish merry hell for years, although of late he’s quieted down towards them—Abd el-Krim has forced him to choose sides. Given a choice between Spanish pesetas and the threat of an enemy’s Republic, Raisuli went with Spain.”
“Spain must have mixed feelings about that.”
“They can’t afford to be fastidious about their allies. The Sherif may be ruthless and corrupt, but to his followers he is blessed— baraka —and can do no wrong. Buying peace with him secures Spain’s western flank.”
“For the time.”
“True. As you say, for a pair of office workers, the brothers Abd el-Krim have proved unexpectedly adept at guerrilla tactics. No one but Raisuli has been able to resist them—and once they run out of Spaniards to pick off,
“Four years ago, a Spanish general by the name of Castro Girona talked his way into Chaouen to tell the city leaders that they ought to surrender.
“Incredibly enough, they did—and equally incredibly, the Spaniards marked this triumph by stabling horses in the mosques and abusing the ladies of the town. Offensive behaviour, so short-sighted.
“This past summer, Spain had to draw back, stranding some three or four thousand troops in Chaouen. In September, they moved several divisions—Intelligence reports say forty thousand men—to Tetuán, some fifty kilometres off, and sent them to Chaouen’s relief.
“The Spanish troops reached Chaouen around the first of October, having lost far more men along the way than the number they were relieving. And six weeks later, just in time for the heavy rains, they began their retreat. Through mountainous terrain. With no proper roads for their artillery and armoured cars, while a whole nation of skilled and well-armed guerrillas lay among the rocks like shadows. The Rifi waited until the last Spaniard was free of the town—their Foreign Legion brought up the rear, under a young madman by the name of Franco—and fell on them like wolves.
“I can’t imagine what is going on up there now—no, I can imagine. Every Rif male has a gun and a reason to hate the Spanish. Thousands will be dying. Tens of thousands.”
“Under Mohammed and M’hammed ibn Abd el-Krim.”
“The two brothers. Their names are about all we know of them, other than the older one having a limp. Their only photographs could be any man in Fez. The younger one, the Revolt’s strategist, was educated in Spain as a mine engineer—they were born to the Beni Urriaguel, whose land holds most of Morocco’s iron deposits. The elder brother—Mohammed, the Emir of the Rif Republic—worked as a Spanish journalist and native affairs officer until he was gaoled during the war—his limp is from an escape attempt. Both bear long witness to the insults, corruption, harassment, and general contempt with which the Spanish treat their Moroccan possession.
“And yet, if you’d told me five years ago that there would be a rebellion, I’d have wagered that it would have Sherif Raisuli at its head.”
Holmes stirred. “Raisuli as in ‘Perdicaris free or Raisuli dead’? Brutal and corrupt Raisuli, the last of the Barbary pirates? The man has made a career out of kidnapping Europeans—Perdicaris and Varley, Harris, Maclean. I wonder how much he’s made altogether from his various extortion schemes?”
“Raisuli lives in considerable luxury—more to the point, he pays his men well. But it’s not just ransoming prisoners, or selling them as slaves. The Sherif’s a master in the art of playing European countries against one another. During the War, he took German money to foment a tribal revolt against us. More recently, I’m told that he’s tried to collect their bounty on Abd el-Krim—the Germans are determined to get their iron mines back. He’s even made a couple of attempts on my life—he has his eye on the Moroccan throne. Claims to be of the blood.
“He’s given the Spanish merry hell for years, although of late he’s quieted down towards them—Abd el-Krim has forced him to choose sides. Given a choice between Spanish pesetas and the threat of an enemy’s Republic, Raisuli went with Spain.”
“Spain must have mixed feelings about that.”
“They can’t afford to be fastidious about their allies. The Sherif may be ruthless and corrupt, but to his followers he is blessed— baraka —and can do no wrong. Buying peace with him secures Spain’s western flank.”
“For the time.”
“True. As you say, for a pair of office workers, the brothers Abd el-Krim have proved unexpectedly adept at guerrilla tactics. No one but Raisuli has been able to resist them—and once they run out of Spaniards to pick off,
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