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CHAPTER VIII. KAB YLIA – THE FORT NAPOLÉON

T was almost impossible to take up a newspaper in Algiers, or to converse for five minutes in a café, or at the club, without the 'question Kabyle' cropping up in some paragraph or conversation. Every day there came contradictory news about the war, that it would really be over to-morrow or the next day, or the next week. It had lasted with more or less activity for thirty years, but now at last the smouldering embers seemed to be dying out.

The Djurjura mountains stretching eastward into Kabylia, which we knew so well in their peaceful aspect, with the sun shining upon their snow-clad summits from morning till night, were still the theatre of war. In the heart of the mountains, about sixty miles from Algiers, and at a height of nearly 3000 feet above the sea, the French army was busily engaged in building a fortress, in order to keep the Kabyles at bay and give protection to the colonists; and whilst this work was progressing with wonderful rapidity, the outposts of the army were carrying on a guerilla warfare with the unsubdued tribes. Their camps were pitched on the various heights, and the sound of the morning réveille was generally succeeded by the 'ping' of the rifle from some concealed Kabyles, and by a quick return volley from the French outposts.

We went to the Fort Napoleon at the invitation of some French officers, who, when they wrote to us, imagined (as all French people had imagined a hundred times before) that the war was over, and that it would be a good opportunity to visit the camp and the fort, in process of construction.²⁷ Two easy days' journey on horseback, halting for the night at a caravanserai called Les Issers, brought us to Tiziouzou, a small town and military depot on the borders of Kabylia, at the foot of the mountains, and but a few miles from the fort. At Les Issers we slept upon the ground, each man by the side of his own horse, as there was neither stabling nor sleeping accommodation to be had in the inn, which was crowded before we arrived, with troops and war matériel. To reach this, our first night's halting-place, we had had some rough riding, ending by fording in the evening, a rapid river which rose above the saddle-girths and nearly upset our active little horses. The night was starlight, and we lay down about fifty together, with fires burning in a circle round us, to prevent any surprise.

The route from Les Issers to Tiziouzou was crowded with baggage-waggons sticking in the mud, and with immense droves of camels and donkeys, on their way to the fort. The late rains had almost obliterated the military road (which was said to extend all the way from Algiers to the Fort Napoléon), and in some places it was turned into a river. The greater part of our route had been wild and uncultivated, but as we came near to Tiziouzou and approached the mountains, every valley was luxuriant with vegetation, fig-trees and olives grew in abundance, the former of enormous size. But nearly every inhabitant was French, and we, who had come to sketch and to see the Kabyles, were as yet disappointed at finding none but French soldiers, European camp-followers, and camel-drivers, on the way; and when we arrived at Tiziouzou, we were so shut in by mountains on all sides, that even the heights of Beni-Raten were concealed from view. It was fortunate that we obtained the shelter of a little inn on the night of our arrival, for the rain fell steadily in sheets of water, until our wooden house was soaked through, and stood like an island in the midst of a lake.

We sent our horses back to Algiers, and carrying our own knapsacks, set off in the early morning to walk up to the fort. A lively cantinière (attached to a regiment of Zouaves camped near Tiziouzou) walked with us and led the way, past one or two half-deserted Kabyle villages, by a short cut to the camp. The military road by which the artillery had been brought up was about fifteen miles, but by taking the steeper paths, we must have reduced the distance by more than half. At one point of the way the bare mountain side was so steep and slippery with the late rain, that it was almost impossible to ascend it, but some Arabs, with an eye to business worthy of the western world, had stationed themselves here with their camels to drag up pedestrians; a camel's tail was let for two sous and was in great request. The latter part of the ascent was through forests, and groves of olive and cork trees, looking cool and grey amongst the mass of rich vegetation, through which we had sometimes to cut a path.

It was a wild walk, but our merry little cantinière was so active and entertaining that we, encumbered with knapsacks, had enough to do to keep up with her, and indeed to comprehend the rapid little French histories that she favoured us with. Every now and then we heard through the trees the strains of 'Partant pour la Syrie,' or the rattle of a regimental drum, and came suddenly upon working parties on the road, which the army boasts was made practicable in three months.

After about four hours' clambering, we again emerge upon the road, near the summit, and in a few minutes more, come in sight of the fort and the pretty white tents of the camps on the surrounding hills. Here we must pause a few minutes, to give a picture of the state of things at the 'Fort Napoléon,' a few weeks before our arrival. We are indebted to Lieut. – Col. Walmisley, one of our countrymen who accompanied the expedition, for the following graphic account of a sharp action with the Kabyles: —

'Daylight dawned upon the Kabyle hills on the morning of the 24th June, 1857, and its light streamed over the serried ranks of the second division, as, under the command of General MacMahon, the head of the column marched out of the lines of Aboudid.

'Before it lay the heights of Icheriden, with its village and triple row of barricades, behind which the men of the Beni Menguillet anxiously watched the progress of the foe. The path of the column lay along a mountain ridge, and it was strange to see that column of between six and seven thousand men, advancing quietly and composedly, the birds singing around them; the Kabyles crowning every available hillock, the hawks and eagles slowly wheeling in large circles over their heads, and the bright rays of the morning sun gleaming on brighter bayonets.

'The Kabyle barricades remained black and silent as ever; not a bournous was to be seen, as the 54th and the Zouaves received orders to carry the position at the point of the bayonet. Before them lay a ridge covered with brushwood, affording capital shelter, but at about sixty or seventy paces from the stockades the brush had been cleared away, and now the occasional gleam of a bayonet, the report of a musket or two fired against the stockade, the loud ringing of the trumpets, as they gave forth in inspiriting tones the pas de charge, and the wild shouting of the men, as they pushed their way forward, told of the progress of the attack.

'Still the same stern heavy silence reigned over the hostile village. Was it indeed deserted, or was it the silence of despair? But now the bugle notes became shriller and more exciting; the shots quicker and more steady, as emerging from the bush, the attacking column rushed forward to the attack. Sixty paces of greensward were before them: but instantly, and as if by magic, a thousand reports broke the silence of the dark stockades, a wild yell rose from their defenders, as the hail of lead fell on the advancing regiments, and a long line of dead marked the advance. The Kabyles leaning their pieces over the joints of the trees, where they were fitted into each other, and through crevices and loopholes, offered little or no mark themselves to the shot; whilst not a ball of theirs missed its aim.

'But the Zouaves were not to be daunted; and leaving the ground dotted with their dead and dying comrades, on they rushed, a wild cheer rising from their ranks, and a volley of balls pattering a reply. Again the line of fire burst from the dark stockade, and the advancing column withered away. The ground was strewn with fallen forms, and the fire of the stockade fell fast and sure. The men gave way, seeking the shelter of the bushes; their officers dashing to the front, vainly attempting to lead them on. It was useless – even the sturdy Zouaves refused to cross the deadly slope, for to do so was death; on the green slope, across which the balls hurried fast and thick, lay whole ranks of French uniforms.

'The fire from stockade and bush raged fast and furious; well kept up on the side of the French, more deadly on that of the Kabyles, and still the men would not advance over the uncovered space, for it was certain death. Two thousand Kabyle marksmen lined the loopholes, and the balls now began to whiz round the heads of the generals and their staff.'

General MacMahon, who was wounded in this engagement, at last resorted to shells to dislodge the defenders; the result was successful, and the whole ended in a panic.

'Fast and furious now became the flight of the Kabyles, and all was havoc and confusion. The men of the Legion, mixed up with the Zouaves and the 54th, dashed after the fugitives, entering the villages with them, and bayoneting right and left with savage shouts, whilst down the steep sides of the hills, away over the ridges to the right and to the left, the waving bournous might be seen in flight!'

The curtain fell upon the Kabyle war soon after this action, and large detachments of troops were at once told off to build the fort. All around, on every promontory and hill, the little white tents were scattered thickly, and the sound of the bugle, and the sight of the red kepis of the soldiers, prevailed everywhere. But the war was practically over, civilians came up from Algiers – some to see, and some to trade – and quite a little colony sprung up. And here, on one of the heights shown in our little sketch, we establish ourselves again – whilst the Kabyle villages still smoulder in the distance, and revenge is deep in the hearts of the insurgent tribes, 'one peaceful English tent' is pitched upon the heights of Beni-Raten, and its occupants devote themselves to the uneventful pursuit of studying mountain beauty. We endeavour (and with some success) to ignore the military element; we listen neither to the réveille, nor to the too frequent crack of a rifle; our pursuits are not warlike, and, judging from the sights and sounds that sometimes surround us, we trust they never may be.

The view from this elevation is superb, – north, south, east and west, there is a wondrous landscape, but northward especially; where far above the purple hills, higher than all but a few snowy peaks, there stretches a horizontal line of blue, that seems almost in the clouds. Nothing gives us such a sense of height and distance, as these accidental peeps of the Mediterranean, and nothing could contrast more effectively than the snowy peaks in sunlight, against the blue sea.

All this we are able to study, in perfect security and with very little interruption; sketching first one mountain side clothed with a mass of verdure; another, rocky, barren, and wild; one day an olive-grove, another a deserted Kabyle village, and so on, with an infinite variety which would only be wearisome in detail.

And we obtain what is so valuable to an artist, and what is supposed to be so rare in Africa – variety of atmospheric effect. It is generally admitted (and we should be unwilling to contest the point), that English landscape is unrivalled in this respect, and that it is only form and colour, that we may study with advantage in tropical climates; but directly we ascend the mountains, we lose that still, serene atmosphere that has been called the 'monotony of blue.'

We read often of African sun, but very seldom of African clouds and wind. To-day we are surrounded by clouds below us, which come and gather round the mountain-peaks and remain until evening. Sometimes just before sunset, the curtain will be lifted for a moment, and the hill sides will be in a blaze of gold – again the clouds come round, and do not disperse till nightfall; and when the mountains are once more revealed, the moon is up, and they are of a silver hue – the sky immediately above, remaining quite unclouded. The air is soft on these half-clouded days, in spite of our height above the sea; and the showers that fall at intervals, turn the soil in the valleys into a hotbed for forcing hothouse plants, as we should call them in England.

The weather was nearly always fine, and we generally found a little military tent (lent to us by one of the Staff) sufficient protection and shelter, even on this exposed situation.

But we must not forget the winds that lived in the valleys, and came up to where our tents were pitched – sometimes one at a time, sometimes three or four together. Of all things that impressed us, during our stay upon the Kabyle hills, the beauty of the clouds, the purple tints upon the mountains, and the wind, will be remembered best. It is a common phrase, to 'scatter to the four winds;' but here the four winds came and met near our little camp, and sometimes made terrible havoc with our belongings. They came suddenly one day, and took up a tent, and flung it at a man and killed him; another time they came sighing gently, as if a light breeze were all we need prepare for, and in five minutes we found ourselves in the thick of a fight for our possessions, if not for our lives. And with the wind there came sometimes such sheets of rain, that turned the paths into watercourses, and carried shrubs and trees down into the valley; all this happening whilst the sea was calm in the distance, and the sun was shining fiercely on the plains. These were rough days, to be expected in late autumn and early spring, but not to be missed for a little personal discomfort, for Algeria has not been seen without a mountain storm.

Before leaving Kabylia, we will take one or two leaves from our note-book; just to picture to the reader (who may be more interested in what is going on at the camp, than in the various phases of the landscape) the rather incongruous elements of which our little society is made up.

There has been a general movement lately,²⁸ amongst the conquered tribes, who are beginning to re-establish themselves in their old quarters (but under French rule), which brings together for the night about a hundred Kabyles, with their wives and children.

Around the camp this evening there are groups of men and women standing, that bring forcibly to the mind, those prints of the early patriarchs from which we are apt to take our first and, perhaps, most vivid, impressions of Eastern life; and we cannot wonder at French artists attempting to illustrate Scriptural scenes from incidents in Algeria. There are Jacob and Joseph, as one might imagine them, to the life; Ruth in the fields, and Rachel by the well; and there is a patriarch coming down the mountain, with a light about his head as the sun's last rays burst upon him, that Herbert might well have seen, when he was painting Moses with the tables of the law. The effect is accidental, but it is perfect in an artistic sense, from the solemnity of the man, the attitude of his crowd of followers, the grand mountain forms which are partially lit up by gleams of sunset, and the sharp shadows cast by the throng.

This man may have been a warrior chief, or the head of a tribe; he was certainly the head of a large family, who pressed round him to anticipate his wants and do him honour. His children seemed to be everywhere about him; they were his furniture, they warmed his tent and kept out the wind, they begged for him, prayed for him, and generally helped him on his way. In the Koran there is a saying of similar purport to the words 'happy is the man that hath his quiver full of them' – this one had his quiver full of them, indeed, and whether he had ever done much to deserve the blessing, he certainly enjoyed it to the full.²⁹ Looked upon as a coloured statue he was, in some respects, a perfect type of beauty, strength, and dignified repose – what we might fitly call a 'study,' as he sat waiting, whilst the women prepared his evening meal; but whether from a moral point of view he quite deserved all the respect and deference that was paid to him, is another question.

As a picture, as we said before, he was magnificent, and there was a regal air with which he disposed the folds of his bournous, which we, clad in the costume of advanced civilization, could not but admire and envy. He had the advantage of us in every way, and made us feel it acutely. He had a splendid arm, and we could see it; the fine contour, and colour, of his head and neck were surrounded by white folds, but not concealed. His head was not surmounted with a battered 'wide-awake,' his neck was not bandaged as if it were wounded, his feet were not misshapen clumps of leather, his robes – but we have no heart to go further into detail. There is a 'well-dressed' French gentleman standing near this figure; and there is not about him one graceful fold, one good suggestive line, one tint of colour grateful to the eye, or one redeeming feature in his (by contrast) hideous tout ensemble.

These are everyday truths, but they strike us sometimes with a sort of surprise; we have discovered no new thing in costume, and nothing worth telling; but the sudden and humiliating contrast gives our artistic sensibilities a shock and fills us with despair.

A little way removed there is a warrior on horseback at prayers, his hands outstretched, his face turned towards the sun. It is as grand a picture as the last, but it does not bear examination. He came and sat down afterwards, to smoke, close to our tent, and we regret to say that he was extremely dirty, and in his habits, rather cruel. There were red drops upon the ground where his horse had stood, and his spur was a terrible instrument to contemplate; in the enthusiasm of a noble nature he had ridden his delicate locomotive too hard, and had, apparently, sometimes forgotten to give it a feed. It was a beautiful, black Arab steed, but it wanted grooming sadly; its feet were cracked and spread from neglect, and its whole appearance betokened rough usage. Perhaps this was an exceptional case, perhaps not; but to the scandal of those whose romantic picture of the Arab in his tent with his children and his steed, are amongst the most cherished associations, we are bound to confess that we have seen as much cruelty as kindness, bestowed by the Arabs and Kabyles, on their horses, and incline to the opinion that they are, as a rule, anything but tender and loving to their four-footed friends.

The Kabyles came round our tents in the morning before leaving, and the last we saw of our model patriarch, was flying before an enraged vivandière, who pursued him down the hill with a dish-cloth. He had been prowling about since dawn, and had forgotten the distinction between 'meum' and 'tuum.'

It has been said that there is 'no such thing as Arab embarrassment, and no such dignity as Arab dignity;' but the Arab or the Kabyle, as we hinted in a former chapter, appears to great disadvantage in contact with the French, and seems to lose at once in morale.

Another day, there is a flutter in our little camp, for 'the mail' has come in, in the person of an active young orderly of Zouaves, who, leaving the bulk of his charge to come round by the road, has anticipated the regular delivery by some hours, scaling the heights with the agility of a cat, and appearing suddenly in our midst. If he had sprung out of the earth he could not have startled us much more, and if he had brought a message that all the troops were to leave Africa to-morrow, he could scarcely have been more welcome.

And what has he brought to satisfy the crowd of anxious faces that assemble round the hut, dignified by the decoration of a pasteboard eagle and the inscription 'Bureau de Poste.' It was scarcely as trying a position for an official, as that at our own Post-office at Sebastopol in Crimean days, although there was eagerness and crowding enough to perplex any distributor; but it was very soon over, in five minutes letters and papers were cast aside, and boredom had recommenced with the majority. It was the old story – the old curse of Algeria doing its work; the French officers are too near home to care much for 'news,' and hear too frequently from Paris (twice a week) to attach much importance to letters. Newspapers were the 'pièces de résistance,' but there was not much news in 'La Presse' and its feuilleton consisted of two or three chapters of a translation of Dickens' 'Martin Chuzzlewit'; there was the 'Moniteur,' with lists of promotions in the army, and the usual announcement, that Napoleon, 'by the grace of God and the national will,' would levy new taxes upon the people; there was a provincial paper, containing an account of the discovery of some ruins near Carcassonne; there was 'Le Follet' for 'my lady commandant,' and a few other papers with illustrated caricatures and conundrums.

Some of the letters were amusing, as we heard them read aloud; one was too quaint not to mention, it was from a bootmaker in Paris to his dear, long-lost customer on the Kabyle Hills. He 'felt that he was going to die,' and prayed 'M'sieu le Lieutenant' to order a good supply of boots for fear of any sudden accident, 'no one else could make such boots for Monsieur.' And so on, including subjects of about equal importance, with the latest Parisian gossip, and intelligence of a new piece at the 'Variétés.' One other letter we may mention, that came up by the same post, to one other member of that little band, perched like eagles on the heights; it was also unimportant and from home, and the burden of it was this – 'Broadtouch' had stretched ten feet of canvas for a painting of one rolling wave, and 'Interstice' had studied the texture of a nut-shell until his eyes were dim.

We finish the evening as usual with dominoes and coffee; enjoying many a long and delightful chit-chat with our military friends. These pleasant, genial, but rather unhappy gentlemen do not 'talk shop,' it is tabooed in conversation, as strictly as at the 'Rag': but the stamp of banishment is upon their faces unmistakeably, and if they do speak of this foreign service (now that the war is nearly over), it is in language that seems to say, – 'all ye who enter here, leave Hope behind.'