CHAPTER I

.

1807-1828.

Abdel Kader Nusr-ed-deen, fourth son of Abdel Kader Mehi-ed-deen, was born in the month of May, 1807, at the paternal _ketna_, or family village, on the banks of the river Hammam. This locality lies in the district of Eghrees, appertaining to the province of Oran, in Algeria.

From his infancy Abdel Kader was the especial object of his father’s fondest affections. Even when at the breast, the doting parent would constantly insist on taking the child in his arms; and he reluctantly permitted anyone but himself to do the duties of a nurse. Some secret and undefined impulse, as it seemed, impelled him to devote more than ordinary care and attention to the child, whose future career was to be so indelibly and gloriously associated with his country’s weal.

The physical constitution of the boy early exhibited a robust development; whilst, by a strange contrast, his disposition displayed a great natural timidity. The term “frightened at a shadow,” might have been taken in its most literal sense in his case. In after years, and when in the pride and vigour of manhood, he shone forth as the bravest of the brave—ever foremost to lead the charge, or cover the retreat—his father would often rally him on his boyish frailty, and wonder at the extraordinary contrast.

The mental powers of the boy were more than usually precocious. At the age of five he could read and write; at twelve he was a Taleb, or an approved proficient in the Koran, the Hadeeth (traditional sayings of the prophet Mohammed), and all the most esteemed religious expositions. Two years later he attained the highly-prized distinction of being a Hafiz, or one who knows the entire Koran by heart. In this position he had a class in the family mosque, where he explained the most difficult and recondite passages of the commentators. The extent of his youthful ambition was to be a great Marabout, like his father, whom he loved and regarded with an enthusiasm amounting to adoration.

In his seventeenth year the youth was conspicuous amongst his associates for his remarkable strength and agility. The perfect symmetry and compactness of his figure—his height being about five feet six inches—his bony make, his broad, deep chest, all betokened a frame formed for untiring activity, and capable of enduring the utmost fatigue.

As an equestrian, none approached him. Not only was he a graceful rider, but his marvellous superiority in all those feats of horsemanship which require the nicest eye, the steadiest hand, and the greatest efforts of muscular power, was the theme of all who knew him. Touching his horse’s shoulder with his breast, he would place one hand on its back, and vault over to the other side; or, putting the animal to its full speed, he would disengage his feet from the stirrups, stand up in the saddle, and fire at a mark with the utmost precision. Under his light and skilful touch, his well-trained Arab would kneel down, or walk for yards on his hind legs, its fore ones pawing the air, or spring and jump like a gazelle.

But it was on the race-course that the youth more particularly shone. That exciting pastime, into which the Algerian nobles enter with a passion not exceeded by our most devoted amateurs of the turf, was his peculiar element. Mounted on a jet-black steed—a colour he especially affected, as generally accompanied by superior equine qualities, and as throwing into relief the whiteness of his burnous—he was the cynosure of every eye.

His apparel was plain and simple. His arms alone displayed ornament. His long Tunisian musket was inlaid with silver; his pistols were encrusted with mother-of-pearl and coral; and his Damascus blade encased in a sheath of silver gilt. These brilliant appurtenances, combined with the

## partial gifts which Nature had lavished on his person, threw an

inexpressible charm around his appearance.

His countenance, of the purest classic mould, was singularly attractive from its expressive and yet almost feminine beauty. His nose—middling- sized and delicately shaped—a pleasing mean between the Grecian and the Roman type; his lips, finely chiseled and slightly compressed, bespoke dignified reserve and firmness of purpose; while large, lustrous hazel eyes beamed from beneath a massive forehead of marble whiteness with subdued and melancholy softness, or flashed with the rays of genius and intelligence.

Once the race engaged, his whole hearing and demeanour exhibited the most perfect coolness and self-possession. Distancing his numerous competitors, he would often reach the goal alone, amidst shouts of applause, clapping of hands, and the exhilarating shouts of hundreds of female voices bursting out into the _zulagheel_—that shrill and piercing cry of joy and welcome amongst the Arabs, which is so cheering to the triumphant warrior.

Thus, when at a later period of his life he performed those marvellous courses which astonished and confounded his enemies—never sleeping for weeks together under cover, and rarely ungirdling his sword—it was truly said of him that “his saddle was his throne.”

In Algeria, the nobility is divided into two distinct classes—the Marabouts and the Djouads. The former derive their position from religion; the other from the sword. These respective representatives of moral influence and physical strength regard each other with mutual scorn and jealousy. The Djouads accuse the Marabouts of ill-disguised ambition, and of a greedy covetousness after wealth and power, veiled under the specious pretext that every fresh acquisition they make was solely for the service of religion. The Marabouts taunt the Djouads with their violence, licentiousness, and love of rapine.

The Djied devotes himself entirely to the chase. He delights in all the bracing recreations which call forth skill and courage. His pride is to excel in falconry, in hunting the gazelle, the ostrich, the panther, and the wild boar. These violent pursuits, the thrilling excitement of which calls forth all the energies of body and mind, prepare him for the more serious encounters of war. The chase is the school for the razzia.

Abdel Kader, although he certainly never contemplated the possibility of ever being engaged in a razzia, and altogether repudiated such a mode of warfare (based as it generally was on the mere love of plunder), as equally contrary to his principles and his inclination, yet engaged ardently in field sports. His favourite diversion was to hunt the wild boar. Carefully avoiding the ostentatious display of the Djouads, as they sallied forth with their long train of adherents, their falcons, and their greyhounds, he privately mounted his horse, and taking only two or three domestics, plunged into the depths of the forest. On his return from his sporting excursions, he betook himself to his studies with renewed ardour.

It is not surprising that one so highly gifted by nature, and so earnest in the task of self-culture and improvement, should have gradually obtained a considerable ascendancy over all around him. Abdel Kader, indeed, already shared the unbounded respect, confidence, and affection which the Arabs of Oran had so long extended to his father. The latter, overjoyed to see his fondest hopes thus realised, could not perform a duty, or enjoy a social pleasure, without the presence of his favourite son. In his public audiences, his plans and projects, his lesser journeyings, or his more distant visits to the Turkish beys in the town, and the Arab tribes in the Tell or Sahara, Abdel Kader was his unfailing confidant and companion.

According to Moslem usage, and the law of the Koran, Abdel Kader married young. “Marry young,” says the Prophet, “marriage subdues the man’s look and regulates the maiden’s conduct.” At that period of life when the passions first agitate the breast, Abdel Kader was, in an especial manner, the object of his father’s solicitude. Faithful and trustworthy servants accompanied him wherever he went. He was never allowed to be alone. Temptations were thus avoided which might have endangered the purity of his morals. At the age of fifteen he married his cousin, Leila Heira, who was alike remarkable for her beauty and her moral attractions.

The time at length arrived when Mehi-ed-deen, now in his fiftieth year, felt it his duty to perform a pilgrimage to Mecca. Large preparations were made for the solemn event. Many were the entreaties on the part of his sons and retainers to be allowed the boon of sharing the dangers and the honours of the journey. None could endure the thought of being left behind. Mehi-ed-deen, embarrassed by such applications, declared his intention of going alone. The next day an exception was made in favour of Abdel Kader. All, though with mournful hearts, were obliged to submit to the final mandate; and father and son left the ketna, in October, 1823.

The rumour of Mehi-ed-deen’s movement soon spread through the province of Oran. Suddenly, a sympathetic impulse seemed to inspire the Arabs in all directions. All remembered they had a pilgrimage to perform. “To Mecca, to Mecca!” resounded on every side. Parties were made, mules procured, tents prepared.

On his first day’s halt, Mehi-ed-deen saw his place of encampment invaded by hundreds of Arabs claiming the privilege of joining him on his pious errand. On the second day they increased to thousands. On the fourth, a sea of tents surged around him. Gentle remonstrance and stern refusal were equally unavailing. Mehi-ed-deen was their Marabout, their chief, their saint, and doubly blessed would those be who under such auspices should kiss the Holy Shrine. On the sixth evening the vast pilgrimage had assembled on the banks of the Ejdowia, in the valley of the Cheliff.

At dead of night a Turkish horseman rode up at full gallop, and dismounted at the tent of Mehi-ed-deen. He was the bearer of a dispatch from Hussein Bey, the governor of Oran. The missive was hastily opened by Abdel Kader, and found to contain a courteous summons to his father to repair to that seat of government. Before daybreak Mehi-ed-deen had finished his arrangements for a return to Oran, in obedience to his chief’s commands.

Great was the consternation which seized the Arabs when the news of this unexpected summons got abroad; not only were all their hopes damped and frustrated, but their liveliest fears were awakened for their beloved leader. Numbers thronged around him. Some clung to his person, others seized his horse; others again flung themselves despairingly across the horse’s path—all entreating and imploring him not to heed the message. To all these ardent demonstrations of attachment Mehi-ed-deen, with that sense of loyalty which never forsook him, calmly replied, “My children, it is my duty to obey, and I go, though it cost me my head.”

Having thus spoken, and bidden the friends around him farewell, he took his course with Abdel Kader to the spot to which he was summoned.

The reception given them by Hussein Bey was apparently frank and cordial. Addressing himself to Mehi-ed-deen, he said, “You know, my friend, how high you stand in my favour and esteem. Deeply has it grieved me to hear the malicious reports which have been spread about you. Your enemies are numerous. I dreaded lest you should fall into the hands of the Dey of Algiers, whose territory you have just entered in a way which, I know, has excited his suspicions. I sent for you, to save you from impending danger. My heart was filled with anxiety on your account.”

“And it was to save you anxiety,” mildly and sarcastically replied Mehi- ed-deen, “that I obeyed your summons.”

There is no doubt, in fact, that Hussein Bey was himself actuated by those very feelings of jealousy and suspicion which he had described as peculiar to his colleague at Algiers. The strange and unusual gathering of the Arabs around Mehi-ed-deen had alarmed him. He knew and hated the great Marabout’s popularity. He dreaded lest it might one day raise him into the position of a rival power. Any overt acts of hostility against the man he feared, he was well aware, were dangerous, if not fruitless. But now he had succeeded, under the garb of friendship, in getting this very man into his power. His subsequent proceedings soon revealed his real intentions. Scarcely had Mehi-ed-deen and Abdel Kader gone to their lodgings ere a Turkish guard was placed over them. Wherever they went they were escorted by soldiers. Soldiers entered with them into the houses of their friends. Soldiers stood by them in the mosque. They were prisoners of state.

This irksome position of things continued with unabated rigour for two years. Mehi-ed-deen never made a remonstrance. Profiting by their forced seclusion, he and Abdel Kader ardently pursued their favourite studies. They awaited with stoic resignation the issue of their tyrant’s caprice. At last Hussein Bey, awakened to the folly of his fears, sent for Mehi- ed-deen and gave him permission to resume his pilgrimage.

Resolving not to return to the ketna, even to bid adieu once more to his family, lest such steps should produce a similar manifestation to that which had previously caused them so much embarrassment, Mehi-ed-deen and Abdel Kader left Oran with the greatest privacy, in November, 1825. Passing through Medea and Constantine, they reached Tunis, where they joined a company of 2,000 pilgrims who were awaiting a favourable occasion to proceed by sea to Alexandria. The whole party shortly afterwards embarked in a vessel bound for that port. But they were overtaken by a violent storm, and were obliged to put back. A more prosperous result attended their next essay; and after beating about for a fortnight they reached their destination.

After stopping a few days at Alexandria, Mehi-ed-deen and Abdel Kader went on to Cairo, and pitched their tents near the town. Here for the first and only time Abdel Kader saw Mohammed Ali. Little did the youthful pilgrim imagine, while gazing on that successful soldier, that he himself was already destined to outrival him, before many more years had past, in military prowess, in administrative ability, and in deeds of wide-world renown.

The usual route to Mecca, by Suez and Djedda, was performed without any incident worthy of notice. Having performed their devotions at the Caaba, Mehi-ed-deen and Abdel Kader separated from their companions and went to Damascus. In that city they remained for some months. They there made the acquaintance of the principal Ulemahs, and spent most of their time in the great mosque, engaged in religious readings.

They now set out on another pilgrimage, scarcely less sacred in their eyes than the one to Mecca,—that to the tomb of the famous Abdel Kader il Djellali, the patron saint of Algeria. They reached Bagdad in thirty days, by the Palmyra route. Belonging as they did to a family well known for the costly presents which many of its members had laid upon the sacred tomb, they received a most hospitable reception from the cadi of the city, Mohammed il Zachariah, who was himself a descendant of the great saint. Mehi-ed-deen contributed a bag full of gold. To doubt the miraculous powers of Abdel Kader il Djellali would have been as great a sin in the eyes of the Marabout as to have doubted the apostolic mission.

His father Mustapha had thrice performed the pilgrimage to Bagdad, and had at each time been favoured with peculiar manifestations. Once when returning, and while yet eight days from Damascus, he got separated from the caravan and lost his way. Bewildered and benighted, he found himself alone in the desert. Suddenly a negro appeared by his side, and offered to conduct him to the city. At break of day he saw the minarets. The muezzin’s call to prayer struck upon his ears. In a few hours, time and space had been annihilated.

At another time, when at Cairo, he was desirous of buying a book, but he had no money for the purchase. A stranger all at once advanced towards him, placed some coins in his hand, and disappeared. Such, according to the belief of Mehi-ed-deen, were the rewards of a firm and unshaken faith in Abdel Kader il Djellali.

This Moslem saint flourished in the twelfth century. There are cenotaphs to his memory all over the East. In Algeria the operations of the physical world are believed to be under his control. No journey is ever undertaken without prayers for his protection; none are terminated without a festival in his honour. The Arabs attribute the success and good fortune of Abdel Kader to the patronage of his mighty namesake. But whenever Abdel Kader was questioned as to his own belief in such a superstition, he invariably replied, with finger pointed up to heaven, “My trust was in God alone.”

Many stories have been circulated about mysterious indications given to Abdel Kader, while at Bagdad, of his future greatness. They are all without foundation. It is true Mehi-ed-deen had a dream. An angelic being appeared to him, and putting a key into his hand, told him to hasten back to Oran. On demanding what he was to do with the key, the spirit replied to him, “God will direct you.” The dream made an impression at the time on the two pilgrims, for it was noted down, and long remembered; but it only excited curiosity, without fostering delusion.

After spending three months at Bagdad, father and son returned to Mecca. Their funds were exhausted. For the remainder of their journey, they depended on the resources of their fellow-travellers, pilgrims like themselves, who were going back to Algeria. They took the land route the entire way, and reached home early in 1828, after an absence of more than two years.

Great were the rejoicings which celebrated their safe arrival at the ketna. The first and most prominent in the round of festivities was a great banquet in honour of Abdel Kader il Djellali. Fifteen oxen and eighty sheep were sacrificed. Guests of every rank and class hourly arrived from all parts, spontaneously and uninvited. Some were superbly mounted and splendidly attired, followed by trains of slaves and domestics; others of the middle classes came riding on mules and donkeys, whilst hundreds of the lower orders kept pouring in, eagerly anticipating the princely fare of their revered Marabout.

Mehi-ed-deen, whose hospitality was proverbial, would hear of no limits to this costly profusion; and thus week after week rolled on, and still fresh guests were perpetually arriving to swell the general tide of festivity. Nor was it till nearly all the Arabs of the province of Oran, and numerous deputations from the tribes of the Sahara, had paid their tribute of homage and congratulation to the respected chief of the Hashem, that the Wady Hammam resumed its wonted aspect of quiet and repose.

Abdel Kader was now once more a peaceful dweller at the paternal ketna. He made a vow of religious seclusion. No visions of human greatness rose before him. No worldly aspirations agitated his breast. He scorned the allurements of ambition. His whole time was given up to close and unremitting study. No cloistered monk ever shunned more carefully all contact with his fellow-men. From sunrise to sunset he rarely left his room. His only interruptions were his meals and the sacred intervals of prayer.

The works of Plato, Pythagoras, Aristotle, treatises by the most famous authors of the Arabian Caliphates, on ancient and modern history, philosophy, philology, astronomy, geography, and even works on medicine, were eagerly perused by the enthusiastic student. His library accumulated. The master-spirits were around him. He would not have exchanged his communion with them for all the thrones in the universe. But a change was about to come.

The mysterious power which regulates the human will, and makes every mortal career subservient to its all-wise, all-comprehensive and resistless fiat, was exercising its invisible influence. Abdel Kader had renounced the world. He was ere long to appear one of its foremost actors. He hated battle—yet was he soon to shine mightiest in the battle’s front.

##