# The Red Book Magazine/Volume 17/Number 2/The Correspondents' Conspiracy

from The Red Book Magazine, June 1911, pp. 290–299.
How it saved Morocco
The Correspondents' Conspiracy
BY ALBERT EDWARDS AND GEORGE E. HOLT
ILLUSTRATED BY E. ROSCOE SHRADER
It was a meeting of The Tangier Kipling Club. Forman threw down the book with a bang which rattled the glasses and upset the soda-bottle. He had come to the end of the Ballad and needed no text for the refrain.
“Altogether,” he said. The five men roared out in unison:
   For East is East and West is West and never the twain shall meet
   Till East and West together stand at God's great judgment seat.
   But there is neither East nor West, border nor breed nor birth,
   When two strong men stand face to face though they come from the ends of the Earth.
They had gathered in Chance's rooms at the Hotel Sevilla for a special session, to celebrate the arrival of Sinclair. From the utter wilds of The South Country he had come back to the semi-civilization of Tangier. He was the oldest of the five men, the founder of the club. He had an Oxford degree, was a philosopher, poet and student. He was one of the three Europeans who knew the Shilhah tongue of The Great Atlas. He had invented an alphabet for this hitherto unwritten language. For twenty years he had been the Morocco correspondent of The Westminster Gazette. And there is a great English diplomat who owes all he is to Sinclair.
Years ago this great man, then a youngster just beginning his career, was stationed at Tangier. He made a stupid blunder. He forbade the religious dances of the Aiswáià sect. For an hour or more the situation was critical. The fanatical Anghera tribesmen left their plows in the furrows and gathered on the brown hills which pile up back of Tangier. It looked for a while as if the handful of Europeans would be massacred before the gunboats, racing across from Gibraltar, could arrive.
Sinclair rode out alone into the hills, and—God only knows how—held the Kabyles in check till he saw the nose of a British war-ship rounding the cape, into the harbor. Then he rode back—so hard that his horse dropped before the Legation gate. He found the young ambassador, out on the verandah, thanking Heaven that help had come in time.
“Good work, my boy, good work!” he said to Sinclair. “A soldier would get the V. C. for this. Now, we'll give the gun-boats a chance, A few lydite shells—”
He did not finish, for he was looking down the barrel of Sinclair's revolver.
“Your excellency,”—Sinclair's voice is suave when he is in earnest—“I gave my word, that if they kept quiet there would be no trouble. They're dispersing now. Give them time! Afterwards you can hang me. I don't care. But give them time! You understand, Your Excellency—I gave my word.”
The tropical sun glinted off the muzzle of Sinclair's revolver. The Ambassador blinked his eyes. Then suddenly his ambassadorial dignity wilted.
At Sinclair's dictation a soldier wigwagged a message out to the gunboat: “On no account open fire unless ordered.”
“Now, Your Excellency,” Sinclair said, “We'll go up on the roof and watch the tribesmen. When they are out of sight, I will surrender my revolver.”
What happened between them, up there on the roof, nobody knows. Naturally His Excellency did not tell and Sinclair has never mentioned the affair. But one of the Moorish servants who guard the Legation saw and overheard what happened on the verandah. He gave it out to the mysterious Native News Agency, that wireless system by which word comes down from Fez eight hours before the government runners. And because all the Moors in Morocco know the story, Sinclair can travel anywhere in The Empire.
When Sinclair is not wiring his paper, or writing ethnological essays on. The Berber Tribes, or controlling the fate of Europe over his revolver—he drinks, drinks “White Horse,” the fluid which passes for whiskey in Tangier. On the label of the squat bottle is the coat of arms of Great Britain and the assurance that His Majesty drinks “White Horse.” Although Sinclair consumes immense quantities of this liquid—from which God save The King—he not only has been, but is, a gentleman.
The other men were the same type, all of them, gamblers in what they called The Great Game. Even Blake, the youngest of them, could tell stories. He had followed the Russian army in Manchuria for Reuters. Chance had gone in to Pekin with the Allies. The biggest journalistic trick of the decade, newspaper men agreed. On his way home from the Orient, he had come over to Tangier from “Gib” and had stayed. Nobody knew why: he said he liked the country. But the lives of these men, as their apostle, Kipling, would say, are another story.
It was Sinclair's turn to contribute, but instead of reciting his favorite—“The Sestina of the Tramp Royal”—he took an extra strong spill out of the bottle of White Horse.
“I hate to break into this poetical debauch,” he said, “but I'm not in the Kipling mood. You see I've just come from the inside where there isn't any news—”
“Where there's nothing but news,” Blake interrupted.
“And I want to know what's been happening here in Tangier,” Sinclair went on. “I'd like to know what the Club's judgment is on our Sultan Abdul-Aziz.”
“A bloody rotter!” said Benton, emphatically. “Sold out absolutely. The worst traitor in history—handing his country over, tied and gagged, to France.”
“Dope.” So Blake expressed his judgment. “A fat-head; hasn't brains enough to be a big traitor. Gone dippy over the automobiles and grand pianos—the women and other toys the French are giving him. They are playing with him; pouring booze into him and getting ready to stick a knife into his back when he's drunk.”
“I frame him up as a cynic,” Forman said thoughtfully. “He isn't anybody's fool. He knows what he's up against. The smash-up of Morocco is written in The Book. He knows he can't stop it. The French have the drop on him. So he says, “Apres moi, le deluge'—'A short life and a merry one for mine.' And meanwhile he salts away all the money he lays hands on in London banks. He isn't a fool.”
“Chance?” Sinclair asked.
Chance lit his pipe before he answered.
“To me it doesn't seem to matter much whether Abdul-Aziz is a crook or a cynic. He's French! That's sure. He's Sultan of Morocco and belongs absolutely to Morocco's worst enemy. He's French—hang him!”
“Right you are,” nodded Benton. “What worse can you say? He's French!”
Sinclair jerked his chair nearer the table.
“Glad to hear you chaps talk like that. Draw up. Here's a scheme.”
For five minutes he talked in the smooth voice he had used years ago to his Ambassador in short, curt sentences—the style one uses when cabling at a dollar a word. Then he stopped abruptly and filled his glass. It was Blake, the youngster, who spoke first.
“It's a mean trick to play on the unsuspecting companies that insured our lives.”
Nobody contradicted him. Then Chance got up from his chair slowly. He stared down at a fly struggling in the White Horse.
“It's the Great Game,” he said. “Yes. Hanging on a stray bullet. What is written in The Book must be. But it's just the chance I've been looking for. I wont do much more in this incarnation that's worth while. This pleases me! As a civilized man, to enter my little protest against these damned French, who come down here lying and murdering—in the name of civilization! I'm on. Shake!” He grasped Sinclair's hand. “But with you other fellows it's different. You're younger, perhaps there are people who care.”
“Oh!” Blake interrupted. “Cut it out. It suits me down to the ground.”
“If you think you're going to keep us out of this, Chance,” Forman put in, speaking for himself and Benton, “Well—guess again!”
“Right ho!” Sinclair said. “Hurrah for the Kipling Club! Let's drink a little toast; then Chance and I'll go over to see the old man.”
When the glasses were filled they all turned to Sinclair. He was a man who took his toasts seriously. He handled his glass a moment thoughtfully.
“We're most of us old—and we're none of us good. But we love this 'Twilight Land.' We'll keep the French out while we live. To Morocco—and damn the French! Come on, Chance.”
An old man, bald headed, with ferociously upturned mustaches, tapped his eye-glasses on his knee and pondered. The shaded light on his table fell full on the American and Englishman, Chance and Sinclair. His own face was in the shadow—for he was a wise old man.
They came to a wall and a heavily studded wooden gate
“Do you gentlemen realize”—his hard gray eyes glowed threateningly—“the gravity of the game you are playing? Do you realize that one ill-advised word might set all the armies of Europe in action? Your scheme might easily—but I suppose you do realize—you ought to. There are so many possibilities—serious possibilities.”
“I can't foresee any possibility, Your Excellency,' Chance interrupted, “which would not work out to the benefit of your country!”
“Humph!” the old man snorted, “I can.” And then he went on in an irritated tone. “In the name of Heaven, what persuaded you to come to me with such an irresponsible scheme? You must know I could not bind my Sovereign to any such hair-brained proceeding.”
“We didn't expect official endorsement, Your Excellency. We simply tell you what we're going to do. It will—I am sure—interest your government. They may instruct you to aid the movement. You know where you can find me. Good-night.”
The two visitors rose.
“Wait,” the old man said. “Sit down.”
For three minutes or more he twirled his eye-glasses; then, his mind made up, he spoke with decision.
“I cannot encourage you. Nor can I prevent you. That is my official answer. Privately—I think you will admit I have always treated you gentlemen of the press courteously, given you what news I could. I will be glad if you keep me informed. Of course I cable my government everything of importance which happens here. What they will do when they hear of your scheme, I can only guess. Probably they will laugh. But there is just a chance that if you succeed in some of the smaller towns—Al K'sar or Tetuan for instance—they might regard the matter more seriously. You are acting on your own responsibility; I can give you no encouragement. But, as I said, I shall appreciate it if you keep me informed. Good-night.”
Five days later Tangier was excited. Late at night the city was still awake. Chance stood on the balcony before his room and looked out at the glory of the moonlight, silvering the ancient walls of the Kosbah on the hill above the bay. The ordinary noises of the night were drowned in a harsh rasping murmur, which came up from the restless streets, from the thousand flat roofs, from the still open Moorish cafes—it was the mingling of countless whispered conversations in guttural Arabic. An attaché of the French Legation galloped noisily across the cobblestones of the Socco Grande, at Chance's feet. A group of Europeans rushed out of the hotel to hail him for news. But he was in too great a hurry to stop. There were lights in all the windows of the French Legation. But Chance's eye, trained to note the salient detail, watched the flag-pole, where a little electric light flashed nervously the dots and dashes of the telegraphic alphabet. Suddenly it stopped and Chance looked down to the Bay. A light on the foremast of the cruiser Le Quatre Séptembre was flickering back an answer. He could not interpret the message, for it was in a secret code, but he knew very well what it was all about. An hour before, he had put his despatches on the wire.
Tetuan had that day proclaimed Mulai el-Hafid. The city had disowned the French Sultan Abdul-Aziz, and declared that Hafid, his brother and a true Moor, should reign in his stead. Further, the citizens had sent a ribald message to El Guelbas, War Minister to Abdul-Aziz, reproaching him for his French sympathies and saying that if he cared to visit Tetuan they would boil him in their choicest olive-oil. This was the news which was keeping Tangier awake.
It was momentous news. France's dream of a North African Empire depended on keeping Abdul-Aziz on the throne. It was only in his name that her army could march to suppress the forces of Mulai el-Hafid. So far,the Pretender's power had been limited to the Berber Tribes of the South. Tetuan was a Northern city, less than forty miles from Tangier.
This news was the cause of the city's whispering wakefulness. It was this news which had sent the French attaché galloping across the Socco, which had lighted all the windows of the Legation, which was the subject of the cipher message flashed through the night to the cruiser in the harbor.
Gradually the city fell asleep. The hum of voices slackened and ceased. The moon sank down towards Djibel Kebir, its mystic sheen giving a certain beauty for once, to the ugly European houses on the Marshan. Somewhere in the city a water carrier tinkled his brass bell. Now and then a camel snorted in the Socco or a forlorn dog barked. Even the signal-light on the French Legation ceased to flicker.
But still Chance waited on the balcony. At last his patience was rewarded. He heard the faint click-click-click of a distant donkey-engine. As he had expected—Le Quatre Séptembre was lifting anchor. He winked up at the moon and went to his room—contented. His typewriter began to buzz. “After long signalling with Legation, French cruiser 4 Septembre leaves harbor. Destination unknown. Probably patrol coast Tetuan.” He had to make five copies in different phrases and sign his friends' names. For it was not expedient that their absence from town should be known.
It was after three o'clock when the runner brought Blake's message Chance was to have little sleep that night. For even as he sent off his boy to the Eastern Telegraph Company's office with the dispatches and was turning to his bed, a brown skinned, half naked runner was panting up the long slope of the last hill which separates Tangier from Al K'sar. He bore a message from Blake.
Three nights before, Sinclair and Blake, after a second hard day's ride, had stopped their horses at the top of a slight rise. Overhead, long plumes of clouds were just fading; the colors had softened, all except one splash of glowing orange to the West. On all sides, stretched endlessly gently rolling country—a desolate brown sea of little hills. The trail stretched out before them, down the slope, past a hummock of rocks—on, on to the horizon. Although it was the Fez Road, the main commercial route of the Empire, there was no traffic in sight.
“Beyond that next rise is Al K'sar,” Sinclair said.
In the gathering dusk they pushed on. They had not gone a hundred yards when there was a flash from the rocks before them, the sputtering pop of a smooth bore musket and above their heads the sob of a round, uncertain bullet.
“Just like the beggars,” Blake growled, reaching for the rifle which hung from his saddle horn. “Wait till it's too dark to get a sight before they open the ball.”
“Put up your gun,” Sinclair said. “Glad to see they've got pickets out. It shows they are expecting trouble and are ready for action. Follow me slowly.”
Alone, he trotted forward, calling out a salutation in Arabic. A Moor clad in a brown jillab, almost invisible against the brown stones, came out to meet him.
“I am the Englishman you call Ben Clari,” Sinclair said in Arabic. At a call from the Moor a boy of fifteen came clambering down over the rocks, carrying two long, cumbersome rifles. He ran to help Blake dismount.
Sinclair cut the salutation short, for he knew the picket to be a retainer of the man he sought. He spoke with authority.
“You must take my friend to Hadje Hassan. Tell him that what my friend says, I say. I carry the same words to Fez. I will take your horse, for mine is tired.”
The Moor hesitated.
“Sidi,” he said, “Hadje Hassan would be better pleased if I sent the boy with your friend and rode myself with you. The way is dangerous for a Christian—even for you.”
“No! Change the saddles. The boy must stay to watch the road.”
“It is dangerous,” the picket insisted.
“It is necessary. Change the saddles.”
Blake and Sinclair stretched their legs and smoked in silence, until the horses were ready.
“So long, Blake. See you in Tangier.”
And Sinclair clattered down the trail toward Fez.
“Sidi Ben Clari is a brave man,” the Moor said.
“Yes,” Blake agreed as he climbed again onto his tired horse. And to himself he repeated the cadence of Forman's favorite ballad—“though they come from the ends of the earth.”
Half a mile before the city they turned off into a by-path between dense hedges of giant cacti. Then they came to a wall and a heavily studded wooden gate. Within was a cobblestone court-yard, fantastically lit by flickering lanterns. Blake followed his guide, past a group of curious servants, into a room bare of all furniture except low divans; there he found Hadje Hassan. The old man's hair was white, but there were still streaks of black in his great beard. His flowing clothes also were all white. Two months before he had been Basha of an important province. But he opposed the encroachments of the French, and Abdul-Aziz had thrown him out in disgrace.
“You come from Ben Clari—you are welcome.” And he waved his hand that the attendants should withdraw.
“The time has come,” said Blake. “That is Ben Clari's message. It is time for the North to proclaim Mulai el-Hafid. It is even as he told you when he stopped here on his way North. The whole country waits for someone to begin. Ben Clari has seen the men from Tetuan—they will declare to-morrow.”
“You are sure of Tetuan?”
“Si Mohammed Akbar has promised. They rely on you.”
The old man pulled his beard a minute in silence.
“It is well,” he said. “To-morrow we will talk it over with Si Raman el-Musa.”
“But why not to-night?”
Hadje Hassan's eyes twinkled with amusement,
“You foreigners are all alike—always hurry. You are tired but you will not rest. In your prayers I suppose you ask Allah to hurry.”
But he called his servants and putting on his heavy outdoor jillab, ordered the horses. He sent messengers to summon two more of his friends and within half an hour, the five men were drinking tea and plotting busily in the house of el-Musa.
As soon as the gates of Al K'sar were opened, they rode in. And from the roof of a house next to the Grand Mosque, Blake watched the results of his night's work.
The first sign came a little after ten, when a sudden silence fell on the street of the brass-smiths. Even the apprentices stopped their hammering. The cobblers left their lasts, the carpenters laid down their tools, the wheels of the potters ceased to spin. Silently, in twos and threes, the men of the city made their way to the Mosque. Through the open windows, Blake heard the noise of many men praying aloud. But it was not as sustained a clamor as usual; often it almost died out, to rise again irregularly. At last, in one of these hushes, he heard the voice of Hadje Hassan praying alone.
“And may the protection of Allah—the Great, the Merciful, the Praiseworthy—rest on Mulai el-Hafid—Sultan of Morocco.”
“The 'bassador is sleep. No dare to wake him” Again the clamor of universal prayer rose. The voice of Hadje Hassan was drowned; the men of the city had taken up his prayer. A solitary figure rushed out of the Mosque; so great was his hurry he had forgotten his slippers. Putting his hands to his mouth, like a muezzin calling to prayers, he roared out:—“Mulai el-Hafid is proclaimed in the Mosque.” Before he had finished his cry, two other Moors shot out of the door. Then they came in a torrent, rushing out like a flood from a broken dam. They embraced and kissed and pounded each other—yelling frantically the name of Mulai el-Hafid, the man who was to save Morocco from the Infidels.
The Square before the Mosque was a sea of upturned, yelling faces and waving arms. The roofs swarmed with women. Instantly flags appeared. Those who had it, displayed the red flag of the Empire—but any bright color served as well. The women on the roofs hung out streamers of yellow and purple and green and threw down their gorgeous scarfs and head-dresses to the men below. A procession started. With Hadje Hassan at their head, the people carried their rejoicing through all the crooked streets of the city. A new Sultan reigned in Morocco. Al K'sar with ten thousand tongues was proclaiming the news.
It was after three o'clock in the morning when the runner brought Blake's message to Chance. Again the typewriter began to buzz.
“Al K'sar, seventy-five miles south of Tangier, proclaims Hafid. French officers prisoners. M'toogi has fled. Thousand Hafid horsemen near city. People shouting for new Sultan.”
When he had sent off his dispatches, Chance walked across the Socco to a white archway and after kicking for a while aroused a Legation soldier.
“Give my card to the Ambassador,” he said.
“But no, Sidi. The 'bassador, he is sleep. No dare to him wake,” the native objected, rubbing his sleepy eyes.
In fluent and forceful Arabic, Chance told him unpleasant things about his ancestors until at last he took in the card. In a moment he came back, surprise having driven away his sleepiness. Salaaming deeply he said that the 'bassador had gotten out of bed.
In the library Chance found the old man with bristling mustaches, draped in a gorgeous Japanese dressing-gown.
“I've just put this dispatch on the wire, Your Excellency,” Chance told him,
The old man adjusted his glasses and read it carefully.
“So? Is it confirmed?”
“Absolutely. Have you any word from your government?”
“No—only of course they are following events closely. This will interest them. I must say your friends have been very successful so far. I hope none of them will lose their lives. I am very much obliged to you for bringing me this news.”
During the next few days Chance was exceedingly busy. It is no easy thing for one man to satisfy two great news agencies and three daily papers in a time of international crisis. And gradually as hour after hour went by and there was no news from his friends in the interior, he began to worry.
The third night—suspense had grown too acute for sleep—a knock at the door caused him to upset his glass of White Horse. His chair fell over as he jumped to open the door.
“Allah helps us,” a Moor panted heavily. “Si Mohammed Fargi has just reached our camp from Laraiche—he could run no further. The revolt at Al K'sar has spread to Laraiche. Mulai el-Hafid has been proclaimed. The tribes are excited—all for el-Hafid. They are up from Laraiche to Al K'sar, from Al K'sar to Tetuan. Tangier is cut off from the interior. A belt no enemy can pass.”
“Good,” said Chance, “bring Si Mohammed as soon as he is rested. I must see him.”
And then locking his door, he went out on the balcony to smoke. The city was asleep, calm under the moon.
“You'll wake up when you hear this news,” Chance said to the city; and then to himself: “Well, you're not falling down on this assignment, old boys—Forman, Blake, Benton. Tetuan, Al K'sar, Laraiche! Winning out? Sure! We've already won. Sinclair wont trip up. I guess I'll go in and drink a solitary toast to them all—to them and Morocco.”
Once more Chance sat in the office of the old gentleman with upturned mustaches.
“Is this news from Laraiche enough?” he asked. “Have we delivered the goods? Or do you need any more proof that Abdul-Aziz is a bad bet?”
“Yes,” the old man said, “you have proved your point. It is wonderful. How did you do it?”
“It was easy. Everybody hates the French and Abdul-Aziz hasn't a dozen real friends in the country. Mulai el-Hafid is a man after the people's heart, he reminds them of his father el-Hassan. It only needed a little noise and—the wall of Jericho tumbled.”
“There is another question, a delicate one. Why did you do it? To use your American slang—you know I used to be stationed at Washington—what do you get out of it?”
The lines about Chance's face tightened for an instant, then relaxed. Laboriously and solemnly he crossed his knees.
“I don't know how I can answer that so Your Excellency will understand. We're not getting anything out of it—the way you mean. We—well—we sort of like Morocco. We're likely to live here what's left of our lives. And—well—we don't like the French. We prefer the dancing of the Aiswáià to the Can-can. We would rather be wakened by the Call to Prayer than by bugles. Personally I prefer a man who knows how to die, to a man who knows how to read. It isn't anything but rank selfishness, I suppose, but we like Morocco—as she is—and we're willing to take a few chances to protect her from France's indecent assault.”
“Those are sentiments one doesn't expect to find in journalists.”
“They are sentiments, Your Excellency, I couldn't expect a diplomat to understand.”
The old man threw back his head and laughed heartily.
“That was a good thrust, I deserve it. But we must not quarrel. You will understand, I had, for the sake of my government, to find out if you had a price. Despite my profession, I can understand men who have none. And I have news for you. You must get this message, by secret sources, to Mulai el-Hafid himself: if all Morocco declares for him, my government will recognize him. I think you will agree that if we take the lead, all the other powers—including France—will follow us. The Act of Algeciras deputed to France and Spain joint police power to assist the Sultan in maintaining order. Not Abdul-Aziz, but the Sultan—whoever he is. If Mulai el-Hafid becomes Sultan, then France must work in his name. But first Fez must be the city to fall in line.”
“We'll have the news in three or four days.”
“I hope so.”
“It will knock a horrible hole in France's dream of a North African Empire,” Chance put in.
The old man did not reply to this. But he got up suddenly and turned his back on his visitor—to hide the gleam of triumph in his eyes.
“When the news does come,” he said when his face was composed, “I will be glad to shake hands with your friends. I—who have been here only a short time—am beginning to share your love for Morocco. We'll drink together and then forget this incident.”
It came like a hurricane. The news rushed up from the South like the shurgy which blows down from the Anghera Hills.
“Fez has declared! Fez has declared! The Ulema and the people proclaim Mulai el-Hafid. The renegade mussulman, who wears the Christian cross of the French, is deposed. It is the end of the foreigner's Sultan. Mulai el-Hafid rides under The White Umbrella. Fez has declared.”
But the first travel-wearied courier who brought the news did not go to the Legations nor to the Moorish authorities, but to Chance who sat alone in his room with the White Horse and waited. He sent the news across the Socco to the white haired old gentleman with upturned mustaches. That astute individual read it and smiled and sent back the answer.
“It is finished.”
It was three nights later. Chance was speaking.
“He's sure to get in soon. A courier brought word that he slept last night in Er Rrakeya. He's with the tribes that know him now. To tell God's own truth, I never expected we'd all pull through—Hello, Old Horse. How are you?”
Sinclair stood in the door—a bit more haggard than usual, a bit more worn—but with the same old look of indifference, the same skill in hiding his emotions which is the heritage of his race. Benton, belonging to the same race, gripped his hand silently. Chance and Blake and Forman pounded him on the back—laughing, jerking out foolish meaningless sentences, because the joy in their hearts could find no sane words.
There was something ceremonial in the way Chance poured out the White Horse, in the way Blake filled up the glasses with soda. Something reverent in the way these five players of The Great Game stood around and drank to—
“Morocco!”
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1930.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1950, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 74 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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