White Gold

by Giles Milton

  Another of the English captives, Thomas Meggison, begged that something be done to help him before the onset of winter, which he believed would kill many of his sick friends. “Our poor men are in a very miserable condition, God knowes, and dyes every day almost for want,” he wrote. “They will be starved this winter without God’s great mercy, and all nations is provided for but the poore English has noe assistance for their nation but a parcell of lyes and storys.”

  Meggison was right to fear the winter, which took its toll on men already weakened by sickness. At some point in early 1717, Thomas Pellow learned that his uncle was seriously ill with little hope that he would recover.

  A few days later, Thomas was brought the terrible news that Captain Pellow had died, “taken off by a violent flux.” He had survived some six months in captivity and had outlived four of the Francis’s seven-strong team. But the cruel regime and pitiful diet had weakened his already broken frame. When he also contracted dysentery, his body was unable to fight off the disease.

  The survivors were terrified that they would be next and wrote frantic letters to England, begging that something be done. But they feared that their cries for help were falling on deaf ears. “I believe all Christian people have forgotten us in England,” wrote John Willdon, “because they have not sent us any relief, never, since we have been in slavery.”

  Salé’s corsairs attacked with overwhelming firepower, before boarding enemy vessels. “With their heads shaved and armes almost naked, they did teryfie me exceedingly,” wrote one captive.

  Tangier’s English officers wore outlandish uniforms, which made them easy targets for Moroccan sharpshooters.

  Kaid Muhammad ben Haddu Ottur led an embassy to London in 1681. He treated his European slaves with contempt, greeting them with “God, roast your father.”

  Slaves were marched inland to Meknes. Those who died en route were decapitated; survivors were forced to carry the heads as proof that they hadn’t escaped. The slaves pictured here are British.

  The weekly slave market terrified new captives. The fittest men were fattened with extra rations in the days preceding their sale.

  Slaves were poked, prodded and subjected to a cheeky sales patter. “Behold what a strong man this is! What limbs he has!”

  Slaves were housed in matamores, or underground dungeons, that were “filthy, stinking and full of vermin.” Captives wore chains around one ankle.

  Sultan Moulay Ismail demanded absolute deference from both subjects and slaves. Anyone granted an audience had to fling himself into the dust at the sultan’s approach.

  A few slaves wrote letters to their loved ones, detailing the sufferings they endured. This letter, written by John Willdon in 1716, reveals that he was harnessed like a horse and forced to pull carts of lead.

  European impressions of Moulay Ismail. The sultan had hollow cheeks, fleshy lips and a forked beard. The engraving at bottom right is probably the most accurate.

  Slaves endured fifteen hours’ hard labor each day. Their grueling tasks included cutting stone and mixing pisé, an earth-and-lime cement.

  Slaves were treated with great cruelty, and public executions were commonplace.

  The sultan’s black guards were absolute masters of the European slaves. Reared from childhood in special schools, they were haughty and fiercely loyal.

  Torture of slaves was commonplace. The bastinado (bottom right) was widely practiced. The slave was held down and the soles of his feet were beaten until raw.

  6

  GUARDING THE CONCUBINES

  ON A BRIGHT spring morning in 1717, a pale-skinned gentleman could be seen strolling purposefully through Whitehall. He looked quite the dandy in his velvet cloak and gray-blond wig, yet his face betrayed an air of disquiet. Joseph Addison, one of the two secretaries of state for foreign affairs, was on his way to a crisis meeting of the cabinet. He and his fellow ministers were gathering to discuss one of the most intractable problems of the age.

  An increasing number of vessels were being captured by the Salé corsairs and there was no obvious way to curb the menace. The Constant John, the Desire, the Henry and Mary, the David, the Abigail, the Catherine, the George, the Sarah, the Endeavour, the Prosperous and the Union: all had been seized in recent months, and their captains and crews sent to Meknes in chains. Britain was being held to ransom—along with the rest of Europe—and something needed to be done.

  The recently crowned King George I had displayed a remarkable lack of interest in the plight of the British slaves in Meknes. The German-born ruler of Hanover had been offered the throne on the death of the childless Queen Anne. He spoke only broken English and had come to his new kingdom with great reluctance. “Our customs and laws were all mysteries to him,” wrote Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, “which he neither tried to understand nor was capable of understanding.”

  The king had caused quite a stir when he arrived in London three years earlier, accompanied by a vast retinue of German courtiers, including his prime minister, principal adviser and all his domestic staff. But what had particularly shocked the capital’s populace was the fact that his household included two Turkish advisers, Mehemet and Mustafa. George’s British ministers were also appalled that the king could place his trust in two “Muslims” —they had, in fact, converted to Christianity—and that one of them had been made keeper of the privy purse. Within months of the king installing himself in Whitehall Palace, he was the subject of vicious ballads and xenophobic ditties. He stood accused of bringing his Turks “for abominable purposes,” and his German entourage in order for them to line their pockets at Britain’s expense.

  Hither he brought the dear illustrious house

  That is, himself, his pipe, close stool and louse;

  Two Turks, three whores, and half a dozen nurses

  Five hundred Germans, all with empty purses.

  In the spring of 1717, King George I received a desperate petition from the wives and widows of Captain Pellow and the other enslaved mariners. They begged him to help win their release, wording their petition in highly emotional language. It called upon the king to tackle the crisis without further ado, and “most humbly beggs, implores and earnestly desire[s] a speedy reliefe to your afflicted subjects.” It also urged him to establish “a charitable contribution” for the slave widows, many of whom were destitute and at risk of starvation.

  The petition was presented to the king by Jezreel Jones, a clerk to the Royal Society. He warned that the British slaves were in a truly terrible condition and “ready to perish with extream want, hard labour, in a naked condition, severe strokes and disability to work.” But King George showed so little interest in the fate of the captives that Jones turned instead to the newly appointed secretary of state, Joseph Addison, whose responsibilities included British relations with southern Europe and the Mediterranean.

  Addison’s appointment to this post had surprised everyone. Although he had been a Member of Parliament since 1708, he had singularly failed to shine in the chamber. He had attempted just one speech in the House of Commons, but was so terrified by the cries of “Hear him! Hear him!” that he quickly returned to the benches. Yet he had a brilliant intellect and had long dazzled the capital’s intelligentsia with his essays in The Spectator, Tatler and Guardian. When the Whig grandee, James Stanhope, was appointed first lord of the treasury and chancellor of the exchequer in the spring of 1717, he offered Addison the post of secretary of state to the Southern Department.

  Addison had been fascinated by Morocco ever since he was a child. His father had served in the Tangier garrison, and the young Joseph had been brought up on fireside stories of life in the land of the Moors. Old Lancelot’s tales—which he had published in 1671—were darkly romantic and peppered with stories of gallant warlords. He warned that Moorish warriors were treacherous and “implacable in their hatred,” but he took a rather more charitable view of their delectable womenfolk, whom he found to be “well complexioned, full bodied and of good symmetry
,” hinting that he had tried to snatch a moment of intimacy with these beauties. But he had been prevented by their chary husbands, who “keep [them] in great subjection and retirement which makes adultery a stranger to their beds.”

  Joseph Addison was more interested in the character of Moulay Ismail, who intrigued and repulsed him in equal measure. In the year before he became secretary of state, he had written an essay on tyranny for The Freeholder. He cited Moulay Ismail as the very worst sort of ruler and compared his brutal despotism with Britain’s enlightened parliamentary government. The sultan’s subjects, he wrote, lived in constant fear of his unpredictable outbursts and were required to display absolute subjugation whenever they were in his presence. Even his advisers were unable to express their views openly. Addison said the sultan was accustomed to conducting his affairs while “mounted on horseback in an open court, with several of his kaids, or governors, about him, standing barefoot, trembling, bowing to the earth, and at every word he spoke, breaking out into passionate exclamations of praise.”

  In the same essay, Addison informed his readers that Moulay Ismail was forcing his Christian slaves to construct a pleasure palace on a truly monumental scale. He said that he was using “many thousands in works of that kind,” and added that “it was usual for him to show the delicacy of his taste by demolishing the building and putting to death all that had a hand in it.”

  Addison had spent much time reflecting on how best to proceed with Moulay Ismail. All previous attempts to deal with the sultan had ended in failure, and it was clear that there was no obvious solution to the crisis. Just a few months earlier, Admiral Charles Cornwall had been sent to Morocco with orders to “demand satisfaction” for the depredations of the Salé corsairs and “procure the release of all His Majesty’s subjects now captive in Barbary.” Admiral Cornwall had presented this demand to the sultan, who replied that his only desire was to establish “a lasting and profound peace between the two crowns.” Yet he declined to release any of his slaves, and Cornwall had responded by attempting to blockade the principal ports of Morocco. Although ineffectual, it was still in force when Addison attended the crisis meeting of the cabinet on 31 May 1717.

  Addison had come well prepared. He was clutching a document entitled “State of Barbary Affairs,” which contained much information on how best to proceed with the sultan. The secretary of state believed that blockading Morocco’s ports was not the answer. Although Admiral Cornwall had captured several corsair vessels, he had singularly failed to free any slaves. Indeed, his blockade had given the Moroccan sultan so little cause for concern that Addison said, “it is to be question’d wether Moulay Ismail is thoroughly appriz’d of the loss of his vessels.”

  The secretary of state believed that the sultan was unlikely to negotiate the release of any slaves unless an ambassador was sent to the imperial capital. Moulay Ismail himself had admitted as much in a letter to Admiral Cornwall, saying that he was tired of conducting negotiations from a distance. “This is not the way you can achieve anything with me,” he wrote. “If you have the will to speak with me, and have something to ask of me, then may you come to my High Palace of God.” He had added, with haughty disdain, that “I, Servant of God, cannot talk with you by post and letters.”

  Addison told his colleagues that it was imperative for an accredited ambassador to be sent to Morocco without delay. “The English captives will not be sett att liberty unless some minister goes to Meknes with a handsome present for the emperor, and bribes for his favourites.” Yet he knew that there was a real risk attached to sending a high-ranking ambassador to Meknes. Moulay Ismail treated visiting envoys with contempt, and Addison had been appalled by stories told by previous ambassadors. When one of France’s emissaries had been granted an audience, the sultan had “received him in robes just stained with an execution … [and] was blooded up to his elbows by a couple of Moors, whom he had been butchering with his own imperial hands.”

  Addison realized that the prospect of such humiliating treatment was unlikely to persuade the cabinet to dispatch an ambassador. He admitted that “the objections made against sending a minister to Meknes are the dangers of his being detain’d, the expence, and the little dependence that is to be had on any treaty made with the Moors.” Yet he urged the cabinet to agree to such a course of action, in spite of the risks. Someone had to be sent into the lion’s den, and the secretary of state argued that “one man would be very well sacrific’d for the prospect of redeeming so many of his countrymen.”

  Addison’s presentation of the crisis led to a lengthy debate. His fellow ministers considered the costs of sending an ambassador and weighed the expenses of maintaining Admiral Cornwall’s fleet. They also looked into the benefits of a peace treaty with Morocco, which could lead to the opening of a new market for England’s wool exports. Eventually, Addison’s performance in cabinet won the day. His fellow ministers conceded to his demands, and the delighted secretary of state noted on his agenda: “one to be sent to Meknes.”

  The man chosen to lead the mission was Coninsby Norbury, one of the captains of Cornwall’s fleet. A most inappropriate choice for such a delicate mission, he was arrogant and contumacious, as well as having the uncanny ability to cause offense wherever he went. How he came to be selected remains unclear. It is quite possible that none of his colleagues was willing to risk their lives on a visit to Meknes, and that Norbury was the only volunteer. Within hours of being rowed ashore at Tetouan, in northern Morocco, he managed to insult several of Moulay Ismail’s most important officials. Chief among these was Kaid Ahmed ben Ali ben Abdala, the sultan’s principal commander in chief.

  Kaid Ahmed was accustomed to being treated with deference, especially by European emissaries. But Captain Norbury had no intention of abasing himself before the kaid. Indeed, he behaved with such an air of disdain that the kaid sent a complaint to the king’s ministers in London. Its Arabic script was promptly translated and circulated among the cabinet. “On Captain Norbury’s arrivall,” wrote the kaid, “I went to the seaside accompanied by a thousand people to meet him, ordering a tent to be pitched for the said captain and another for myself, in order to receive him with all tokens of friendship.” Kaid Ahmed relished the pageantry of an official visit, but quickly discovered that this particular embassy was to be rather different from most. “I was surprised to see him [Norbury] in a passion about the form of his reception,” he wrote, “thinking the ceremony was not attended with sufficient submission.” Norbury sniffed haughtily, expressed his displeasure and “turn’d his backside to me and so return’d to his tent.”

  This was a grave insult, and the kaid was deeply offended. He claimed to have done everything in his power to receive Captain Norbury with all due splendor and to have provided the English retinue with the finest horses in the area. Yet when he had asked to cast his eye over the presents Norbury had brought for Moulay Ismail, he was met with a blank refusal. “He refus’d it,” wrote the kaid, “saying nobody should see it till he came to Meknes.” Kaid Ahmed was exasperated, but was prepared to let the offense pass. He attributed Norbury’s snub to “bad pollicy and ill councill,” yet he could not help noting that “from the very beginning, till the day he left Meknes, he endeavoured to have piques and differences, not only with me on frivilous matters, but with the ministers there.”

  Kaid Ahmed accompanied Captain Norbury to the imperial capital and presented him to the sultan. Moulay Ismail was courteous at the first meeting, for he was looking forward to receiving his gifts, but the British captain was brusque to the point of rudeness. “[He] demanded the slaves, saying that without them he’d make no peace, and would blockade all their sea-ports and destroy their commerce, with other threats of that kind.”

  Norbury brushed aside complaints that he had breached courtly protocol. Indeed, he may well have argued that criticisms about his behavior were deeply hypocritical, since Moulay Ismail and his ministers were constantly breaching the peace accords they had signed. The sul
tan was disgusted by Norbury’s lack of respect, but the captain was not yet finished. Incensed that the sultan was holding so many of his countrymen as slaves, he began shouting and “stamping on the ground three or four times before the emperor.” When Moulay Ismail attempted to calm him, Captain Norbury blurted out, “‘good damn you,’ which the courtiers understood.”

  Thomas Pellow was witness to this extraordinary incident and reported that Captain Norbury’s behavior “put his majesty into an excessive passion.” The sultan was so furious that he lashed out at those who were closest to him. “Many of the people about him bore the marks of his sword, lance or short sticks,” added Pellow. “The face and arms of the negro who carried his umbrella when Captain Norbury was there was scarred all over with cuts that the emperor had given him.”

  Whether or not Moulay Ismail intended to release his British slaves is not known, but he was certainly in no mood to free them after Norbury’s arrogant display. He informed the captain “that he had behav’d himself very ill” and added “that strangers ought not to endeavour to gain the disgust of the people where they are.” One of the sultan’s courtiers, Kaid Abdala, blamed the failure of the British mission squarely on Captain Norbury. “If the said captain had behav’d himself as he ought to have done,” he wrote, “ … he might have acquir’d what he desir’d.” In the event, his overweening “avarice and covertousness” caused his mission to fail. Norbury was escorted empty-handed back to Tetouan and shortly afterward rejoined Admiral Cornwall’s fleet.