CHAPTER SIX.
OUR HERO SEES THE MOORS IN SEVERAL ASPECTS, AND MAKES A GREAT DISCOVERY.
Whatever may be said of Mohammedanism as a religion, there can be noquestion, we should think, that it has done much among the Easternnations to advance the cause of Temperance.
We make no defence of Mohammed--very much the reverse--but we hold thateven a false prophet cannot avoid teaching a certain modicum of truth inhis system, and when Mohammed sternly put his foot down upon strongdrink, and enforced the principle of total abstinence therefrom, he didsignal service to a large portion of the human family. Although, forwant of better teaching, Mohammedans cling to many vices, one never seesthem howling through the streets in a state of wild ferocity, orstaggering homewards in a condition of mild imbecility, from the effectsof intoxicating drink.
Instead of entering a low den where riot and revelry, with bad languageand quarrelling, might be expected to prevail, George Foster foundhimself in a small white-washed apartment, where there sat several graveand sedate men, wrapped in the voluminous folds of Eastern drapery,sipping very small cups of coffee, and enjoying very large pipes oftobacco.
The room was merely a cellar, the walls being thickly stuccoed andwhite-washed, and the ceiling arched; but, although plain, the place wasreasonably clean and eminently quiet. The drinkers did not dispute.Conversation flowed in an undertone, and an air of respectabilitypervaded the whole place.
At the further end of the apartment there was a curious-lookingfireplace, which seemed to have been formed without the use of square orplummet, and around which were scattered and hung in comfortableconfusion the implements and utensils of cookery. Nothing of the cookwas visible except his bare legs and feet, the rest of him beingshrouded in a recess. Beside the fireplace an Arab sat cross-legged ona bench, sipping his coffee. Beyond him in a recess another Arab wasseated. He appeared to be sewing while he conversed with a negro whostood beside him. Elsewhere, in more or less remote and dim distances,other customers were seated indulging in the prevailing beverage.
"You sit down here, Geo'ge; drink an' say not'ing, but wait for me."
With this admonition Peter the Great whispered a few words to the manwho owned the establishment, and hurriedly left the place.
The middy naturally felt a little disconcerted at being thus left aloneamong strangers, but, knowing that in the circumstances he wasabsolutely helpless, he wisely and literally obeyed orders. Sittingdown on a bench opposite the fire, from which point of observation hecould see the entrance-door and all that went on around him, he waitedand said nothing until the chief of the establishment presented him witha white cup of coffee, so very small that he felt almost equal to theswallowing of cup and coffee at one gulp. With a gracious bow and"Thank you," he accepted the attention, and began to sip. The dignifiedArab who gave it to him did not condescend upon any reply, but turned toattend upon his other customers.
Foster's first impulse was to spit out the sip he had taken, for to hissurprise the coffee was thick with grounds. He swallowed it, however,and wondered. Then, on taking another sip and considering it, heperceived that the grounds were not as grounds to which he had beenaccustomed, but were reduced--no doubt by severe pounding--to a pastycondition, which made the beverage resemble chocolate. "Coffee-soup!with sugar--but no milk!" he muttered, as he tried another sip. Thisthird one convinced him that the ideas of Arabs regarding coffee did notcoincide with those of Englishmen, so he finished the cup at the fourthsip, much as he would have taken a dose of physic, and thereafter amusedhimself with contemplating the other coffee-sippers.
At the time when our hero first arrived at Ben-Ahmed's home, he had beendespoiled of his own garments while he was in bed--the slave costumehaving been left in their place. On application to his friend Peter,however, his pocket-knife, pencil, letters, and a few other things hadbeen returned to him. Thus, while waiting, he was able to turn his timeto account by making a sketch of the interior of the coffee-house, tothe great surprise and gratification of the negroes there--perhaps,also, of the Moors--but these latter were too reticent and dignified toexpress any interest by word or look, whatever they might have felt.
He was thus engaged when Peter returned.
"Hallo, Geo'ge!" exclaimed the negro, "what you bin up to--makin'picturs?"
"Only a little sketch," said Foster, holding it up.
"A skitch!" repeated Peter, grasping the letter, and holding it out atarm's length with the air of a connoisseur, while he compared it withthe original. "You call dis a skitch? Well! I neber see de like obdis--no, neber. It's lubly. Dere's de kittles an' de pots an' de jars,an'--ha, ha! dere's de man wid de--de--wart on 'is nose! Oh! dasfust-rate. Massa's awrful fond ob skitchin'. He wouldn't sell you nowfor ten t'ousand dollars."
Fortunately the Arab with the wart on his nose was ignorant of English,otherwise he might have had some objection to being thus transferred topaper, and brought, as Arabs think, under "the power of the evil eye."Before the exact nature of what had been done, however, was quiteunderstood, Peter had paid for the coffee, and, with the amateur artist,had left the place.
"Nothing surprises me more," said Foster, as they walked along, "than tosee such beautiful wells and fountains in streets so narrow that oneactually has not enough room to step back and look at them properly.Look at that one now, with the negress, the Moor, and the water-carrierwaiting their turn while the little girl fills her water-pot. See whatlabour has been thrown away on that fountain. What elegance of design,what columns of sculptured marble, and fine tessellated work stuck upwhere few people can see it, even when they try to."
"True, Geo'ge. De water would run as well out ob a ugly fountain as apritty one."
"But it's not that I wonder at, Peter; it's the putting of such splendidwork in such dark narrow lanes that surprises me. Why do they go to somuch expense in such a place as this?"
"Oh! as to expense, Geo'ge. Dey don't go to none. You see, we hab noend ob slabes here, ob all kinds, an' trades an' purfessions, what costnuffin but a leetle black bread to keep 'em alibe, an' a whackin' nowan' den to make 'em work. Bress you! dem marble fountains an' t'ingscost the pirits nuffin. Now we's goin' up to see the Kasba."
"What is that, Peter?"
"What! you not know what de Kasba am? My, how ignorant you is! DeKasba is de citad'l--de fort--where all de money an' t'ings--treasureyou call it--am kep' safe. Strong place, de Kasba--awrful strong."
"I'll be glad to see that," said Foster.
"Ho yes. You be glad to see it _wid me_," returned the negrosignificantly, "but not so glad if you go dere wid chains on you legsan' pick or shovel on you shoulder. See--dere dey go!"
As he spoke a band of slaves was seen advancing up the narrow street.Standing aside in a doorway to let them pass, Foster saw that the bandwas composed of men of many nations. Among them he observed the fairhair and blue eyes of the Saxon, the dark complexion and hair of theSpaniard and Italian, and the black skin of the negro--but all resembledeach other in their looks and lines of care, and in the weary anxietyand suffering with which every countenance was stamped,--also in themore or less dejected air of the slaves, and the soiled ragged garmentswith which they were covered.
But if some of the resemblances between these poor creatures werestrong, some of their differences were still more striking. Among themwere men whose robust frames had not yet been broken down, whosevigorous spirits had not been quite tamed, and whose scowling eyes andcompressed lips revealed the fact that they were "dangerous." Thesewalked along with clanking chains on their limbs--chains which were moreor less weighty, according to the strength and character of the wearer.Others there were so reduced in health, strength, and spirit, that thechain of their own feebleness was heavy enough for them to drag to theirdaily toil. Among these were some with hollow cheeks and sunken eyes,whose weary pilgrimage was evidently drawing to a close; but all,whether strong or weak, fierce or subdued, were made to tramp smartly upthe steep street,
being kept up to the mark by drivers, whose cruelwhips cracked frequently on the shoulders of the lagging and the lazy.
With a heart that felt as if ready to burst with conflicting emotions,the poor midshipman looked on, clenching his teeth to prevent unwiseexclamations, and unclenching his fists to prevent the tendency tocommit assault and battery!
"This is dreadful," he said, in a low voice, when the gang had passed.
"Yes, Geo'ge, it _is_ drefful--but we's used to it, you know. Come,we'll foller dis gang."
Keeping about twenty yards behind, they followed the slaves into theKasba, where they met with no interruption from the guards, who seemedto be well acquainted with Peter the Great, though they did notcondescend to notice him, except by a passing glance.
"How is it that every one lets you pass so easily?" asked Foster, whenthey had nearly reached the southern wall of the fortress.
"Eberybody knows me so well--das one reason," answered the negro, with agrin of self-satisfaction.
"I's quite a public krakter in dis yar city, you mus' know. Den, anodert'ing is, dat our massa am a man ob power. He not got no partikleroffice in de state, 'cause he not require it, for he's a rich man, buthe's got great power wid de Dey--we's bof got dat!"
"Indeed; how so?"
"Stand here, under dis doorway, and I tell you--dis way, where you cansee de splendid view ob de whole city an' de harbour an' sea b'yond. Wekin wait a bit here while de slabes are gittin' ready to work. You seede bit ob wall dat's damaged dere? Well, dey're goin' to repair dat.We'll go look at 'em by-an'-by."
As the incident which Peter narrated might prove tedious if given in hisown language, we take the liberty of relating it for him.
One fine morning during the previous summer the Dey of Algiers mountedhis horse--a fiery little Arab--and, attended by several of hiscourtiers, cantered away in the direction of the suburb which is nowknown by the name of Mustapha Superieur. When drawing near to theresidence of Ben-Ahmed the Dey's horse became unmanageable and ran away.Being the best horse of the party, the courtiers were soon left farbehind. It chanced that Ben-Ahmed and his man, Peter the Great, werewalking together towards the city that day. On turning a sharp bend inthe road where a high bank had shut out their view they saw a horsemanapproaching at a furious gallop.
"It is the Dey!" exclaimed Ben-Ahmed.
"So it am!" responded Peter.
"He can't make the turn of the road and live!" cried the Moor, all hisdignified self-possession vanishing as he prepared for action.
"I will check the horse," he added, in a quick, low voice. "You breakhis fall, Peter. He'll come off on the left side."
"Das so, massa," said Peter, as he sprang to the other side of thenarrow road.
He had barely done so, when the Dey came thundering towards them.
"Stand aside!" he shouted as he came on, for he was a fearless horsemanand quite collected, though in such peril.
But Ben-Ahmed would not stand aside. Although an old man, he was stillactive and powerful. He seized the reins of the horse as it waspassing, and, bringing his whole weight and strength to bear, checked itso far that it made a false step and stumbled. This had the effect ofsending the Dey out of the saddle like a bomb from a mortar, and ofhurling Ben-Ahmed to the ground. Ill would it have fared with the Deyat that moment if Peter the Great had not possessed a mechanical turn ofmind, and a big, powerful body, as well as a keen, quick eye forpossibilities. Correcting his distance in a moment by jumping back acouple of paces, he opened his arms and received the chief of Algiersinto his broad black bosom!
The shock was tremendous, for the Dey was by no means a light weight,and Peter the Great went down before it in the dust, while the great manarose, shaken indeed, and confused, but unhurt by the accident.
Ben-Ahmed also arose uninjured, but Peter lay still where he had fallen.
"W'en I come-to to myself," continued Peter, on reaching this point inhis narrative, "de fus' t'ing I t'ink was dat I'd been bu'sted. Den Ilook up, an' I sees our black cook. She's a nigger, like myself, only ashe one.
"`Hallo, Angelica!' says I; `wass de matter?'
"`Matter!' says she; `you's dead--a'most, an' dey lef' you here wid me,wid strik orders to take care ob you.'
"`Das good,' says I; `an' you better look out an' obey your orders, elsede bowstring bery soon go round your pritty little neck. But tell me,Angelica, who brought me here?'
"`De Dey ob Algiers an' all his court,' says she, wid a larf dat shut upher eyes an' showed what a _enormous_ mout' she hab.
"`Is _he_ all safe, Angelica,' says I--`massa, I mean?'
"`Oh, I t'ought you meant de Dey!' says she. `Oh yes; massa's allright; nuffin'll kill massa, he's tough. And de Dey, he's all righttoo.'
"`Das good, Angelica,' says I, feelin' quite sweet, for I was beginnin'to remember what had took place.
"`Yes, das _is_ good,' says she; `an', Peter, your fortin's made!'
"`Das awk'ard,' says I, `for I ain't got no chest or strong box ready toput it in. But now tell me, Angelica, if my fortin's made, will youmarry me, an' help to spend it?'
"`Yes, I will,' says she.
"I was so took by surprise, Geo'ge, when she say dat, I sprung up on oneelber, an' felled down agin wid a howl, for two o' my ribs had beenbroke.
"`Neber mind de yells, Angelica,' says I, `it's only my leetle ways.But tell me why you allers refuse me before an' accep' me _now_. Isit--de--de fortin?' Oh, you should have seen her pout w'en I ax dat.Her mout' came out about two inch from her face. I could hab kissedit--but for de broken ribs.
"`No, Peter, for shame!' says she, wid rijeous indignation. `De fortinhab nuffin to do wid it, but your own noble self-scarifyin' bravery inpresentin' your buzzum to de Dey ob Algiers.'
"`T'ank you, Angelica,' says I. `Das all comfrably settled. You's agood gall, kiss me now, an' go away.'
"So she gib me a kiss an' I turn round an' went sweetly to sleep on deback ob dat--for I was awrful tired, an' de ribs was creakin' badly."
"Did you marry Angelica?" asked our middy, with sympathetic interest.
"Marry her! ob course I did. Two year ago. Don' you know it's her ascooks all our wittles?"
"How could I know, Peter, for you never call her anything but `cook?'But I'm glad you have told me, for I'll regard her now with increasedrespect from this day forth."
"Das right, Geo'ge. You can't pay 'er too much respec'. Now we'll goan' look at de works."
The part of the wall which the slaves were repairing was built of greatblocks of artificial stone or concrete, which were previously cast inwooden moulds, left to harden, and then put into their assigned placesby slave-labour. As Foster was watching the conveyance of these blocks,it suddenly occurred to him that Hester Sommers's father might beamongst them, and he scanned every face keenly as the slaves passed toand fro, but saw no one who answered to the description given him by thedaughter.
From this scrutiny he was suddenly turned by a sharp cry drawn from oneof a group who were slowly carrying a heavy stone to its place. The crywas drawn forth by the infliction of a cruel lash on the shoulders of aslave. He was a thin delicate youth with evidences of fatal consumptionupon him. He had become faint from over-exertion, and one of thedrivers had applied the whip by way of stimulus. The effect on the pooryouth was to cause him to stumble, and instead of making him liftbetter, made him rest his weight on the stone, thus overbalancing it,and bringing it down. In falling the block caught the ankle of theyouth, who fell with a piercing shriek to the ground, where he lay in astate of insensibility.
At this a tall bearded man, with heavy fetters on his strong limbs,sprang to the young man's side, went down on his knees, and seized hishand.
"Oh! Henri, my son," he cried, in French; but before he could say morea whip touched his back with a report like a pistol-shot, and the torncotton shirt that he wore was instantly crimsoned with his blood!
The man rose, and, making no more account of his fetters than if
theyhad been straws, sprang like a tiger at the throat of his driver. Hecaught it, and the eyes and tongue of the cruel monster were protrudingfrom his head before the enraged Frenchman could be torn away by fourpowerful janissaries. As it was, they had to bind him hand and foot erethey were able to carry him off--to torture, and probably to death. Atthe same time the poor, helpless form of Henri was borne from the placeby two of his fellow-slaves.
Of course a scene like this could not be witnessed unmoved by ourmidshipman. Indeed he would infallibly have rushed to the rescue of thebearded Frenchman if Peter's powerful grip on his shoulder had notrestrained him.
"Don't be a fool, Geo'ge," he whispered. "Remember, we _must_ submit!"
Fortunately for George, the guards around were too much interested inwatching the struggle to observe his state of mind, and it is doubtfulwhether he would have been held back even by the negro if his attentionhad not at the moment been attracted by a tall man who came on the scenejust then with another gang of slaves.
One glance sufficed to tell who the tall man was. Hester Sommers'sportrait had been a true one--tall, handsome, strong; and even in thehaggard, worn, and profoundly sad face, there shone a little of the"sweetness" which his daughter had emphasised. There were also thelarge grey eyes, the Roman nose, the iron-grey hair, moustache, andbeard, and the large mouth, although the "smile" had fled from the faceand the "lovingness" from the eyes. Foster was so sure of the man that,as he drew near to the place where he stood, he stepped forward andwhispered "Sommers."
The man started and turned pale as he looked keenly at our hero's face.
"No time to explain," said the middy quickly. "Hester is well and_safe_! See you again! Hope on!"
"What are you saying there?" thundered one of the drivers in Arabic.
"What you say to dat feller? you raskil! you white slabe! Come 'longhome!" cried Peter the Great, seizing Foster by the collar and dragginghim forcibly away, at the same time administering several kicks soviolent that his entire frame seemed to be dislocated, while thejanissaries burst into a laugh at the big negro's seeming fury.
"Oh! Geo'ge, Geo'ge," continued Peter, as he dragged the middy along,shaking him from time to time, "you'll be de deaf ob me, an' ob yourselftoo, if you don't larn to _submit_. An' see, too, what a hyperkrite youmake me! I's 'bliged to kick hard, or dey wouldn't b'lieve me inarnist."
"Well, well, Peter," returned our hero, who at once understood hisfriend's ruse to disarm suspicion, and get him away safely, "you neednot call yourself a hypocrite this time, at all events, for your kicksand shakings have been uncommonly real--much too real for comfort."
"Didn't I say I was _'bleeged_ to do it?" retorted Peter, with a poutthat might have emulated that of his wife on the occasion of theirengagement. "D'you s'pose dem raskils don' know a real kick from a shamone? I was marciful too, for if I'd kicked as I _could_, dere wouldn'tbe a whole bone in your carcass at dis momint! You's got to larn to begrateful, Geo'ge. Come along."
Conversing thus pleasantly, the white slave and the black left the Kasbatogether and descended into the town.
The Middy and the Moors: An Algerine Story Page 6