As naval custom dictated, Rork and Wake sat in opposite ends of the boat on the way in. Rork in the bow faced aft and studied the work of the crew. In the sternsheets, Wake looked forward and surveyed Rabat. He wasn’t impressed.
It reminded him of a larger version of Melilla.
***
Remembering the Franco influence in Morocco and not knowing Arabic, Wake tried out his bad French, asking a man on the wharf, “Où se trouve le ambassade de Etats Unis?” The man waved a hand angrily and said something unintelligible.
“De France?” Wake asked again.
That got a nonchalant wave toward a huddle of buildings beside the fort that squatted on a low hilltop overlooking the mouth of the river. On that side of the river, near the fort, there were some substantial structures, but on the other side of the river, which Wake later learned was Salè, a mass of hovels squatted along the sand dunes.
As they started walking toward the indicated buildings, Rork said, “I didn’t know you could speak Frog, sir.”
“Picked up a little in the West Indies and a little in Italy. Know just enough to get me into trouble. That’s why I’ve got you here, Rork. To get me out of trouble!”
“Aye, aye, sir. Jes’ don’t make it too difficult, if you please, sir. I’m gettin’ a bit old now.”
Just down from the walls of the fortress they found the French embassy, which was anything but impressive. A mud hut of two stories with no windows in the front, it had a solid mahogany door emblazoned with a faded seal of the Second Empire. Wake guessed that the new seal of the Third Republic hadn’t quite made it out to the lesser diplomatic posts.
As he was about to open the door and was wondering what the American embassy looked like, he saw a battered sign for it next door and walked over. It was one story, even more ramshackle in appearance with the mud crumbling in the corners and cracked everywhere, a torn banner hung limply on a four-foot pole over its doorway. As he got closer Wake realized with a flash of anger that it was an American flag.
He and Rork entered a sparse anteroom with a few chairs scattered about and a print of Lincoln on the wall.
“Oh, hello!” A thin grandfatherly man in shirtsleeves peeked around the doorway leading to a back room. “Did you just come ashore from the British warship that just arrived? The British legation is a block down to the right—”
“Yes, we did,” answered Wake. “Lieutenant Peter Wake and Bosun’s Mate Sean Rork, United States Navy, here on special assignment to see the ambassador, sir. When can we see him? It’s a matter of the utmost seriousness.”
“A serious matter?” the man said pleasantly. “My goodness, I would suppose so. Sent the Navy, did they? Well, I can only imagine then how serious this must be.”
“Yes, sir. Could you please notify the ambassador of my arrival?”
“I think we already have, young man. I’m the ambassador. John Pickering, at your service, sir. I surmise that you’re here regarding the missing missionaries?”
Wake heard a whispered snicker from Rork as he replied to Pickering. “Sir, I apologize. I thought—”
“Ah, don’t fret it, son. This is a one-man shop. I do it all. Now, let’s get you both comfortable and talk this mess over.”
Pickering brought out orange juice. Around a low, beautifully inlaid table he explained the situation. Two months earlier, in early March, a new group of Catholic missionaries had begun a hospital in the hill country northeast of Rabat, on the road to the ancient imperial city of Meknes, in the central highlands of Morocco. They were the only Christians in the area and were not there to convert the locals, merely fulfill their Christian duty and serve the people with modern medicine. The missionaries were mostly French, but there were a few from Louisiana also, which was how the U.S. got involved. One of the missing was the French ambassador’s wife, who was an interested patron of the mission and had been visiting when everything happened.
The missionaries had disappeared overnight—all twenty-one of them. There was no warning, no impending crisis, no conflict with local people or authorities. The local sheik proclaimed innocence and outrage and put out a reward for information. The sultan of Morocco, Hassan, ordered the army to search for them and all of his subjects to assist to the effort. The efforts were to no avail. No sign of the missing ten men and eleven women of the Charity of Kindness Mission had ever been found and no clue uncovered.
The Vatican, the French government, and the American government protested to Sultan Hassan, the French threatening economic sanctions and possible military force if the missionaries were not returned.
Pickering said he believed Hassan was not in cahoots with the abductors. It would have been against his best interest, for it was a perfect excuse for the French to do to Morocco what they had done to Algeria forty years earlier—occupy it totally and install a puppet sultan. No, said Pickering, whatever happened, it was not authorized by the sultan or even the sheik.
“What can we do, sir?” asked Wake.
“Well, Lieutenant, I thought there would be at least one ship and a lot of men. No offense, but just the two of you can’t do very much, can you? Still, the sultan is mounting another search, led by the commander of his personal guards. The French ambassador is going along. Perhaps you could go too, to demonstrate our concern?”
“Bosun Rork and I would be happy to assist him, sir. My admiral has directed me to assess the situation, advise him via telegraph or letter, then do what we can, as a show
