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n o r t h a f r i c a
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NORTH AFRICA
A History from Antiquity to the Present
Revised Edition Phillip C. Naylor

u n i v e r s i t y o f t e x a s p r e s s a u s t i n
Copyright © 2009, 2015 by the University of Texas Press
All rights reserved
Printed in the United States of America
Revised edition, 2015

Requests for permission to reproduce material from this

work should be sent to:
Permissions
University of Texas Press
P.O. Box 7819
Austin, TX 78713-7819
http://utpress.utexas.edu/index.php/rp-form

∞ The paper used in this book meets the minimum

requirements of ansi/niso z39.48-1992 (r1997)
(Permanence of Paper).

The Library of Congress cataloged the first edition as follows:

Naylor, Phillip Chiviges.
North Africa : a history from antiquity to the present /
Phillip C. Naylor—1st ed.
p. cm.
Includes bibliographical references and index.
1. Africa, North—History. I. Title.
dt167.n39 2009
961—dc22 2008053138

isbn 978-0-292-76190-2 (rev. ed.)

doi:10.7560/761902
 To my family
and
for my students
THIS PAGE INTENTIONALLY LEFT BLANK
 c o n t e n t s

List of Maps ix
A Note to the Reader xi
Preface to First Edition xiii
Preface to Revised Edition xv

Introduction 1
1. Ancient North Africa and Its Expansive Civilizations 15
2. Rome and North Africa 35
3. Medieval North Africa
From the Arrival of Islam to the Berber Empires 57
4. The Almoravid and the Almohad Empires and Their
Successor States 89
5. Turkish Ascendance and Moroccan Independence 109
6. European Colonialism in North Africa 141
7. The Decolonization of North Africa 168
8. Post-Colonial and Contemporary North Africa
Egypt, Libya, and Tunisia 193
9. Post-Colonial and Contemporary North Africa
Algeria, Morocco, and Western Sahara 215

Conclusion The Peril and Promise of North Africa 247

Afterword The North African Spring 253
Notes 279
Glossary 335
Bibliography 341
Index 373
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l i s t o f m a p s

Contemporary Northern Africa xvii

Ancient Northern Africa 16
The Egyptian New Kingdom 20
Northern Africa During the Roman Period 36
North Africa During the Early Islamic Period 63
The Maghrib and al-Andalus: Ninth to Eleventh Centuries 69
The Fatimid Era 81
Berber Empires 92
Post-Almohad Period 96
The Mamluk Sultanate 112
The Ottoman Empire 118
Sa‘di Expansion 129
Colonial Northern Africa (1914) 142
Contemporary Egypt, Libya, and Tunisia 194
Contemporary Algeria, Morocco, and Western Sahara 216
THIS PAGE INTENTIONALLY LEFT BLANK
 a n o t e t o t h e r e a d e r

Given the targeted audience for this book, I tried to keep my Arabic translit-
erations consistent and practical. Thus it is Malik Bennabi rather than Mālik
bn Nabī. I used ‘ for the Arabic ‘ayn when that letter appears in the middle of
a word or name, such as Ya‘qub, but not when it introduces or ends a word or
name. Thus, it is Uqba bn Nafi rather than ‘Uqba bn Nafi‘. Hamzas appear as
’ as in Qur’an, ra’y, qa’id, Salah Ra’is, and al-mu’minin. Introductory and fi-
nal hamzas are omitted. I have also occasionally kept French transliterations
since they frequently appear in English narratives—for example, Abd al-Ha-
mid Ben Badis rather than Abd al-Hamid bn (or ibn) Badis. Although techni-
cally prince or commander should translate or transliterate as amir (“prince,
commander”), I use the more common word emir. Some Arabic words are not
italicized since they appear in English dictionaries or are commonly seen in
the press, such as madrasa, sharif, hajj, and ulama. The glossary should help
with the terms.
THIS PAGE INTENTIONALLY LEFT BLANK
 p r e f a c e t o f i r s t e d i t i o n

North Africa is understudied, and this must change. In his presidential ad-
dress on 18 November 2007 at the Middle East Studies Association meeting
in Montréal, Canada, Professor Zachary Lockman emphasized the need to
devote greater attention to North Africa. Having researched in Algeria and
having directed the Western civilization program at Marquette University, I
became acutely aware of North Africa’s historical significance. Nevertheless,
its formative influence on the development of European, Mediterranean,
and African civilizations is usually understated or neglected in textbooks.
North Africa’s contributory significance needs to be asserted or at the least
considered.
I wrote this book since no introductory survey of North Africa meets my
pedagogical needs. For example, Jamil M. Abun-Nasr’s A History of the Maghrib
(1971) and A History of the Maghrib in the Islamic Period (1987) are outstanding,
but challenging books for most beginning students. In addition, in spite of
Egypt’s cultural and historical difference, if not autonomy, I chose to include
it along with the Maghrib for reasons mentioned in the Introduction. My book
is an interpretive narrative and meant to be a concise rather than a compre-
hensive historical survey of North Africa for students and general readers—a
sahib or companion rather than a formal textbook. I hope it will also be useful
to scholars, especially those in the field whose indispensable collective work
and engagement I have benefited from and admired for decades.
Although I wrote most of this book primarily at home and at Marquette,
I wish to acknowledge my cousin, Professor Constance Cryer Ecklund, who
provided hospitality and space at her home in Connecticut resulting in sever-
al drafted chapters. I reviewed and revised pages at Professor Alex D. Naylor’s
home in Illinois between fraternal discussions on foreign policy (the need to
understand history and culture) and the White Sox (the status of the pitch-
ing staff). Colleagues accorded exceptional time and support at Marquette’s
 xiv |||  n o r t h a f r i c a

Raynor Memorial Libraries and at the American Geographical Society Library

at the University of Wisconsin–Milwaukee. I especially appreciate the inter-
est of Marquette professors Richard Taylor, Irfan Omar, David E. Gardinier,
F. Paul Prucha, S.J., Roland J. Teske, S.J., Terrence Crowe, and Julian Hills.
Abd al-Hamid Alwan, the brother of my ustadh (professor) Muhammad Bakr
Alwan, kindly checked Arabic translations. Others who provided direct or in-
direct assistance included Enaya Othman, Adam Reed, Reverend Jon Boukis,
Dan Johnson, G. Jon Pray, Nick Schroeder, Greg Shutters, Laura J. Lindemann,
and professors Rudolph A. Helling, William A. Hoisington, John Entelis,
James Miller, and Robert and Mildred Mortimer. In April 2008, Professor Julia
Clancy-Smith delivered the annual Reverend Henry W. Casper, S.J., Lecture at
Marquette University. She graciously permitted me to refer to her presenta-
tion derived from a chapter from her forthcoming Mediterranean Passages:
Migrants and Mobilities in Nineteenth-Century North Africa (see Bibliography).
I especially want to thank the reviewers of the manuscript.
I wish to acknowledge Robert Sharwood of City Light Books for the repro-
duction of Ibn Hazm’s “My Beloved Comes” in Poems of Arab Andalusia, trans-
lated by Cola Franzen from the Spanish of Emilio García Gómez, 1989.
Professor Andrew Tallon, editor of Marquette University Press and a pro-
fessor in the Department of Philosophy, expedited the rapid production of
a quickly drafted “brief” edition (2005) custom-published for use only in my
North Africa course. The present volume amplifies and expands that book’s
narrative and corrects its errors. I enjoyed conversations on Andy’s front
porch. Jim Burr and Wendy Moore of the University of Texas Press enthusi-
astically embraced the project. In-house copyeditor Lynne Chapman was
especially understanding regarding deadlines and provided astonishingly
quick responses to my queries. I also appreciate Salena Krug’s close reading
of the manuscript as well as her questions and comments. As the dedication
affirms, my Marquette University students motivated and inspired me, espe-
cially those from the History of North Africa course. My wife and children fur-
nish constant encouragement.
While writing this book, my principal sahib, especially during late nights
and early mornings, was Montague François Naylor, my family’s Standard
Poodle. Monty’s company is especially appreciated. Huwa sadiqan azizan wa
mukhlisan!
 p r e f a c e t o r e v i s e d e d i t i o n

I wish to thank colleagues who considerately told me that they found the first
edition useful in their courses. I have now added an afterword to take into
account the “North African Spring.”
A trip to North Africa and West Asia in January–February 2011 with Terence
Miller, the director of the Office of International Education at Marquette Uni-
versity and a tireless advocate of MENA (Middle East and North Africa) stud-
ies, immeasurably enhanced this edition. Thanks, Terry. The library staffs
at Marquette University, the University of Wisconsin–Milwaukee, and North-
western University (notably David Easterbrook) provided wonderful assis-
tance. My coeditorship of the Journal of North African Studies with George Joffé
has included the sharing of ideas regarding the history of North Africa along-
side dealing with article submissions. I appreciate not only this professional
relationship, but also the opportunity to communicate regularly with such
a distinguished scholar of North African studies. In addition, Julia Clancy-
Smith arrived at Marquette University in fall semester 2013 to hold the Asso-
ciation of Marquette University Women Chair. This gave me the opportunity
to spend time with a good friend and a renowned historian of North Africa
(and her husband, Carl). The last time Julia was on campus, as the preface to
the first edition recounts, I had a chance to study a draft of what became her
award-winning book, Mediterraneans: North Africa and Europe in an Age of Mi-
gration, c. 1800–1900. This work is a testament to North Africa’s transcultural
character and history.
I am grateful for the particular interest and support offered by John Entelis,
Rob and Mimi Mortimer, Hugh Roberts, Bobby Parks, Susan Miller, Laryssa
Chomiak, William Lawrence, William Jordan, Bruce Maddy-Weitzman, Samy
Tayie, Azzedine Layachi, Yahia Zoubir, Aomar Boum, Anouar Boukhars, Abd
al-Hamid Alwan, Geoff Porter, William A. Hoisington, Donald Holsinger, Da-
vid Gardinier, F. Paul Prucha, S. J., Ronald Zupko, Enaya Othman, Irfan Omar,
Exploring the Variety of Random
Documents with Different Content
crowing and exultation on his part. The next day or two I spent
chiefly in trying to guess at the nature of the hold which Peter
exercised over the gentleman. That he was the spider and Mr
Bannister the fly, I felt certain after making some inquiries regarding
the character of the latter. Mr Bannister was spoken of by all as the
soul of honour and goodness. I was more than disappointed at
losing Peter—I was angry; for in leaving he did not scruple to say
some nasty things regarding my capacity, and to hint in a lordly
fashion that any other attempt to interfere with him would be
followed by a letter “from his lawyer.” I replied, in the irritation of the
moment, that I should probably interfere with him before long in
such a way that his lawyer would be powerless to help him or injure
us. I ought not to have spoken so rashly, but then I felt savage, and,
as good luck would have it, the very boldness of the threat added to
my reputation when the spider-devourer had adjusted things nicely
to my hands. Thus many of us live—continually tottering between a
great success and a great failure. To the spider-devourer I now
come, though, of course, I did not at first recognise him in that
character.
Not many days after Peter’s release I was accosted at the head
of Leith Walk by a sharp-witted fellow, pretty well known to me,
named Dick McQueen. Dick was not a thief, but one who lived chiefly
by billiards and cards. He had been ostler, waiter, boots, groom,
cabdriver, and I know not all what by turns, and was about as keen
a blade as it is possible to become by continually rubbing edges with
others as sharp. He was always poor, and I think was partly
supported by relatives at a distance.
 “I believe you said you’d take Peter Hart before long,” he said to
me, after some of that preliminary talk which conjurers and men of
the world use to throw one off his guard.
“Did I?” was my careless reply.
“You’ll never do it single-handed,” he darkly continued, “but if
you could make it worth my while I’m ready to give you the straight
tip, which will book him for twenty years.”
“What do you mean?”
“Twenty years to him is surely worth as many pounds to me?” he
suggestively returned.
“Perhaps, but I’m not in a position to offer anything; indeed, I’d
much rather do the work myself.”
“You can’t, for Peter’s got a gent at his back who’ll stand any
amount of bleeding, and he doesn’t need to put out a hand now.
Now, if you could only help me to find out who that gent is, I believe
he’d stand a poney to get rid of Peter.”
I watched Dick’s face keenly for some moments in silence.
“You don’t know who the gent is, then?” I said at last,
suspiciously.
“No; I’ve tried hard to find out, and I’ve watched Peter all over
the town to no purpose. He’s too blessed fly for me.”
“Have you any idea what hold Peter has upon the gent?” I asked,
after a pause to think.
Dick bestowed upon me one of the most superlatively cunning
winks that humanity could create.
“I’ve an idea,” he curtly answered.
“Well, what is its nature?”
 “Look here, McGovan, you’re a detective, and pretty fly, but you
don’t come it over me so easy,” he retorted sharply, but without any
anger. “I’ll swop secrets with you, there! Nothing could be fairer,
could it? You find out the gent’s name and address and gi’ me them,
and then I’ll tell you what hold Peter has on him.”
“Is it anything in connection with that hold which is to book Peter
for twenty years,” I quietly continued.
“Oh, no; that’s a different affair altogether—a job Peter did years
ago down in Sunderland. I was there at the time, and know all about
it, and I’m the only one who has the real tip in his hands.”
“Why are you so anxious to get rid of Peter?” I presently
inquired. “Have you quarrelled?”
“No, not exactly, but Peter cheated me out of half-a-crown
months ago, and I’ve never forgotten it, nor never will.”
Half-a-crown! fancy a man being threatened with twenty years’
entombment—probably the whole term of his life—through cheating
a companion out of a miserable half-crown! If Peter had only known
that a spider-devourer was on his track, would he not have hastened
to place a whole heap of half-crowns at his enemy’s disposal, and
have abjectly craved his pardon as well?
I took the proposal of Dick to avizandum; and shortly decided to
let him have the desired information. I had first paid a visit to Mr
Bannister, and found him not only willing but eager to pay twenty
pounds to any one who would give such information as would lead
to Peter’s incarceration, conditionally, of course, that his name did
not appear in the case. I made no conditions, but allowed Dick to
settle his own terms. Before I gave him Mr Bannister’s name and
address, I insisted on being told what hold Peter had on that
gentleman, when Dick readily answered—
“Do you know Bell Diamond—she who’s said to be Peter’s sister,
though her name’s different? Well, I don’t know all the outs and ins
of it, but Bell is said to be that gent’s real and lawful wife.”
“Never!”
“A fact, I believe. Peter’s got all the papers somewhere to prove
it. They were married quite young—twenty years ago, at least—
when Bell wasn’t such a harridan as she looks now.”
The moment this information was tendered I regretted my
compact. What though I sent Dick to Mr Bannister, and the money
were cheerfully paid, if the arrest and imprisonment of the
gentleman himself on a charge of bigamy followed? The very
execution of my duty would then look, in the eyes of those most
interested, an act of the deepest treachery. There was no going
back, however, and I could only hope that Dick had been misled or
mistaken. The same afternoon Dick appeared at the office, and gave
minute details of a daring forgery case in which Peter Hart had been
engaged years before. The facts were so striking that we were for a
time doubtful of their reality, and telegraphed south for information.
The answer put at rest every doubt. Two men had been tried and
convicted in connection with the affair, but they were mere tools,
and the principal had escaped. That man was said to be Peter Hart,
changed only in name; and an officer able to identify the real culprit
was on his way to Edinburgh when the reply had been despatched.
So far Dick’s information seemed valuable and accurate, and with
the greatest alacrity and delight I went for Peter Hart, whom I found
sitting at his ease in his inn—the same public-house in which the
former arrest had taken place.
He returned my salutation rather sternly and haughtily, and
resumed his game with the air of a man who was certain to be the
last to be “wanted” by me.
“I’m waiting on you, Peter,” I at length pointedly remarked.
“Oh, you are, are you?” he snappishly and defiantly answered,
jumping up with the greatest readiness. “Perhaps you’ll take me to
the office and lock me up as you did before, and risk me bringing an
action of damages against you and the rest of ’em? Perhaps you’ll be
kind enough to call in a policeman to hit me over the head and arms
like as he did the last time, eh?” and after this scathing and satirical
outburst he paused for breath, to pose grandly before his friends,
thinking doubtless that he had quite cowed and overawed me.
“There is a man at the door,” I quietly answered, bringing out my
bracelets, “but he won’t need to hit you over the head unless you
act as foolishly as you did the last time. You’re not afraid of these!”
“Afraid of them? Not me. I want them on—I want them on badly.
See, I’ll put them on myself. Now take me away, and abuse me, and
lock me up, and then take the consequences!”
Delighted to find that his facetious mood made him so pliant, I
obeyed him in every particular, and Peter’s exultant smile only faded
when the first two or three questions had been put to him at the
office. The moment “Sunderland” was mentioned his jaw fell, and he
fixed upon me a look of hatred most flattering and pleasing to me.
On searching the lining of Peter’s coat we came upon a flat packet of
papers. There were some six or seven letters, and a properly
authenticated certificate of marriage, all proving that Isabella
Diamond had been courted and married some twenty years before
by Matthew Bannister. Peter’s rage had been working up during the
search, and he now shouted out that he knew who had set that
“bloodhound,” as he was pleased to name myself, on his track, and
after a burst of the most awful language, he wound up by accusing
Mr Bannister of having two wives living, and commanding us to go
and arrest the gentleman as smartly as we had arrested the rogue.
When the papers had been discovered I fully expected to have
that disagreeable task to perform. The whole case seemed clear and
the proof positive to my mind, for I had seen the working of the
hidden springs from the first. But the law has certain forms of its
own; and I was sent first to Bell Diamond herself, who was the
proper person to make the charge. To my surprise, though she gave
vent to rage and vituperation over the capture of Peter, she most
positively refused to charge Mr Bannister with bigamy; nay in the
very face of the discovered papers she swore most positively that
she had never been married in her life, and had never spoken to Mr
Bannister. My firm conviction, upon hearing this extraordinary denial,
was that Bell had a spark of generosity in her breast, low as she had
fallen, and wished to save the man who had once loved her from the
ignominy of a prison; but in that I was very far mistaken. Bell was
actuated by a very different motive—a desire to get well out of an
awkward plight and a very threatening complication. The secret was
partly laid bare by referring to Mr Bannister, but it was not wholly
made clear till long after.
Mr Bannister had really married a girl named Isabella Diamond,
who drifted away from him and was lost sight of. That lost wife,
after sinking lower and lower, died in a lodging-house in Glasgow, in
which Peter Hart and his sister at that time lived. Nelly Hart was in
trouble and likely to be taken, and the name of the dead woman
was boldly given in as Helen Hart, while the living owner took the
name of Bell Diamond, as well as the papers left by her, and
vanished in the direction of Edinburgh. There they remained for
some time, till, by merest accident, they discovered that Mr
Bannister was newly married, and conceived the plan of frightening
him into paying black mail, under the idea that his lost wife was still
alive.
Where there is real love there is always perfect trust, and Mr
Bannister had confided the whole story of his life to the devoted girl
who had laid her all at his feet; and it was that knowledge and the
idea that she was to be torn from him for ever which had caused her
terrible agitation and swoon on the occasion of my first visit to the
house.
Peter Hart duly received his sentence of twenty years, and Dick
McQueen, the spider-killer, as I may name him, was avenged of his
half-crown.
 THE SPOILT PHOTOGRAPH.
The photographer had put up a rickety erection in shape of a tent
close to the grand stand at Musselburgh race-course. He was a
travelling portrait-taker, and his “saloon” was a portable one,
consisting of four sticks for the corners and a bit of thin cotton to
sling round them. There was no roof, partly from poverty and partly
to let in more light. It was the first day of the races, and masses of
people had been coming into the place by every train and available
conveyance.
The photographer’s name was Peter Turnbull—a tall, lanky fellow,
like an overgrown boy who had never got his appetite satisfied. He
was clad in the shabbiest of clothes, but talked with the stately
dignity of an emperor or a decayed actor. In spite of the gay crowds
pressing past outside, business did not come very fast to Turnbull,
so, after waiting patiently inside like a spider for flies, he issued from
his den and tried to force a little trade with his persuasive tongue.
In front of his tent he had slung up a case of the best
photographs he could pick up for money, which were likely to pass
for his own, and occasionally some of those bent on pleasure paused
to look at the specimens, when Turnbull at once tackled them to give
him an order. Women he invariably asked to have their “beautiful”
faces taken; men, who are not accustomed to be called beautiful, or
to think themselves so, he manipulated in a different fashion. He
appealed to them as to whether they hadn’t a mother who would
like a portrait of them always beside her, or a sweetheart who would
value it above a mountain of diamonds. Turnbull’s appearance was
against him—he looked hungry down to the very toes of his boots—
and most of those he addressed were as suspicious of his eloquence
as of that of a book canvasser.
At length, however, he did get a man to listen to him—a sailor,
evidently, with a jovial, happy look about his face, and plenty of
money in his pocket.
“You’ll be just off your ship, I suppose, you’re looking so fresh
and smart,” said Turnbull at a venture. “Your sweetheart will be
pleased to see you, but she’d be more pleased if you brought her a
good portrait to leave with her.”
The sailor laughed heartily.
“Sweetheart?” he echoed between his convulsions of merriment.
“Why, I’m a married man.”
“So much the better,” returned the photographer, not to be
daunted. “She’ll want your portrait exactly as you stand—not as you
were before this voyage, or when you were courting her. Folks’ faces
change so soon.”
“Maybe they do, but their hearts remain the same,” returned the
sailor cheerily.
“Well, not always—they change, too, sometimes,” said Turnbull,
with the air of one who had bitterly experienced the truth of his
words; “but with your portrait always beside her, her heart couldn’t
change. Just step in—I won’t keep you a moment, and you can take
it with you. You’ll have it, and she’ll have it, long after the races are
forgotten.”
 The sailor easily yielded, and followed him into the tent, and then
Turnbull, having now a professional interest in the man, took notice
of his dress and appearance particularly for the first time. The man
was low in stature, thick set, and evidently a powerful fellow. He
wore an ordinary sailor’s suit of dark blue, but had for a neckerchief
a red cotton handkerchief loosely rolled together, and so carelessly
tied that the ends hung down over his breast.
In order to get all the sailor’s face into the portrait, Turnbull with
some difficulty persuaded him to remove his cap, and then drew
from him an admission that his objection arose from the fact that
there was a flesh mark on one side of his forehead which he did not
wish to appear in the portrait. The difficulty was got over—as it was
with Hannibal—by taking a side-view, and the first attempt came out
all right, so far as the portrait was concerned. But the sailor wished
to appear as if he had just removed his cap, and with that in his
hand, so the first was put aside as spoilt, and another taken, which,
though not so successful, pleased the owner better, as in that the
cap appeared in his hand. The portrait was finished and framed, and
so free and good-natured was the owner that he insisted on paying
for the spoilt one, which, however, he refused to take with him.
While Turnbull had been putting a frame on the portrait, the sailor
took out a long piece of tobacco and a pocket knife and cut himself
a liberal quid, at the same time offering a piece to the photographer,
which was accepted. The knife with which the tobacco was cut was
a strong one, with a long, straight blade and a sharp point.
The whole transaction over, they bade each other good-day, and
the sailor disappeared among the crowds of spectators and betting
men on the course with the avowed intention of enjoying himself,
and scattering some money before he went home.
Six or seven hours later a man was found lying in one of the
narrow back lanes of the town, so inert, and smelling so strongly of
drink, that more than one person had passed him under the
impression that he was drunk, and without putting out a hand to
help. At length the ghastly hue of his face attracted attention, and it
was found that he was lying in a pool of blood, which had flowed
from two deep wounds in his breast and side, and thence oosed out
at the back of his clothes on the ground below.
Some of the crowd who gathered about him as he was being
carried to a house close by identified him as a baker named Colin
McCulloch, belonging to a town some miles off, but who was well
known in a wide district from the fact that he went about with a
bread van. He was not quite dead when found, but an examination
of his wounds soon indicated that life was ebbing away.
One of these was as deep as the doctor’s finger could reach, and
appeared to have been inflicted with the narrow, straight blade of a
long, sharp-pointed knife.
I had been on the race-course for the greater part of the day
looking for a man who did not turn up, and heard of the occurrence
only when I called at the station before leaving for town. It had
been decided that McCulloch was not fit to be removed, and I went
to see him, but found him far beyond speech or explanation. By
visiting the spot on which he had been found I discovered a girl who
gave me the first clue.
She had been passing along the lane, and had been “feared” as
she expressed it, to pass McCulloch, who was tottering along in the
same direction, very drunk and demonstrative, though all alone.
Every one was away at the races, and the narrow lane seemed quite
deserted, but there appeared in front a sailor, who had no sooner
sighted McCulloch than he began quarrelling with him and
threatening him. Thankful of the opportunity, the girl slipped past
during the quarrel, having just time to notice that the sailor was a
short, thick-set fellow, and that he wore a red cotton handkerchief
for a necktie. When she was at a safe distance she chanced to look
back, and saw the sailor give McCulloch “a drive in the breast,” and
so knock him down. She did not wait to see anything more, but
hurried home, thinking that it was only an ordinary drunken quarrel.
Questioned by me, she could not say whether the sailor had used
a knife. Her idea was that he had only given the man a drive with his
hand to knock him down or get him out of the way. The sailor spoke
in a low tone; McCulloch was noisy and defiant. She saw no knife in
the sailor’s hand, and was sure he was a stranger. She did not think
she would know him again, as she did not look at his face, but she
knew every one about the town, and was positive that the sailor did
not belong to the place. It was the sailor who stopped McCulloch,
whom he seemed to know; and she thought he was quite sober,
though pale and angry-looking. “Look me in the face and say it’s not
true,” were the only words she could remember hearing, and they
were spoken in a fierce tone by the sailor, just as she was getting
beyond earshot.
Having thus a little to work upon, I tried all the exits of the town
for some trace of him, without success. He had not gone away by
rail or coach, and no one had seen him leave on foot, so far as I
could discover; but that was to be expected in the state of the town.
Dozens of sailors with red neckties might have come and gone and
never been noticed in such a stir. In the town itself I was more
successful. To my surprise I found that a man answering the
description had visited nearly every public-house in the place. He
had never spoken or called for drink; he had merely looked through
the houses in a pallid, excited manner, and gone his way.
“He seemed to be looking for some one,” a publican said to me,
“but he was gone before I could ask him.”
I spent a good deal of time in the place, though not sure that if I
got that man I should be getting the murderer, and returned to
Edinburgh with the last train. I went back again next morning, and
found McCulloch still alive, and sensible enough to be able to give an
assent or dissent when asked a question. But about the murderous
attack upon himself he could not or would not give a sign. He would
only stare, or shut his eyes, or turn away. The doctor thought he did
not understand me—that the patient’s head was not yet quite clear;
I thought quite the reverse. The same curious circumstance occurred
when it was suggested that his deposition should be taken.
McCulloch had no deposition to make, or would not make one. He
seemed quite prepared to die and give no sign.
Not an hour later I was favoured with a visit from Turnbull, the
travelling photographer. He had been lodging in the town, and of
course had heard of the strange crime. He had heard also of my
unsuccessful hunt for the sailor, and would probably have gone up to
Edinburgh to see me had he not been loth to lose another day at the
race-course, his stance being taken for three days.
I could not conceive what the lank, hungry-looking being could
want with me, or why there should be about his lean jaws such a
smirk of intense satisfaction, as he gave his name and occupation.
“A murder has been committed—or what is as good as a murder,
for the man, I believe, is at his last gasp,” he exultingly began.
“There will be a hanging match—that is, if you can trace and capture
the murderer. Now, Mr McGovan, you’re said to be clever, but you
haven’t got him yet, and never will unless you get my help.”
“Your help?” I echoed in amazement; “why, who are you, and
how can you help me?”
“My name you know, and I am not unknown to fame, I am an
actor as well as a photographic artist. I have trod the boards with
some success, and you know that that in itself is a kind of training in
acuteness eminently fitting one for detective work.”
I could not see it, and said so. I thought him an escaped lunatic.
“Mark me, Mr McGovan,” he continued, quite unabashed, “I have
in my possession the only means whereby you can trace and arrest
the murderer. Now just tell me what it is worth, and we may come
to a bargain.”
“What it is worth?” I said, with a grin. “I don’t know that it is
worth anything till I try it.”
“A hundred pounds? Surely they’ll offer that as a reward for such
information as shall lead to the capture of the murderer?”
“I don’t know that they’ll offer a hundred pence,” was my reply.
“Tell me what you know, and if it is of any use I will see that you are
suitably rewarded.”
“Ah, that won’t suit me,” he answered with great decision. “I will
leave you to think over my offer; you know where to find me when
you have made up your mind.”
 He was moving off, after making a low and stagey bow, but I got
between him and the door, and brought out a pair of handcuffs.
“I know where to find you now, which is far more convenient,” I
quietly remarked. “You have admitted that you know something of
the murder—I shall detain you on suspicion.”
“What! arrest me? an innocent man; lock me up in prison!” he
exclaimed, in genuine terror. “You cannot—dare not! I know nothing
of the murder; I merely think I can put you in the way of tracing the
man who did it.”
“Do so, then, if you would prove your innocence,” I said, rather
amused at his terror and dismay. “Were you an accomplice?”
“An accomplice! how can you ask such a question?” he
tremblingly answered. “You are taking a mean advantage of me, for
I feel sure that my secret is worth a hundred pounds at least. But I
will trust to your honour, and put it all before you. People will give
you all the credit. Everyone will say ‘McGovan is the man that can do
it; we might have known he wouldn’t escape when McGovan was
after him.’ Nobody will think of me, or hear of me, who have given
you the clue. It’s the way of the world; one man toils, and ploughs,
and sows, and another man reaps the harvest.”
“Ah, nothing pleases me so much as envy, flavoured with a little
spitefulness,” I quietly returned. “It is the most flattering unction you
can lay to a man’s soul.”
“I am not envious,” he dolefully replied, “but it is hard to supply
another with brains.”
“Especially when he has none of his own,” I laughingly retorted.
“Well, come along; bring on your brains—I’m waiting for them.”
 “I really believe you are laughing at me in your sleeve,” he
observed, with a half pathetic look. “It is brave to crush the poor
worm under your heel when you know he can’t retaliate.”
“You’re a long worm—six feet at least,” I solemnly answered; “a
long-winded one, too, unfortunately. I must leave you in the cells for
an hour or two——”
“Oh, no! I will speak; I will tell you it all in half a minute,” he
wildly answered. “The murderer is said to have been a sailor—a
short, thick-set fellow, wearing a red neckerchief. I photographed
such a man in the forenoon, and I have the first portrait, which
didn’t please him, though it is like as life.”
“Ah! let me see it. Have you it with you?” I cried, with sudden
interest and great eagerness.
“Now you change your tune,” he reproachfully answered. “I have
it with me, or I should not have given in so easily. I was afraid you
might have me searched, and, finding the photo, think me an
acquaintance or accomplice of the man,” and, with a little more
wearisome talk, he produced the portrait, and slowly put before me
the incidents already recorded.
When he had done I was not greatly elated. The thread which
connected his early customer with the man supposed to have
attacked McCulloch was of the slenderest. Then I was disappointed
that Turnbull’s story looked so real. I had fondly hoped he would
stumble and prevaricate enough to allow us to lock him up on
suspicion—in other words, that we should find him to be an
accomplice, anxious to save himself at the expense of a companion
in crime. I took the photograph, but plainly told him that I feared it
would be of little use to me.
 “Ah, you wish to undervalue it in order to get out of paying me a
good round sum when the man is caught,” he answered, with a
knowing wink. “I haven’t knocked about so much without being able
to see through that dodge,” and away he went, as elated and
consequential as if he had really laid the man by the heels.
When I was alone I had a long study over the notes I had taken
during the interview. The sailor photographed had stated that his
ship only got in the day before, and that he was on his way home,
and merely visiting the race-course in passing. He had not said
where he lived or at what port he had come in, but the general
impression left on Turnbull’s mind was that the port was not far off.
Leith or Granton seemed to me the likeliest places, and I turned to
the shipping lists to have a look at the names of new arrivals. At
Leith only one vessel had come in on that day, The Shannon; and at
Granton, though there were several arrivals, none of them were
from long voyages. The sailor had hinted that he had not been home
for eighteen months, and that to my mind implied a long voyage, or
long voyages.
To Leith accordingly I went, and found The Shannon, her cargo
already discharged, and only a few of the men on board. Some had
been paid off and some were off for a few days on leave. The man
whom I questioned—for the captain had gone home too—seemed to
me sullen and suspicious. He did not know if one of the men had
gone eastwards to see his wife; if any of them lived in that quarter
he had never heard of it, and so on. I was dissatisfied with the
answers and the man’s manner, and had he resembled in the
slightest degree the portrait in my pocket I should have arrested him
on the spot. I thought I would bring out the photograph as a test.
Holding it up before him, I said sharply—
“Do you know that man?”
“No, I don’t.” The answer came out almost before he had time to
look at the features. It was too prompt. It was a lie. The falsehood
told me more than the truth would have done. It not only convinced
me that I was at least on the track of the photographed sailor, but
roused in my mind for the first time a strong suspicion that he was
the knifer of McCulloch. I went from the ship to the shipping agents.
I found the clerk who had handed their pay to all the men; and on
producing the photograph saw that he recognised it instantly.
“Yes, that was one of them,” he said, “but he was paid off, and
has gone home.”
I asked the man’s name, and, on referring to the books, he gave
it as Tom Fisher. With some difficulty he got me the man’s address—
which was in a town some miles east—and his trouble arose from
the fact that no money had been sent to Fisher’s wife for nearly a
year.
The sailors’ wives often drew one half the men’s pay, but she had
not applied for it during that time, and was supposed to have
changed her address.
“I didn’t say anything of it to Fisher,” said the clerk in conclusion,
“and he seemed quite elated at having so much money to draw. It’s
a kittle thing interfering between a man and his wife, and it might
have alarmed him needlessly. If there’s anything wrong he’s best to
find it out himself.”
I left the shipping office, and took the first train for the town in
which Fisher had his home. If he was to be found anywhere, I
thought it would be there—and especially so if he turned out to be
innocent. It is a quiet country place in which everyone knows his
neighbours, and I had no difficulty in finding the house. But it was
occupied by an old woman, who said she had been in it for nearly a
year. I asked for Mrs Fisher, the sailor’s wife.
“Oh, she was a bad lot,” was the blunt rejoinder. “She sellt a’ her
things, bit by bit, and gaed awa’ in the end withoot paying her rent
and other debts.”
“Where did she go to, do you know?”
“Oh, dear kens. She was a drunken hussy, and thought hersel’
bonny. Some say that she went awa’ wi’ a baker-man they ca’
McCulloch, and was aboot Leith for a while, but maybe it’s no true.
He used to hae a great wark wi’ her.”
“And her husband—has he never been here?”
“Never since I cam’; but I heard that McCulloch was stabbed at
the races by a sailor and I wadna wonder if that sailor turned oot to
be Fisher himsel’.”
I thought the old woman the most acute I had met for a while;
we always do when we find a person’s thoughts and opinions tallying
with our own. I left the house and pursued my inquiries elsewhere. I
found no one who had seen Fisher near the town, or in it; but at
length there was mentioned to me the name of a man who had
been at the races, and had there seen Fisher and spoken to him.
This man I found out, but he was not nearly so communicative to
me as he had been to others. He admitted that he had seen Fisher
and spoken to him, but couldn’t remember what they had talked of.
He knew McCulloch also, and had seen him at the races, too, but in a
drunken condition, and not fit for conversation. Questioned more
closely, he admitted that Fisher was an old friend of his, and that the
last thing in the world he would wish for would be to do Fisher any
injury by what he should say. He had heard of the stabbing of
McCulloch, and did not wonder at it, the man was so quarrelsome,
but he had no idea who had done it. Fisher might have done it, or
anybody else—he knew nothing about it, as he was out of the place
two hours at least before the attack was made.
I could read the man as plainly as if he had spoken all he knew.
There was the same reticence which the sailor had shown on board
The Shannon, and it probably arose from the same cause—a desire
to screen and save a friend. I got back to Leith, and found with
some relief that no vessel of importance had left during the two
days; I then tried Granton with the same result. “Glasgow” then rose
promptly in my mind, and I drove to both the Edinburgh railway
stations to make inquiries. At neither had any person resembling the
photograph been seen, but a telegram to one of the stations a mile
or two from the city elicited the news that a man in sailor’s dress
had taken a third class ticket thence to Glasgow. He had driven out
to that station in a cab, and the cab had come from the direction of
Edinburgh. I telegraphed to Glasgow, and followed my message by
the first train. When I got to that city I found my work nearly all
done for me. Fisher had been traced to an American liner, in which
he had shipped under the name of George Fullerton.
Strange fatality! George Fullerton was the name of the man who
had seen him at the races, and so clumsily tried to screen him from
me. The vessel in which he had shipped was gone—it had sailed the
night before—but there was a chance of it stopping at Liverpool. I
telegraphed thither and took the night mail, in case the vessel