Chapter 16: The Quarantine of the Valley

The spring thaw did not come to the mountains of Titteri with a gentle softening
of the earth. It came as a violent, deafening roar.

By the late days of March 1828, the thick snows of the Djurdjura peaks were
melting under a warm, wet wind from the south. The Oued Djemâa and the Oued
Isser rose four feet in a single night, turning from gray, icy streams into
wild, brown torrents that carried ancient mud, shattered pine trunks, and heavy
limestone boulders down through the gorges.

At Bordj Hamza, the sound of the melting ice dripping from the stone battlements
was a constant, rhythmic ticking, accompanied by the endless, roaring rush of
the river that spun the great waterwheels of the industrial valley.

Amine stood in the courtyard of the fort, his boots splashed with yellow clay,
watching Yusuf train the new horsemen.

They had taken the forty horses captured from the Constantine cavalry at Tizi
N'Ait Aicha, but Amine had forbidden Yusuf from training them in the
traditional manner of the Ottoman spahis. There were no exercises in swinging
the curved yatagan from the saddle, nor any practice in firing short, inaccurate
pistols at a gallop.

"Traditional cavalry is a waste of our resources, Yusuf," Amine said, his hand
resting on the wooden railing of the stable-gate. "A horse is a large, fragile
target. If a horseman charges a line of disciplined infantry armed with modern
muskets, both man and beast will be dead before they can smell the enemy's
powder. We are not going to build cavalry. We are going to build mounted
infantry."

Yusuf, who was adjusting the girth of a heavy gray stallion, turned with a look
of professional curiosity. "Mounted infantry, Sidi? You want them to ride to the
battle, but fight on foot?"

"Precisely," Amine said. "We will call them the Khayala—the Riders. They will
use the horses for mobility, allowing a squad of twenty men to cover forty miles
of mountain roads in a single day, appearing behind the enemy's lines when they
are least expected. But when the fight begins, they will dismount."

He pointed to the four Zouaoua recruits who were practicing the dismounting
sequence in the center of the courtyard.

"They ride in groups of four—the Rabaa," Amine explained. "When they meet the
enemy, three men will dismount instantly, drawing their Sabaa rifles from their
leather saddle-scabbards to form a skirmish line. The fourth man—the
Khaddem—will remain on horseback, holding the reins of all four horses behind
the safety of a hill or a rock wall. If the skirmishers must retreat, the horses
are ready. If they advance, the horse-holder follows them at a safe distance."

It was the classic dragoon tactic, optimized for the rugged, broken terrain of
the Atlas. With fifty mounted infantrymen, Amine could secure a hundred miles of
mountain trails, acting as a rapid-response force that could reinforce any
village or pass within hours of an alarm.

But mobility was useless without eyes.

That evening, a traveler arrived at the southern gate of the fort. He was
dressed in the simple, dusty wool burnous of a salt-merchant, his three
pack-mules laden with heavy sacks of gray rock-salt from the dry lakes of the
Sahara.

This was Salem, a Kouloughli merchant who had spent ten years traveling the
caravan routes between Algiers, Constantine, and the oasis towns of the south.
He was a quiet, watchful man with a quick eye for the movement of troops and a
memory that was as precise as a ledger. He was also the head of Amine's newly
established intelligence network—the Ayoon (the Eyes).

"Sidi," Salem said, bowing low as he entered Amine's private quarters, the smell
of damp wool and mule-sweat clinging to his clothes. "The news from the capital
is heavy. The French blockade is no longer a silent watch."

"What have their ships done?" Amine asked, pouring Salem a cup of hot, dark
coffee.

"They have begun to map the coast," Salem said, taking the cup with both hands
to warm his fingers. "Our fishermen from Sidi Fredj say that small French
rowboats have been seen entering the bay at night, under the cover of the
sea-mist. They are using lead-lines to measure the depth of the water, and their
officers are drawing maps of the dunes. My contacts in the shipping houses of
Algiers say the French king has already appointed his commander for the
invasion—General de Bourmont."

Amine's fingers tightened against his cedarwood compass.

Bourmont, his mind calculated. Historically, Louis-Auguste-Victor, Count de
Ghaisnes de Bourmont. The Minister of War who would lead the 1830 expedition.
The timeline is locking into place.

"And what of my brother-in-law, Ibrahim Pasha?" Amine asked. "Has he noticed the
French boats?"

Salem let out a soft, dry snort. "Ibrahim Pasha is too busy with his own court,
Sidi. He has convinced your father that the French are only posturing. But he
has not forgotten you. Mustafa Efendi, the Bey of Constantine, has sent three
envoys to Algiers, screaming that you have slaughtered his cavalry and are
building a fortress of rebels. Ibrahim has used this to convince the Diwan to
send an inspector to Hamza."

Amine leaned forward. "An inspector? Who?"

"Omer Beylerbey," Salem said, his voice dropping to a low, warning whisper. "A
high-ranking Ottoman official of the Algiers court. He is a corrupt man, but he
is no fool. He is bringing a guard of thirty Janissaries and a clerks' convoy.
They are coming to audit your grain taxes, inspect your garrison, and... see
what you are building in this valley."

"When do they arrive?"

"They crossed the Isser yesterday morning," Salem said. "They will reach the
entrance of the valley by tomorrow's noon."

Yusuf, who was standing by the window, let out a low curse. "Sidi... if Omer
Beylerbey enters this valley, he will see the blast furnace, the chemical works,
the waterwheels, and the multi-spindle lathes. He will see fifty Kabyles armed
with rifles that can kill his guard before they can draw their swords. He will
go back to Algiers and report that you have built a private empire. Ibrahim
Pasha will have the legal right to declare you a traitor, and they will send the
entire army of Algiers to crush us."

"We cannot let him see the valley," Amine said, his voice quiet, his mind
already analyzing the operational parameters of the problem.

"Do we ambush them in the gorge?" Yusuf asked, his hand going to his saber.
"Like we did with Constantine's men?"

"No," Amine said. "An ambush on a high court official would be an act of open
war. My father would have no choice but to send the Janissaries. We must turn
them back without firing a single shot."

"And how do we turn back thirty Janissaries who have the Dey's seal?" Yusuf
asked.

"We use their own terror against them," Amine said.

The next morning, three miles north of the fort, where the road from Algiers
entered the valley of Hamza, a strange barrier had been erected across the path.

It was a heavy gate of rough oak timbers, flanked on either side by a high wall
of thorns and sharp juniper branches that blocked the entire width of the
ravine. Flying from a high wooden pole in the center of the gate was a large,
pale white flag—the universal symbol of pestilence.

Standing behind the gate were four Kouloughli guards, dressed in simple gray
wool uniforms, their faces completely covered by thick, white linen cloths that
had been soaked in vinegar.

At noon, the delegation from Algiers appeared.

Omer Beylerbey rode a magnificent white mule, his long kaftan of green silk
protected from the mud by a heavy wool cloak. Behind him rode thirty
Janissaries, their brass helmets and long muskets glittering in the pale spring
sun, followed by three clerks on small ponies.

Omer pulled on his reins, his mule stopping ten paces from the thorn barrier. He
frowned, his round, fat face twisting in a look of profound irritation.

"What is this?" Omer shouted, his voice high and nasal. "Who has dared to block
the road of the Dey's inspector? Open this gate instantly!"

One of the Kouloughli guards, a veteran named Kassem whose face was wrapped in
the vinegar-soaked linen, stepped forward. He did not bow; he remained behind
the gate, his hand holding a long wooden staff.

"Stay back, Highness!" Kassem called out, his voice muffled by the cloth. "In
the name of Allah the Merciful, do not come closer! This valley is under the
Laazzara—the quarantine."

Omer Beylerbey's hand froze on his reins. The Janissaries behind him instantly
pulled their horses back, their faces turning pale under their turbans. In
the 1820s, there was no word in the Mediterranean that carried more terror than
pestilence. The plague, the yellow fever, the black cough—these were the silent,
invisible killers that could decimate a city in weeks, and against which no army
or wealth could offer protection.

"The... the plague?" Omer stammered, reaching into his cloak to pull out a silk
handkerchief, which he pressed tightly against his nose.

"The black cough, Highness," Kassem said, his voice carrying a perfect,
theatrical trembling. "It began in the lower Kabyle villages three weeks ago.
The victims cough blood, their throats swell until they cannot breathe, and they
die within twelve hours of the first shaking. We have buried twenty of our own
soldiers in the last three days. The Prince Amine himself has been touched by
the fever; he is currently in his chambers, his skin yellow as clay, unable to
rise."

Omer Beylerbey looked past the thorn barrier.

In the distance, where the valley opened toward the fort, a thin, dark column of
yellow-gray smoke was rising from the chimneys of the chemical works. To Omer's
terrified eyes, it looked like the smoke of the burning dead.

The wind shifted, carrying the sharp, acidic smell of sulfur dioxide and coal
smoke from the valley—a scent that smelled remarkably like the sulfur used in
Algiers to fumigate the houses of plague victims.

"The air is poisoned," one of the Janissary guards whispered, his horse rearing
in panic. "Highness, we must leave this place! If we enter this valley, we will
never see the Casbah again!"

Omer Beylerbey was a corrupt man, but he was also a man who loved his
comfortable life in the capital. To audit some grain taxes and inspect a remote
fort was not worth a horrible, choking death in a damp mountain valley.

"Where... where is the report?" Omer shouted through his handkerchief, his eyes
wide with terror as he looked at the vinegar-soaked mask of the guard.

Kassem reached down, picked up a small cedarwood box that had been placed on a
flat stone in front of the gate, and pushed it through a small opening in the
timbers using his long wooden staff.

"The records are inside, Highness," Kassem said. "We have fumigated the wood
with sulfur and washed the parchment in vinegar. It is safe to touch... if you
are brave."

Omer Beylerbey did not touch the box. He gestured wildly to his sergeant.

The sergeant rode forward, hooked the handle of the box with his long lance, and
carried it back to the clerks, his face turned away to avoid breathing any air
from the valley.

"We have seen enough!" Omer shouted, turning his mule so quickly the beast
nearly slipped on the wet clay. "Tell the Prince Amine that... that we pray for
his recovery! We will deliver the tax records to the Diwan! We will report that
the valley is closed by the hand of Allah!"

The delegation did not wait. They turned their horses and rode back toward the
north at a frantic gallop, their boots splashing in the mud, their colorful
cloaks flying in the wind as they fled the "poisoned" air of Hamza.

Amine stood on the high ledge of the fort's eastern wall, his pocket telescope
focused on the northern road. He watched the last of the Janissaries disappear
behind the bend of the hills.

He lowered the telescope. Beside him, Yusuf let out a loud, roaring laugh, his
hand slapping his thigh.

"By the spirit of my father, Sidi!" Yusuf gasped. "You have routed the Dey's
inspector with a basket of sulfur and a wet rag! Ibrahim Pasha will read those
tax ledgers in Algiers, smelling the vinegar on the parchment, and he will not
dare to send a single soldier within thirty miles of this fort!"

"It has bought us six months, Yusuf," Amine said, his voice quiet, his eyes
watching the smoke rise from the chemical works below. "By the time the autumn
comes, the French will be ready to sail. My father's court will have no time to
worry about our quarantine."

He turned to look at the workshop.

"We have the time we need. Let us focus on the rifles. I want every one of the
new sixty Zouaoua to have fifty rounds of our glazed powder and fifty percussion
caps in their cartridge boxes before the end of the month."