42

Peace Be Upon You

They rose before dawn and slowly helped each other’s battered bodies get up into the saddles. The line of riders plodded away from the sky lightening in the east and toward Marrakech. Woodgerd had suggested a circuitous route, to foil any pursuers. But Sokhoor pointed out that all of them were wounded and needed medicine, and that two of their number—one of whom was Wake—were critically hurt. Time, he said, was of the essence. So they stayed on the main track northwest, everyone gazing at the horizon and expecting the enemy to attack at any time.

Wake, empty of strength, dehydrated and without any more hashish, willed himself to keep going, a mile at a time through the dust haze and suffocating heat. That night, as he shuddered in the cold and watched the woman he had almost fallen for that night at the castle in Porto Fino curl up with her husband near the campfire, he thought of Florida and his own family. He slid into sleep and reveled in the cool ocean breezes of his past, his dream taking him back to stolen nights with Linda at Useppa Island.

Seeing his friend’s expression, Rork told Woodgerd and Sokhoor that Wake’s mind was likely far away in a nicer place with the woman he loved. The scholar said that was the very best medicine.

The next day they neared the southwest gate of the city at Bab al-Ahmar. While still some miles away, Sokhoor hailed a man from among the gawkers who had gathered around staring at the bloodied column of foreigners and told him to take a message to the Kasbah of Abdel Aziz, Pasha of Marrakech. Sokhoor told the man to say to the officer of the guard that Mu’ al-Lim Sokhoor, Vizier al Hassan, SulTaan al-Maghrib, was entering the city and required assistance immediately.

“We will have help soon, God willing, my friends. This time we will be entering the city officially, as the envoys of the great sultan of Morocco, and our reception will be far different. Our danger is over now,” the scholar told his companions as the walls came into view, with the great minaret towering above.

An hour later, after threading their horses through the growing throng of curious onlookers, they arrived at the giant gate, just as a troop of imperial cavalry lancers came thundering out and whirled from a column to line abreast, rearing their horses. The wild-eyed commander trotted up to Sokhoor and waved his right hand with a flourish, proclaiming loudly the gratitude of Pasha Abdel Aziz of Marrakech for the safe return of Mu’al’Lim Sokhoor, the Grand Vizier of the Sultan of the People of Morocco, Hassan the Beloved, Lion of the Atlas, and Protector of the Faithful. The procession proceeded into the city, a no-nonsense lancer beside each survivor to steady them and shoo away the curious.

Wake was glad for the cool shadows in the city and concentrated on not falling out of the saddle, for he wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold on. The wounds were leaking and each jolt opened them up further. They rode past the Jewish Mella and the crashing salute of guards into the ancient Kasbah of the city’s pasha, where non-Muslims were rarely permitted.

Abdel Aziz personally greeted them in the courtyard, snapping out commands to minions while grooms held the bridles. Some of the survivors fell off of their horses into the arms of servants. Wake was gently helped down to a chair, then carried inside on the shoulders of four men. Rork got the same treatment, managing a grin and “nicely done, lads,” as he was taken, by Sokhoor’s direction, to the same room.

Sokhoor then examined Wake in detail, nonchalantly explaining that he had studied medicine at the university in Damascus under the great Islamic physicians. After an hour of probing and palpating he announced the bullet had entered between the fourth and fifth rib, creased the right lung—by the grace of Allah it missed the heart and aorta—and exited between the third and fourth rib in the right posterior quadrant. There would be no surgery if there was no great inflammation, and Wake would definitely heal.

Wake’s eyesight and hearing returned and three days of rest and attention by Sokhoor, assisted by the pasha’s personal physician, enabled Wake to have the strength to stand. Every movement caused sharp pain as he walked the passageways in the Kasbah, determined to regain his mobility. During these days attendants bathed his wounds frequently, alert to signs of a dreaded mortal infection, but none appeared.

The following day he was greatly curious, for Sokhoor mentioned, as an aside during a conversation, that the vizier of Marrakech, cousin and covert supporter of Falah, had died abruptly of unusual causes. It seemed his heart had somehow “failed.” The mansion and grounds were immediately seized by the Pasha of Marrakech, looted of anything of value, and the twenty-four concubines, four wives, and dozens of children were expelled and told to head east into the desert. When asked for details, Sokhoor simply shrugged his shoulders and said it was God’s will and man’s mystery.

Messages arrived from Sultan Hassan that was he coming to make sure all was as well as possible, and at the end of the first week, the survivors were assembled in the main durhbar, or meeting hall, of Hassan’s personal palace in Marrakech. It was even more opulent than the palace at Rabat, the senses enchanted by lush fabrics, delicate perfumes, quaint stringed music, exquisite mosaics, and the most attentive servants Wake had ever seen. The former hostages were allowed the unheard-of honor of sitting down in audience before the great sultan, arranged in two rows of chairs.

Hassan, robed in golden silk, sat on a raised throne of cedar wood. Translated by a monotoned courtier, he was solicitous regarding the well-being of the missionaries, inquiring as to their comfort in detail. He apologized that this tragedy should have happened within his kingdom and the land of Islam. Then he edged forward, his tone softened as he looked into their eyes.

“I know that Mu’al-lim Sokhoor, my personal vizier, scholar, and emissary, has explained to each of you that the people who attacked you are not of our faith. You must know that we of Islam respect the People of the Book, Christians and Jews, as we respect ourselves. And that the teaching of our blessed Prophet, Mohammed, my direct ancestor and guiding spiritual mentor, expressly prohibits such actions as those which the devil’s animals had done to you, and others before you. The ShayTaan Taalib are not of any faith, but are followers of that monster of death, the Devil.”

Hassan straightened in the throne, his voice rising. “The remnants are being hunted down like the dogs they are, as I speak, and will be smitten,” a fist smashed down on the side table, “from the face of this earth.”

The missionaries sat there and listened vacantly but said nothing. They had seen too much, their friends and loved ones humiliated, tortured, and killed, and they themselves horribly maimed. Of the original twenty-one Christians who were captured, only fifteen had survived the ShayTaan Taalib.

Catherine cried quietly, and Henri Faber gripped his wife’s hand, stoically watching Hassan. Woodgerd, dressed in formal uniform, stood with his arms crossed behind his back near the sultan’s dais, staring impassively at the audience. Rork, next to Wake in the back row, watched intently but displayed no reaction.

Wake was mentally perusing the potential political repercussions of the missionary tragedy when he heard Hassan call out his name. Startled, he looked up and saw Henri Faber stand and approach the dais.

Rork touched his shoulder and whispered, “Come on, sir, they want us both up there, front an’ center.”

The three of them were joined by Woodgerd. Sokhoor appeared from behind the dais with a shadow box and held it for the sultan. Hassan looked each of them in the eye and boomed out an imposing phrase in Arabic, which was translated, “And now, by the authority granted me by the grace of Allah the Almighty and Merciful, Mohammed the Wise and Compassionate, and the Faithful of Islam, I present to each of these men the highest decoration of the Kingdom of Morocco, the Order of the Lion of the Atlas. May all men know of your courage and accord you the respect it deserves.”

It was a golden medallion, embossed with the likeness of a Barbary lion and suspended by a green and gold silk ribbon. Hassan pinned the first on Wake, clasping his hand and saying shyly in English, “Thank you.” The others received theirs, and the audience, led by the sultan, burst into applause.

“Well, I never . . .” Wake said to Rork beside him, who answered with a laugh, “Well, sir, now you have!”

Hassan held up his hand and the room instantly was quiet. “And now, may each of you feel the healing touch of Allah upon you. May you always remember the peace of Islam and the gratitude of the faithful. May your lives know joy and your families know the blessing of children. May you remember my kingdom—the land of the Atlas, the Sahara, and the Ocean—with memories other than pain. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Peace be unto you for the rest of your days.”

“Guess you’ll be a hero back home now, Peter. They might even decide to keep you around,” said Woodgerd under his breath.

“Maybe. And you can charge double for your services, Michael.”

“Nah, already tried. Sonovabitch said I’m under contract. Can’t raise my fee.”

***

After Marrakech, Rabat seemed dull, but that was fine with Wake. There was one thing at Rabat, though, that brought life back into Wake’s body more than all else—the smell and sight of the ocean. He was stronger now, taking long strolls and even pushing himself up off the floor with his arms. It had been more than a month, and his wounds had closed, the muscles still sore but gaining strength. Now that he could, Wake reveled in breathing in the thick sweet air deeply, filling his lungs as he walked the ramparts of the royal palace overlooking the old fortress by the river’s mouth, with the sight and sounds of the sea before him.

The American ambassador, Pickering, had met them as soon as they arrived. He explained he had sent messages off to Washington and the American fleet in Europe advising them of the hostage situation’s outcome, but the only reply was a terse telegram from the admiral’s staff at Genoa: “No warship available. Arrange fastest transport to Genoa for Wake and Rork.”

Since commercial traffic was nil at that moment, the quickest transportation heading toward the Mediterranean turned out to be HMS Doris, which the British ambassador said would be visiting the port sometime in early June. The Brit offered the Americans a ride, saying the Royal Navy would be proud to convey the heroes to their own fleet.

Wake was more than ready to leave Africa. He wanted to return to his own people. Recuperating in luxury, the decadence and boredom bothered him. But not Rork, who proclaimed that now he knew, “how that tough ol’ soul, the Bishop o’ Waterford, must live, amongst splendor an’ glory. Aye, sir, the life o’ the idle an’ fancy rich is for me. I could get used to this.”

The regimen included diplomatic functions among the small international community, and Wake saw Henri and Catherine Faber often. Henri was quiet about the ordeal he had gone through, refusing to describe it even when pressed by the others over brandy. He would simply thank God for their deliverance and hug his wife. He was very friendly to Wake each time they met and on several occasions they exchanged knowing glances, then nodded without words.

Though he was certain she wanted to, Wake and Catherine never spoke alone. He was afraid to allow that to happen. He knew he did not love her, and that she did love her husband. But Wake still felt a pang of hurt, which he couldn’t explain and made him feel guilty. So he stayed away from her except for public events.

May turned into June and the heat of the desert overpowered the sea breezes. Wake remembered the overland journey through the vast wastelands shimmering in the heat of April and couldn’t imagine what they must be like in June. His uniform, a new one courtesy of Sultan Hassan, was growing too warm for long walks. He lost track of the days. Wake looked out at sea and longed to be free.

Then, one morning he heard a shout of joy in Gaelic followed with, “By all the saints, ain’t she a pretty sight!” and Rork burst into his room saying the Doris had just steamed into the open anchorage.

***

It was an emotional sendoff at the dock. Sokhoor was there representing Sultan Hassan. Standing next to Woodgerd was a company of infantry and troop of cavalry rigidly in formation, looking their most resplendent. Most of the foreigners in Rabat showed up. Pickering was there, frail next to the others as he handed over some mail to Rork. He wished Wake luck and thanked him once again, saying that the American reputation had been immeasurably boosted in the Arab world by his actions.

Woodgerd came up and quietly said something to Rork, who roared with laughter. Then the colonel offered his hand to Wake. “Peter, I hope we meet again, in far better circumstances and far nicer surroundings. Rum’s on me.”

In spite of his initial dislike, Wake had grown to respect the man. He hoped that they would meet again. “I’d like that, Michael. And yes, the rum is definitely on you.”

Wake had been searching but didn’t see the Fabers. As he was about to step down into the launch he suddenly heard Catherine call to him. “Wait one moment, if you please.”

He turned and saw the two of them. She stood there, her beautiful hair done up in the twist he had remembered, and it was all he could do to take his eyes from her as Henri shook his hand.

“Thank you, Peter. From the core of my soul, thank you. For all that you have done for Catherine and for me. You will always have a friend in each of us.”

Then Catherine rushed forward and kissed him, her husband subtly turning to look at the warship offshore. Her sad eyes, those beautiful sad eyes he remembered from Martinique, were glistening, almost breaking his heart, as she brought her mouth to his ear. “Peter, forgive me. Someday you will understand . . .” she said, then returned to Henri’s arm.

Rork tugged at his sleeve. “Time to shove off, sir. Royal Navy’s waitin’ for us.”

Wake looked at the launch’s boat officer and crew, immaculate in their blues, and realized he was returning to the world of the sea. His world. The world he had dreamed of in the desert but thought he’d never see again.

Then Sokhoor stepped forward and held both his shoulders, embracing him and kissing each cheek. The scholar had tears running down his face.

“Peter, we will meet again in heaven, my dearest American friend. For remember this, we are all the children of the God of Abraham and our greatest rewards are not of this world, but the next. It has been an honor for me to be your friend and to have you as mine.”

There was so much Wake wanted to say but didn’t know how. “Sokhoor, you have taught me so much. About Islam. About life. About God. Thank you my friend. Peace be upon you. Shukran, Sahdeeq.”

Sokhoor looked skyward, then touched his chest. “Wa Àlaikum as-salaam wa-raHmat ulaahi wa barakaatuh. And peace upon you too, as well as God’s mercy and his blessings.”

As they clasped hands Sokhoor said, “In gratitude, Allah will soon show you a magnificent cosmic celebration. It will come when you are far from here, Peter. When you see it, rejoice and think of the true peace of Islam, of our beloved Sultan Hassan, and of the things that you have accomplished and have learned, here in my land. And perhaps, God willing, you will kindly remember me, too.”

Sokhoor paused, looking into Wake’s eyes. “And when you see what Allah has sent you, that which has troubled your heart will be gone.” He held up a hand. “Oh yes, I know you have had tears inside. But all will be better.”

Wake tried to speak but the scholar shook his head. “Now the time has come for you to go forth, my friend. It reminds me of another old Roman saying—Porro et Sursum. Onward and upward. Goodbye, Peter.”

As Rork steadied him down into the boat, Wake felt his throat swell while his eyes filled. Sniffling, he choked out, “Under way, Rork. Get us under way, now.”

The oars dipped and pulled, propelling the launch quickly away from the dock. Rork was violating naval tradition by sitting in the stern with an officer, but he didn’t care. He knew his friend needed a steady hand right and whispered, “All right, sir?”

Wake muttered yes and looked aft at the people on the dock. They were waving and calling out good luck in three languages. He waved back.

Wake stared for a long time at the scene astern of them—the brown mud huts in front of the gray stone fortress with the green banner of Morocco flying overhead in the blue pastel sky, the lusty singing of the beach fisherman as they hauled their catch ashore, the plaintive wail of the muezzin atop the minarets calling the faithful to prayer.

Africa had almost killed him, but he was incredibly fascinated by it all—like the beautiful snake that had almost killed him. He let out a long breath.

“Peace be unto all of you. Inshallah.”