Many of the citizens of Pau were appalled at the thought of the Emir living among them. The local press called him the “monster of the desert.” Some people argued that it was an insult for their famous and recently restored chateau to be inhabited by “a horde of savages who would be happy to wreck it.” The tapestries and antique furnishings were carefully put away before the Algerians moved in.
Abd el-Kader was not any happier than the people of Pau. The glorious view of the mountains could be seen only from windows in which iron bars had just been set, and soldiers stood at every strategic spot in the chateau. The French government clearly did not regard the Algerians as “guests.” Moreover, the trusted Daumas was no longer with Abd el-Kader, and the two men both regretted the change. The next translator assigned to the job, fortunately, was also well qualified. Estève Boissonnet was a kind and sympathetic man and the author of scholarly works on Algeria.
The mayor of Pau made a courtesy call on May 3rd, as the chateau’s new residents were still getting settled. He evidently brought back an encouraging report, for members of the local society began to steel their nerves and make visits to meet the Emir. It helped, indeed, that nineteenth-century Europeans were fascinated by the exotic, romantic Orient. As fears and prejudices faded, the people of Pau began to find the newcomers intriguing. In fact, they realized, they had the most famous Arab of the time in their midst! The dignified Emir became an object of great interest. Even if somewhat melancholy in manner, he could turn on the charm and wit, especially with ladies, and his courtesy and refinement made an impression on everyone.
The waves of visitors grew larger and bolder. People started coming from all over France. Abd el-Kader finally had to limit his visiting hours to just two days a week, so he could have time for the reading, prayer, and reflection that were such an important part of his life.
Occasionally a visitor had a special reason for wanting to pay respects. A man whose father had served under Napoleon Bonaparte presented Abd el-Kader with a ring containing a bit of stone from Napoleon’s tomb. The more Abd el-Kader learned about Napoleon, the more interested he became, admiring both Napoleon’s military brilliance and his moral courage in adversity. There were striking similarities, Abd el-Kader noted, between the objectives, strategies, and fates of the two leaders. With other military visitors, men he might formerly have tried to defeat with every means possible, Abd el-Kader was also polite and correct. He could even enjoy the irony of his situation. “After all,” he said to one group, “many officers in the French army are indebted to me. Without me, many of your colonels would still be captains and your generals still colonels.”1
One special visitor lightened the Emir’s days: Monsignor Dupuch, formerly the Bishop of Algiers. When the Christian cleric and the Muslim marabout finally did meet in person, it was as though they were lifelong friends.
Many observers found a certain trait in the Emir’s behavior remarkable—and it would be considered just as striking today. It was his “forgiveness of enemies.” To be sure, the Emir did at times have outbursts of anger when the betrayal seemed especially cruel, and he did say harsh words against the French government, using surprisingly vivid language. But those moments seem to have become increasingly rare as the months passed and he accepted the reality of his imprisonment. Then, gradually, the Emir’s special form of forgiveness became evident. On many occasions he expressed admiration for French military prowess, ideals of human rights, and civilization. He even suggested possible reasons that might explain the government’s decisions against him.
Daumas, on learning of Dupuch’s proposed visit, wrote to him about the Emir. “You will find him gentle, simple, affectionate, modest, resigned, never complaining; excusing his enemies—even those at whose hands he may yet have much to suffer—and never allowing evil to be spoken of them in his presence.”2
Although the Algerians kept to themselves in the chateau, they entered the cultural life of Pau on a couple of occasions. Abd el-Kader attended a piano concert and particularly enjoyed the pieces by Schubert; he would have liked them to be longer, he said. And when a circus came to town, he allowed his brother to take some of the children.
From the onset of his captivity, Abd el-Kader had taken on the role of “father,” responsible not only for his own family and servants but for the welfare of each and every one of his followers. “We are one family,” he told his captors repeatedly. One bitter February day while they were still inside the bone-chilling stone walls of the fortress at Toulon, Daumas had found Abd el-Kader with no wood for a fire. He suggested getting some from the Emir’s companions, but Abd el-Kader responded, “No.” If it were in his power, he would have given them more. He went on to say that if he were like typical “great chiefs” who only took from their people, “would the Arabs have continued to fight as they did? Would they have sacrificed everything—their fortunes, flocks, lives—to follow me?”3
But as the months dragged on, Abd el-Kader’s sense of responsibility grew ever heavier and the thought that he had unwittingly led all these people into captivity tormented him. So many people were suffering because of him! Cold, illness, fear, forced idleness—because of him! Yet he had to keep their spirits up. When he received the bad news that the government definitely regarded him as a prisoner, he kept it to himself and went on reassuring his people.
Inevitably, however, the months of captivity and seclusion were taking a toll on all the Algerians’ health. Several died, including three of the Emir’s young children. They were buried in a small plot on the grounds of the chateau. During August, when the Muslims observed the month of fasting called Ramadan, the women and children grew seriously weakened. They refused French male doctors but accepted visits by nurses from a local convent, the Dominican Sisters of Charity. Abd el-Kader was deeply grateful for the kindness and healing ways of the nuns.
At one point, sudden changes in Paris seemed to turn everything around. In June of 1848, France was once again caught up in revolutionary fever. When the blood was washed from the streets and the political dust had settled, there seemed reason for hope. General Lamoricière, who had made the original promise to the Emir, was now minister of war, and Abd el-Kader promptly wrote to him. But for whatever reasons, no response came from Paris.
Weeks passed, and hopes faded. Some of the Algerian men became so unhappy they thought up a drastic scheme. They would simply throw themselves, unarmed, against their guards, which would almost certainly result in their deaths. Abd el-Kader quickly put an end to the plan, although he could certainly understand their desperation. Learning of this incident, Lamoricière knew what a scandal it would have been for the government if successful. He promptly ordered that all the prisoners should be released—except for Abd el-Kader. The Emir’s men refused. They would stay together, no matter what.
In Paris, meanwhile, the French government was alarmed by the Algerians’ threat of group suicide and their insistence on staying with their commander. Now the ministers argued that the Emir was too close to Spain. The British might be tempted to help him escape over the mountains. Yes, the Algerians would have to be moved again. This time, however, they must be kept someplace close to Paris, where they could be more carefully guarded.
So Abd el-Kader and his large family prepared to move once more. Their arrival in Pau, in late April of 1848, had been greeted with hostility, but their departure in early November was total y different. In just a few months the townspeople, Catholic nuns and clerics, and many others had been won over by the Emir’s gracious behavior. Abd el-Kader now felt himself in friendly surroundings. As an expression of appreciation, he let his translator Boissonnet take him on a brief tour of the chateau and its treasures—the tapestries, furniture, art, and precious objects that had been careful y put away before the arrival of the “savages.”
When it was time to leave, Abd el-Kader requested that he be driven in an open carriage through the streets to say farewell to the people of Pau. The journey of the Algerians northward to Paris was like a royal procession. In the large city of Bordeaux, Monsignor Dupuch arranged a warm welcome. All along the way, Abd el-Kader was greeted by dignitaries, enthusiastic crowds, and in the town of Nantes, a thirteen-cannon military salute.
The prisoners’ destination was another famous castle, the Chateau of Amboise. It rose on a cliff high over the Loire, a major river of France, and in the sixteenth century had been a favorite residence of French kings. It had a dark history as well, having witnessed gruesome executions of hundreds of prisoners during the religious wars later in that century. By the 1800s the chateau was in poor shape—Napoleon Bonaparte had even used it as a prison. As restorations were under way, it was in a livable condition when it became the next residence of the Emir Abd el-Kader.
Still, it was a prison, and now heavier restrictions were imposed. For a while the French government seemed obsessed with security. No visitors without special permission. No letter-writing unless authorized—which must have been a hardship for a man who expressed himself in writing so frequently and fluently. Two hundred soldiers were now assigned to guard the Algerians.
For months Abd el-Kader kept to his rooms, refusing even to walk outdoors in the fresh air. Only the air of freedom could make him well again, he said. At least this chateau had more light and no bars on the windows. But how long would the Algerians have to live there? No answers, not a hint. In a mood of resignation, they went on with their daily routine of prayer, meditation, visiting among themselves, and educating their children. They had no way of knowing how very slowly the wheels of justice were turning—or even whether those wheels were turning at all.
Then, once again French politics went through a sudden, unexpected turnover. The long-awaited elections to create an official Second Republic were held in December 1848. Abd el-Kader was actually a write-in candidate for president, thanks to enthusiastic friends in Bordeaux. That, of course, was simply a gesture of admiration—but the real winner was just as improbable. It was the candidate considered least likely to win: Louis-Napoleon, nephew of the great Napoleon Bonaparte.
Many people thought Louis-Napoleon was an impractical man, too much of a dreamer, an unrealistic fighter for lost causes. Like his famous uncle he had grandly ambitious ideas for his country’s foreign adventures, but not the skill to make them succeed. At the same time, he was genuinely an idealist, concerned about helping oppressed peoples. When Abd el-Kader learned that the new president had sympathetic views regarding the people of Algeria, his hopes rose again.
Louis-Napoleon listened to the Emir’s supporters. But he listened more carefully to his own ministers and members of the French parliament, who insisted on keeping Abd el-Kader a prisoner. They argued that conditions in Algeria were still unsettled and dangerous. The native people chafed under military rule, and the French army was much reduced. Many European colonists were returning home, discouraged by the hard life in Algeria. And no one could keep the job of governor-general for more than a few weeks. No, this was certainly not the time to set the Emir Abd el-Kader free. How could he be trusted not to return to Algeria and cause even more trouble?
Besides, there was the matter of that dreadful massacre of the French prisoners-of-war. Members of the government, referring to the North Africans’ earlier unsavory reputation as pirates, still claimed that Abd el-Kader was to blame. The sensationalist press whipped up public outrage. So, let the Emir go on ranting about broken promises and his liberty—but keep him locked up! Louis-Napoleon decided not to make any decisions that might rattle his still shaky presidency.
On the other hand, a number of influential people in the government did speak for the Emir. Military leaders, too, spoke up. The Emir’s old adversary, the Marshall Bugeaud, now tried to be helpful, in his way. He wrote to the Emir “as a true friend” and urged that the Algerians agree to settle happily in the countryside of France, where they could enjoy a healthy life “cultivating the soil.”
In the early spring of 1849, Monsignor Dupuch succeeded—with much difficulty—in visiting Abd el-Kader at Amboise. A few months later he published a booklet; it was to set the record straight about the Emir, he said. Focusing on the accusation about the prisoners-of-war, Dupuch tried to demonstrate that Abd el-Kader’s sincerity and humane character completely refuted such a charge. As evidence he discussed the Emir’s efforts to end barbaric traditions in warfare, his concern for all prisoners-of-war, and the many former prisoners who had written to and visited the Emir to thank him for the kind treatment they had received.
Dupuch also told how, when war started again in 1839, Abd el-Kader had fully paid the European advisers hired to help with his army and munitions industries, even though they had not been able to finish their work. He had heard this from their own mouths, Dupuch added, concluding that all this testimony was powerful proof of the Emir’s humane character.
Meanwhile, Abd el-Kader was not forgotten by the wider world. In fact, his fame grew steadily. Numerous articles and books were published about him in France, almost as though everyone who had ever been to Algeria wanted to write a book about the Emir.
In Great Britain, too, people were fascinated by his story; and if that story reflected badly on France, so much the better. The British public happily made a popular hero of Abd el-Kader. At the race tracks against huge odds, a small horse named Abd el-Kader won the Grand National Steeple Chase in both 1850 and 1851!
Journalists and poets alike took up their pens on behalf of this hero, who now appeared incredibly romantic. While the British press had earlier enjoyed reporting the hard time that Abd el-Kader was giving the French in war, now the tributes expressed sympathy with the betrayed Emir. The famous English poet William Makepeace Thackeray published a poem about Abd el-Kader imprisoned in Toulon, which began:
No more, thou lithe and long-winged hawk, of desert-life for thee;
No more across the sultry sands shalt thou go swooping free:
Blunt idle talons, idle-beak, with spurning of thy chain,
Shatter against thy cage the wing thou ne’er may’st spread again.4
A member of the English aristocracy wrote a stirring poem that ended—
God save Abd-el-Kader! Tho’ banish’d he be,
Tho’ the Frank rule the plain, and the Frank keep the sea;
For the tribes of El Gharb, from Biskara to Rif,
Shall arise at the neigh of thy war horse—Great Chief!5
And from the pen of “an English Lady” came this tribute:
The aged Emir bows to fate: His sorrows claim a peaceful grave;
He seeks no ransom from the State, save this, which valor grants the brave.6
Another English aristocrat, the Marquis of Londonderry, decided to see what he could do in person. With his wife and daughter he set out to visit Abd el-Kader in the chateau at Amboise. Permission was granted—but the French authorities decided to make the experience as unpleasant as possible for the interfering English. They were kept waiting for several hours in one chilly, cluttered room after another, until finally they were allowed to see the prisoner. Abd el-Kader welcomed the visitors with warmth, and later said farewell with such a firm embrace that Londonderry complained of a sore neck afterwards. Nonetheless he wrote, “I think this indescribably interesting and noble old chief was much pleased and greatly affected by our visit.”7 (In his mid-forties and still very fit, Abd el-Kader was hardly old—but the English loved that sort of image.)
Londonderry wrote to Louis-Napoleon, urging that even if there were some slight risk in setting Abd el-Kader free, it would be greatly offset by the world’s admiration of French generosity. Louis-Napoleon answered with great care: “I shall be very glad to see the Emir, but I can only see him to announce good news.”8 Disappointed but determined to continue his efforts, the Marquis and his family went back to London.
As the months of captivity became years, the fire of Abd el-Kader’s protest dimmed and he seemed to grow more resigned to his fate. He would simply wait, trusting, for the new president to set him free. He told visitors that he thought France should not be judged on just a moment in time, but over its long history.
Abd el-Kader’s five-year imprisonment was not, in fact, time out of his life. He did not retreat into discouragement and lethargy, intellectual or spiritual. On the contrary, he kept growing. Having determined to learn about French thinking and customs, he developed a much more accurate—and for the most part, positive—understanding of his former enemies. The flood of visitors gave him opportunity to observe and reflect on all sorts of European people and their mentalities. His captors were wise to allow this free interchange.
The more Abd el-Kader learned and thought about French civilization—and western civilization in general—the more his interest grew. He saw the strengths, and the weaknesses and failings. He even tried to envisage a role for himself that might help strengthen the spiritual life of the nation that held him captive. With the encouragement of his trusted interpreter Boissonnet, he set down in writing his thoughts about religion, politics, science, history, and culture. The “Letter to the French” that eventually emerged will be described later in the story.
At the same time, Abd el-Kader had leisure to reflect more on his own culture and to assess the “broader picture”—his own tradition and its values side-by-side with the civilization of the west. At one point the Emir’s former interpreter Eugène Daumas, who was writing a book about the Sahara, wanted the expert help that only Abd el-Kader could provide. In the part about “Horses of the Sahara,” Abd el-Kader wrote detailed commentaries about Arabian horses, a treasury of information and opinion from one who really knew his horses. In the second part, about human life in the desert, he contributed a chapter about the importance of hunting among the tribes—possibly the definitive discussion of how hyenas, lions, and leopards hunt, and are hunted in turn (or were in those days). This book, co-authored with Daumas, must have been like a brisk ride in the desert breezes for Abd el-Kader.
Gradually, even while heated debates went on in the French Chamber of Deputies, the government relaxed the restrictions placed on Abd el-Kader and his people. In 1850, as a test, Louis-Napoleon allowed nineteen Algerians to return to their country, and there was no uproar from press or public. A complimentary poem that Abd el-Kader wrote to the president led to a careful correspondence between the two men.
The Emir also began to allow himself a little more freedom. He took walks in the formal gardens of the chateau, and he learned to play chess, admiring the game for its mental discipline and similarity to military strategy. In the spring of 1851 he started to accept a few social invitations, returning the good will shown him by citizens of Amboise, and he visited other chateaus in the region. He allowed some of the male Algerians to explore the town of Amboise on their own. The days when Abd el-Kader rejected all things French were behind him. Now he grasped opportunities that would lead to new learning and experience.
But for many of the imprisoned Algerians, cut off so long from their normal way of life, depression was never far away, nor were illness and death. In addition to those who had succumbed at Pau, twenty-five adults and children were resting in a small cemetery in the chateau gardens at Amboise by the summer of 1852. Some were members of the Emir’s immediate family. As he walked among the gravestones, he must have reflected sadly that he still could do nothing except wait . . . with faith that eventually justice would be done.