On the stormy night of December 22, 1847, the wind blustered so fiercely that Abd el-Kader could hardly hold the paper on which he was trying to write. Finally he just attached his seal to the piece of paper and gave it to the young messenger, along with a verbal request to the French general for a safe-conduct guarantee.
The two armies were both in the high hills about twenty miles from the westernmost coast of Algeria. But their positions were vastly different. General August Lamoricière was confidently leading a column of soldiers toward a nearby pass that he wanted to secure. Abd el-Kader, cut off from any chance of a successful attack, had finally made his decision.
Back and forth between the two camps, through rain and wind, rode the emissary for the French. In his second message, Abd el-Kader stated his terms for yielding. He would completely cease his struggle against the French and leave Algeria forever, on condition that he, his family, and supporters could live in a predominantly Muslim city in either Egypt or Palestine. General Lamoricière wrote a prompt reply, promising to meet the Emir’s terms.
Reassured, Abd el-Kader and about sixty-five of his men set out for the French fort at Djemaa Ghazaouet, the “pirates’ base.” Near the shrine of Sidi Brahim—the very place where, two years earlier, they had inflicted such a terrible blow on the enemy—they encountered French cavalry. This time, however, there was no shooting. Nor was there any of the mocking or humiliating spectacle that Abd el-Kader had feared might take place. Instead, the five hundred French cavalrymen in two rows saluted Abd el-Kader as he rode past. He stopped briefly at the shrine to pray, and then rode on to the French fort.
On the way, the Emir met Lamoricière, a man of both military competence and social conscience, who had campaigned against Abd el-Kader for years. Dismounting, he handed the general his sword. When the Emir ordered his men to lay down their arms, however, Lamoricière told them to keep their weapons. They would be welcome henceforth, he said, to serve France.
Soon after Abd el-Kader reached the fort, he found that the Duke of Aumale, son of the French king, had also arrived. In spite of the bad weather, the prince had come as quickly as possible by ship from Oran to meet Abd el-Kader and accept his surrender. This was the very officer who, back in the spring of 1843, had discovered the Emir’s “floating capital,” the smala, and utterly destroyed it.
The next morning the Duke reviewed his troops. Abd el-Kader remarked on the contrast between their exemplary training and the undisciplined fighting style of his own men. He offered the Duke his black mare, the last horse he had ridden in battle, and the prince accepted the gift graciously, promising in turn to protect the Emir and his people.
All this while, the French officers and soldiers at the fort were celebrating their victory. At last they had defeated their arch-enemy, the notorious Emir Abd el-Kader! They had caught the wily adversary who had forced them into such a long, costly struggle, for fifteen blood-soaked years! Every officer in the French army had long dreamed of receiving the surrender of the Emir and his stubborn Algerians—and they, the men at the lonely “gathering-place of pirates,” were the ones to have that honor.
Sitting quietly in the tent provided to him, Abd el-Kader looked at the matter differently. He knew he could have escaped to the south and gone on with the war somehow, but he had decided otherwise. He would stop leading the resistance at a time and place of his own choosing, based on his calculation of the suffering that his people, who had already suffered so much, would have to endure. He believed that this was the better course for everyone. From his viewpoint, therefore, it was not a matter of “surrender” or “giving up,” let alone “being caught.” Rather, it was a deliberate choice to put an end to the struggle and move on to a radically different life, the life that he regarded as his true calling.
And there was one other reason, most important of all. His decision, Abd el-Kader believed, was made according to God’s will. He was now convinced that God had decided for Algeria to be governed by France, a Christian nation. He, the Emir Abd el-Kader, was only the servant of the Almighty—the literal meaning of his name, in fact. He must accept God’s decision. This underlying conviction helps explain much of the Emir’s attitudes and actions for the rest of his life.
Most brief historical accounts of the years after Abd el-Kader stopped fighting state simply that he was “imprisoned,” or kept in “French prisons.” This gives a very misleading impression of what actually happened. The story of Abd el-Kader’s treatment in France is in some ways as dramatic as the story of his many years of resistance in his homeland. It’s a story of frustration and determination on Abd el-Kader’s part; and on the part of the French government, one of dishonesty, betrayal—and sincere admiration.
With his extended family of about forty-five individuals, Abd el-Kader first traveled by sea from Djemaa Ghazaouet to the port of Oran. Arriving on December 25, 1847, the Emir was greeted by a small crowd of loyal but sad Arabs, and a welcome surprise. Father Suchet, the courageous priest who had helped carry out the prisoner exchange back in 1841, had come to convey gratitude from Bishop Dupuch for Abd el-Kader’s decision to stop fighting. It was not the last time the Emir would hear from Dupuch.
From Oran, the Emir and his group crossed the Mediterranean to the port city of Toulon on the southern coast of France. Now they had to face a much longer voyage to the eastern end of the Mediterranean. They were told that negotiations were under way in both Egypt and Constantinople to arrange for the Emir’s exile. That sounded reasonable.
But something seemed wrong. Shouldn’t there have been signs of preparations for a long sea voyage? Abd el-Kader saw nothing of the sort.
In fact, the next thing he and his people knew, they were being locked up in a quarantine station, as though for some infectious disease. Ten days passed. Then the Emir and his family were taken to a grim, prison-like fortress near the harbor, Fort Lamalgue. The rest of the Algerians were taken to another fort.
What had become of General Lamoricière’s promise, confirmed by the royal prince himself? It was on the basis of that promise, after all, that Abd el-Kader had agreed to end resistance. Now the French government—for no apparent reason—seemed reluctant to live up to its commitment.
Abd el-Kader began to protest, forcefully and eloquently. Deprived of his freedom and the open spaces and beauty of his homeland, now he was being denied what had firmly been guaranteed him. Unendur-able! He also stressed the matter of French honor, insisting that France live up to the ideals of its high civilization. Surely, he argued, the government understood that it was in France’s own interest to behave honestly, to protect its reputation among the European powers? The Emir argued from every angle. Dignified and proper he might be, in keeping with his natural character and training as a marabout, but he would not suffer in silence.
Still he received no answers or assurances. So, like a field commander who must adjust to the terrain and the enemy’s tactics, the Emir realized he would have to make some changes himself. He was responsible, after all, for his people.
Knowing the importance of discipline for keeping up morale, Abd el-Kader established a daily routine of prayer, reading, writing, and visiting. Observers were impressed by the way the captives, who kept strictly to themselves, followed their routine religiously. It was almost as though the French fort had become a sort of Islamic monastery, like the zawiya where Abd el-Kader had been educated in his youth. The daily pattern of life provided some degree of comfort for the Algerians—except for the many French soldiers guarding them at all times.
Meanwhile, Abd el-Kader kept on asking why the French government was not living up to its promise. All he got was vague, evasive answers.
The truth was that on the question of what to do with the Emir, the French government was sharply torn. As the satirical press observed, formerly no one knew where to find the Emir—and now no one knew where to put him. On the one hand, General Lamoricière and others argued passionately that promises must be kept. Honor and human decency demanded it—and Great Britain would be only too ready to accuse France of treacherousness if the agreement were broken. The Duke of Aumale emphasized the sincerity and remarkable character of the Emir.
On the other hand, many people believed that Abd el-Kader was still the enemy and would still be dangerous, given any opportunity. They were shocked at the promises made to him. Even the royal family was in conflict, angry that the Duke of Aumale had agreed to those promises. The powerful minister of war insisted that Abd el-Kader—still described as little better than a brutal savage—would be a real danger if turned loose in the Arab world. He would stir up all kinds of trouble; he might even try to return to Algeria and resume fighting. At the very least he would become an inspiration for popular uprisings among the Arab subjects of the Ottoman Empire. Far better to keep him locked up!
And there was another critical issue. No one had forgotten about the slaughter of the French prisoners-of-war at Abd el-Kader’s camp in the spring of 1846. Stirred up by the popular press, many people still believed that Abd el-Kader himself was to blame. More and more, public opinion and the popular press were a force to be reckoned with in French politics.
Meanwhile, at the gloomy fort, Abd el-Kader at least had a sympathetic listener. A capable translator was assigned to him, Lieutenant General Eugène Daumas, whom the Emir had known and respected during the early years of his fight against the French. Daumas, reluctantly, played a complex role. He had to interpret French actions to Abd el-Kader, report secretly on Abd el-Kader’s words and moods, and win his confidence enough to persuade him to respond as the government wished him to. Abd el-Kader undoubtedly realized all of that, yet a strong friendship grew between the two men. Daumas did what he could to make the Algerians’ lot a little easier.
In mid-January, Abd el-Kader had a small victory. Thanks to his continuing protests, those of his followers who had been sent to other places of imprisonment were brought to Fort Lamalgue. No matter how crowded and uncomfortable the conditions at the fort, the Algerians wanted to be together.
But what about the French government’s most important promise to the Emir? One day in late winter, Daumas was instructed to present, as persuasively as possible, a new proposal from the minister of war. The Algerians had two choices. They could indeed go to Alexandria, Egypt, if they insisted. But they would have to live under constant guard for the indefinite future. Alternatively—and so much better!—they could all stay in France. There they would live in a country chateau with beautiful surroundings, privacy, and all the horses they wanted. In this way they would release the government from the promise made back at the “pirates’ base.”
Abd el-Kader was shocked by the government’s behavior, but he had no trouble deciding between the two alternatives. He would choose life in Egypt, even under house arrest. Life in France, where the people and customs were so unfamiliar to the Algerians, would never be suitable for him and his people. It would be a death sentence. As for the temptations of luxury, he told Daumas: “If you placed in my burnoose [hooded cloak] all the diamonds and treasure of the world, I would throw them without hesitation into the sea in front of us.”1 No, nothing could distract him from what had first been promised.
Daumas, who kept a careful record of his conversations with the Emir, realized he would get nowhere trying to promote the government’s offer. Abd el-Kader’s mood swung between anger, desperate unhappiness, and resignation. As he told Daumas during bad moments, he might appear to be alive, but he was really only a dead man. Finally Daumas suggested that Abd el-Kader write directly to King Louis-Philippe, asking for justice and a personal meeting with the king. Abd el-Kader wrote an eloquent letter, asserting that it was the Almighty’s will that he put himself, “as a child,” in the king’s hands.
While Abd el-Kader waited for an answer, Daumas tried to provide a little variety in the lives of the Algerians. One day he took Abd el-Kader and some of his men to visit the naval arsenal in Toulon, reporting afterward that the Algerians were well received wherever they went. But Abd el-Kader refused any further excursions. He did not want to give the impression of accepting, let alone enjoying, his life in France. He was a prisoner, not a “guest.” And he did not like being stared at in the street.
Much more to Abd el-Kader’s liking were his conversations with Daumas and others. Increasing numbers of French visitors were already coming to see him. Remembering the surprisingly warm relationship he had found with the bishop and priest in Algiers, Abd el-Kader took a particular interest in discussing religion. He also wanted to talk with Daumas and others about philosophy, France and its baffling politics, and all sorts of military matters. He asserted his own views tactfully but firmly. When Daumas asked what advice he might have for the new rulers of Algeria, he replied, “Do as I did. Govern only with the Law in your hand, and then you will succeed.”2
Although devoutly committed to the teachings of Islam, Abd el-Kader also knew when to be flexible in his behavior. When Daumas invited the Emir to have dinner with him and his wife, Abd el-Kader agreed—even though eating in the company of another man’s wife, not related by family ties, would have been unacceptable in Algerian society at that time. He found Madame Daumas, stylishly but modestly dressed, intelligent and charming.
On another day, in late February, Abd el-Kader agreed to have his portrait painted. Many traditional Muslim societies prohibited depicting human likenesses, but Abd el-Kader saw no need for such rigidity. Soon a well-known artist arrived in the Emir’s quarters in the gloomy fort. But the artist had come for more than one purpose. Along with his brushes and oil paints, he brought a secret message from the king.
Louis-Philippe had at last responded to Abd el-Kader’s eloquent letter. Yes, he would honor the promise made to the Emir. The Algerians would be set free.
The Algerians’ rejoicing did not last long. Just a few days later, France went into another political tailspin. The year 1848 was a time of political turmoil in much of Europe, and in France, King Louis-Philippe was brought down by the Paris mob. On February 28th he gave up the throne and fled to England. The monarchy was finished, and a new republic was declared. What would this mean for Abd el-Kader’s hopes?
The Emir could not understand how it was possible for the great French “sultan,” as he had referred to the king, suddenly to vanish. Nor could he make sense of a government run by committee. How could five heads, instead of one supreme and wise head like the chief of a tribe, make decisions?
A high official of the new republic soon came from Paris to meet the famous prisoner. Abd el-Kader reminded Émile Ollivier that he had never been overcome by force of arms, and that he had voluntarily promised never to return to or interfere in Algeria. Ollivier reported to his government that Abd el-Kader’s oath, “which is known throughout the length and breadth of Algeria, makes it impossible for him to attempt a coup, because he would thereby lose that reputation for integrity which has been his whole strength.”3 Ollivier’s efforts, however, did not get far. The leaders of the Second Republic did not consider themselves bound by promises made by kings or princes. No decision could be made on Abd el-Kader’s future until elections were held and the government had a chance to settle down.
The new government, just like the one it had replaced, was split by conflicting views. Many people, including such well-known writers as Victor Hugo and Alexis de Tocqueville, weighed in on the subject of Algeria. Some said France should keep only the port cities and let the native chieftains run the rest of the country, as under the Turks. Others said that France must not neglect its noble mission civilisatrice—“civilizing mission”—in North Africa. Still others, asserting that hatred was inevitable between European settlers and the native people, insisted that France must quickly strengthen the colonial society and make it dominant.
Finally the Second Republic decided not to honor the promises made to Abd el-Kader. When he received this bad news from the unhappy Daumas, the Emir burst out, “I am betrayed—and by those in whom I had placed my trust. If you keep us here, many of us will take our lives.”4 His people, he feared, would lose faith in him, and it was no small matter for the head of a tribe to lose the confidence of his people.
In April 1848, three of Abd el-Kader’s brothers and their families—some thirty-five people in total—arrived from Algiers. They had expected to go with the Emir to the promised new home in the east, but instead they found themselves prisoners. Abd el-Kader poured out his grief to Daumas. “I am a prisoner in defiance of international law, and now my family, which was free, is lured into an insidious trap. I never would have believed that a nation such as yours could sink so low as to snare men the way children cruelly snare little birds.”5
So strongly did Abd el-Kader complain about betrayal that some government officials thought he might try to escape—or else the British might attempt a dramatic rescue. Abd el-Kader could not remain on the Mediterranean coast: it was too accessible. The Algerians would have to be moved from Toulon, away from the sea. And so it was decided. Abd el-Kader would be sent to a chateau near the Pyrenees, the mountain range between France and Spain.
The French government tried to make the move sound attractive. After all, the chateau at Pau held a special place in French history and hearts. It was the birthplace of an important French king, Henry IV, who had tried to unite his country when it was torn by religious wars between Catholics and Protestants in the sixteenth century. Pau was in a beautifully scenic area, with a delightful climate. Everything would be far more agreeable than at Fort Lamalgue, Abd el-Kader was assured, and he would really be just a “temporary guest.”
The Emir knew very well, however, that the chateau would still be a prison. Worse, only his family and servants would stay with him at the chateau. The rest of the Algerians would be held elsewhere as political prisoners. Once more Abd el-Kader exploded in despair and fury. “Drag us through the streets, over stones, through brambles, till our bodies are in shreds! We will be an example to the whole world that all people everywhere may know what lies in store for those who trust you in the future!”6 In a calmer vein, the Emir emphasized that it was not “blood” that was important but loyalty and friendship; his people had sacrificed everything to stay with him. And at last the government relented. A total of seventy-seven Algerians were counted as “immediate family.”
On April 23, the Algerians set out for their next place of captivity, by ship, canal boat, and finally by coach over the foothills of the Pyrenees. What sort of a welcome did they find in the town of Pau?