The Barefoot Emperor: An Ethiopian Tragedy. Philip Marsden
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had talked about. They made several attempts at rebuilding the blast furnace with stronger walls. All failed. They did not know what to do – and also all their servants were locked up. The missionaries agreed that they should go to the emperor and explain to him that they were willing to undertake any work for him, anything – building of roads and bridges, teaching – but not casting metal. It was too difficult.
Tewodros told them to make him a cart.
Mayer set to work. He produced a vehicle hauled by four mules, but the wheels were useless without roads. The farmers found it a great joke, because it had to be taken to pieces to go any distance. Waldmeier spent days fashioning a gunstock for Tewodros, and when he saw its beauty the emperor ordered the release of the missionaries’ servants.
But he was no closer to building cannon.
For some years there had been in Ethiopia a Pole named Moritz Hall, a deserter who had fled the tsarist strictures of the army of Nicholas I for the boundless south. By trade he was a caster of bells, and as the Protestants at Gefat struggled even to build the means for casting, Hall performed a small miracle in another part of Tewodros’s kingdom. He made a gun. It was strangely bell-shaped, but propped on its side it appeared heavy and robust and warlike.
‘When the king saw it,’ said Waldmeier, ‘he jumped with happiness and thanked God.’
For some time Tewodros felt the same joy every time he looked at the gun, but then, gradually, he became less satisfied. He sent for Hall and told him this one was too small. He wanted a larger one.
‘I alone am unable to undertake such a work,’ replied Hall, ‘but if the Europeans at Gefat help me I hope to be able to oblige Your Majesty.’
‘Waldmeier and all the Europeans shall be put at your disposal; consult together and work together in mutual love.’
With the emperor’s blessing Hall went to Gefat. When he told the Europeans what they must do, they all became nervous. Many times Tewodros’s messenger came to Gefat, and every time they had to tell him there was no progress. Never mind, the emperor told them. Begin again at the beginning, and do each thing with care.
Then another European, an Austrian named Baptist, arrived at the court of Tewodros. He had heard of the emperor’s longing for munitions, and said he had managed to make high-quality gunpowder from local components. He produced a small pouch of it and, time and again, when he ignited it the powder exploded in a most beautiful manner.
Tewodros was delighted. He gave the man honey and sheep, and butter and cash, and asked him to prepare a larger batch. But it soon became clear that Baptist was not what he appeared. The powder he had been demonstrating was English powder. He had brought it in from abroad, and now it was finished. When Tewodros again asked him to demonstrate, Baptist really did use local components, and it failed. Even when it was thrown in the fire, nothing happened. Baptist fled. Some time later, the missionaries heard that he’d been accused of murder in Mecca, and executed.
‘We made a final despairing attempt,’ wrote Waldmeier. ‘And behold, for the first time, we were successful.’
At Gefat, success was no closer for Hall and the missionaries. Whispers reached the ears of Tewodros: these Europeans are liars, they’re just deceivers like Baptist. The emperor was shamed in the eyes of his people, and in his shame the missionaries realised their own danger. They gathered together and prayed. One last time, they collected ore and prepared the furnace.
At once everything changed. The local people stopped laughing at them. They marvelled at the gun and congratulated them. ‘The king,’ wrote Waldmeier, ‘was pleased beyond all measure with our little piece of metal, kissed it and cried, “Now I am convinced that it is possible to make everything in Habesh. Now the art has been discovered. God has at last revealed Himself!”’
He arranged a great feast for the missionaries and asked, ‘What, save my crown and my kingdom, can I give you?’
‘Your Majesty,’ replied the missionaries piously, ‘we wish for nothing but to remain in constant possession of your love and friendship.’
Tewodros gave them a thousand thalers each, and for a while all sides were happy.
Then the emperor asked for a larger mortar.
Once again the missionaries were afraid. They retired to Gefat and prayed and prayed, and were successful. In response, Tewodros wrote one of the longest and most effusive of all his surviving letters:
My friends and my children! God, who can do everything, and does it, has not allowed us to be shamed in our work. Many people who hate us in this country as well as abroad, have derided and mocked us, but now they have been disgraced, since God is moved in all things by the prayers of those who believe in Him and he helps them in time of need.
You have opened the eyes of us Abyssinians, whom others have abused as blind donkeys.
(Tewodros himself, for one – ‘My country is like a paradise,’ he once told Waldmeier, ‘only I am sorry to say it is inhabited by donkeys.’)
Hard work and perseverance had rewarded the Protestant missionaries:
Since God said to Adam, ‘In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread,’ it would be a sin to lie down like a sluggard and not care about a country like this, which still lies in such disarray.
The letter was clearly written in one of the emperor’s more excitable moods – when his imagination raced across the centuries:
Napoleon Bonaparte, the emperor of the French, who defeated other kings with many guns and mortars, at last fell from his high position and died. Although he was a strong ruler, Nikolai, the emperor of the Russians, was defeated by the English, the French and the Turks, and died soon after, without being able to carry out the plans of his heart. Sennacherib of Assyria was proud of his power and relied on himself. In the pride of his heart he abandoned the Lord and died. The pharaoh of Egypt was proud of his power, hardened his heart against God, and perished in the Red Sea. But what more shall I say to thee? You yourselves are learned and well versed in the Bible. ‘Do not cut meat for a lion and do not teach a learned man.’
At the same time, Tewodros displayed a touchiness about his own parentage and ancestry – a theme which preyed on him more and more:
Finally, I have to note that people have slandered me, saying that I am not the rightful heir to the throne, but only the son of poor parents. It is possible to prove my ancestry and my right to the throne from Abraham to David and Solomon, from there to Fasil and Fasil to myself.
One day a few months later, the emperor came to Gefat and asked for a demonstration of the guns. The party assembled in front of Saalmuller’s house. A carpet was spread out for Tewodros and he tucked his legs under him and took his place. The others gathered to one side and behind him. The most recently-cast mortar was brought out. It was the largest the missionaries had built so far. It was charged and primed. Brother Bender, House Father of the mission, leaned down to fire it. For a moment there was silence. Then the mortar lurched back out of its carriage, and Bender had to leap aside to avoid it. Distant slopes repeated the shot in ever-decreasing reports. Tewodros was silent.
Several more shots were fired. All the while, Tewodros said nothing. The missionaries were apprehensive. His lips were pressed tight together, his brow pressed down over his eyes. He appeared to be in some sort of trance.
But as soon as the last shot had been fired, he put an arm around the shoulder of one of the missionaries’ children and began a lively conversation about military strategy, asking about the powers of Europe and their use of cannon. Once again he admired the new gun, telling them all what a fine job they had done and what a beautiful gun it was. But it was too small. Now, according to the will of God, they must build him a bigger one.
IV
Ethiopian shield, silver on buffalo skin, nineteenth century. (Reproduced courtesy of Gail Warden)