by Des Ekin
Frizell could hardly have ended up in a worse place. Algiers was renowned among the diplomatic community as a hell-hole, a place where foreign consuls were regularly jailed, beaten with sticks or publicly humiliated at the whim of some unpredictable governor. Rulers would demand lavish bribes in jewellery, then toss them contemptuously to their servants. The consul’s own house might be ransacked and his possessions seized. Diplomats would be abused in the royal court, threatened in the street and, on occasions, executed. When one envoy described Algiers as ‘the next step to the infernal regions’ he was not joking.
Throughout the centuries, consuls who’d been abandoned for years in this mind-warping city would react in extreme ways. One took to heavy drinking. Another went completely mad and was last seen ‘sitting on his bed with a sword and a brace of pistols at his side’.
Frizell himself seems to have reacted by slumping into a chronic depression. His only wish – and he wished it desperately – was to come home. He felt as though he himself were a slave being held ‘in thralldom’ in Algiers. ‘I do verily believe,’ he said at one point, ‘that never any of His Majesty’s ministers hath been so neglected as I am.’
So the last thing James Frizell wanted to hear, on that morning of July 28, 1631, was the news that another slave ship had arrived – carrying so many English and Irish captives that they would boost the total in Algiers by over 60 per cent the moment they stepped ashore.
The arrival of the Baltimore captives also confirmed Frizell’s worst fears. This was something unique. An entire village of civilians – men, women and children – had been ‘fetched out of their beds’ on land, just as the corsairs had warned they would do.
With a heavy heart, Frizell hurried down to the harbour to perform his duties. He knew his options were limited. He could try to have them released under some technicality of law, but this rarely succeeded. In practical terms, there was nothing he could do but log the slaves’ arrival and protest in the strongest terms to the Algerines. Then he would notify the English authorities who would, as usual, ignore his requests for ransom money.
The consul was no doubt sweltering in his English tunic and breeches by the time he reached the Marine Gate and walked the length of the harbour mole to where Morat’s ships were berthed. He would have had to elbow his way through the sizeable crowd that gathered on the quayside to gawk at every fresh cargo of infidels. The hubbub would have been deafening. Over the pathetic groans of the new arrivals, and the crying of their children, one could hear the shouts of the slave traders who’d come to inspect the latest prize, and the desperate cries of long-term captives trying to locate anyone with news from home. According to a Spanish monk who spent many years in Barbary, there was even a lowlife contingent among the existing Christian slaves who would ‘jeer at the wretches who are brought in captive’ and let them know just how dire and hopeless their position was.
There were also conmen – English renegades who would sidle up to the slaves and offer to safeguard their hidden valuables or help them escape. When the seventeenth-century English captive ‘T.S.’ was taken ashore at Algiers, the first person he met was a Cornishman. Speaking in a broad West Country accent, the man offered to save T.S. and his colleagues by taking them under his own wing. But they suspected his motives when they saw him haggling for prices with other buyers.
‘He was a trader in slaves,’ wrote T.S., ‘and knew well how to make his advantage of his own nation.’
Eventually Frizell would have pushed his way through the throng and introduced himself to the Baltimore captives. Despite his disillusionment, he was a kind-hearted man; it is probable that he was deeply moved by the sight of the emaciated Ryder and Paine, the dishevelled and pregnant Joane Broadbrook, and – worst of all – the dozens of bewildered children clinging pathetically to their mothers’ skirts as their eyes gazed up at him in supplication.
Still, he had a job to do. He tallied the numbers and recorded eighty-nine women and children and twenty men from Baltimore, and a further twenty-four English and Irish sailors seized by Morat at sea.
Shouting above the din, he would have promised to notify London of the captives’ plight. In the meantime, however, they must obey instructions and follow Morat Rais to the palace of the Pasha, who would decide their fate.
Once the dockside paperwork had been completed, John Ryder and Tom Paine were ordered to fall into a long line along with the rest of the male captives. Joane, Anna and the womenfolk fell into place behind, with the children in tow. This was a set ritual, for corsair captains loved to show off their prizes and would always conduct their procession of miserable captives on a triumphal tour of the city.
For instance, when the sixteenth-century corsair Murad returned from his spectacular raid on Lanzarote, he led the parade while mounted on the Pasha’s own steed and escorted by a phalanx of Janissaries.
‘At our first landing, great companies flocked about us to see us,’ recalled the captured English merchant T.S. ‘Every one of us had great strong chain of about 20lb weight linked to our legs and tied to our girdle, so that if we did meditate on escape, it might not be without difficulty.
‘We were conducted next in this strange equipage, with our jingling chains at our sides, to the king’s palace.’
Another contemporary account reads: ‘We were paraded … around the town five or six times with chains on our necks … to show the merchants that we had received no mortal injury.’
The Italian captive Filippo Pananti recalled that his corsair captain ordered all the prisoners into a long crocodile, assumed his rightful place at the head of the line, and walked the long way round to the Pasha’s mansion, proudly waving to the crowd:
‘On the Rais’s landing, he immediately ordered us to form a procession in his rear, and then moved on, with as much self importance as [the Egyptian conqueror] Sesostris … an amazing concourse had collected on the beach, to welcome with acclamations the triumphant return of the pirates: but we were neither plundered nor insulted, a treatment which many Christian slaves are said to have met with on disembarking at this inhospitable place … In the manner of the Roman ovation, we made a long circuit, to arrive at the palace.’
Unsteady on their land legs, John, Joane and the other newcomers from Baltimore filed down the harbour mole, past the gangs of slaves who sweated as they heaved and cleaved rocks. ‘The dreadful clanking of chains,’ wrote captive John Foss, ‘was the most terrible noise I ever heard.’
On the way they passed an enormous cannon – it was known as ‘Blessed Father’, but later in the century it would be nicknamed La Consulaire when a ruler of Algiers fired the French consul out of it in a fit of pique.
As the captives approached the massive city walls, the Marine Gate opened to swallow them into the belly of Algiers. Joane found herself in a maze of rat-run alleyways, so narrow that only one person could pass in each direction. Curious eyes stared at her from the darkened interiors of shops and workplaces; above her, balconies met in the centre of the street to block out the sun, turning the streets into shaded tunnels and providing a secret refuge from which the womenfolk of Algiers could critically inspect the fair-skinned European females.
Occasionally she would pass through a square or concourse with shade trees and decorated marble fountains. The streets echoed with the cries of vendors and the grumbling of tetchy camels. Donkeys groaning under impossible burdens trotted past, their owners shouting ‘Balak, balak!’ (‘Get out of the way!’) The smell of dung mingled earthily with the scent of the scrambling jasmine and oleander. Joane’s senses were assaulted by sounds, smells and sights that were truly alien to her: a tall minaret with a muezzin calling the faithful to prayer; a masked woman carrying a gift of fruit to a shrine; Japanese sailors, Russian slaves, Central African giants who towered above her, their coal-black skins glistening with sweat.
It’s impossible to imagine the effect of such an experience upon simple villagers who’d never ventured beyond their own parish. In
fact, it is said that during their first few minutes in Barbary, some new arrivals dropped dead from terror.
In this case, all the Baltimore captives survived to arrive safely at the palace. However, if their experience was anything like that of Pananti, their fears would not have been eased by the sight that confronted them there. The first thing the Italian poet noticed was six bloody heads arranged along the entrance – the grisly remains of half a dozen Janissary captains who had dared to stage a rebellion.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
‘A Good Prize! Prisoners! Slaves!’
Visiting diplomats described the Pasha’s palace as ‘the most beautiful building in all Algiers’. And if John Ryder and Joane Broadbrook had any lingering doubts about their own insignificance in this city of 25,000 slaves, these would have been immediately dispelled when they entered the ruler’s domain. The entire palace had been built to inspire awe.
The walls of the three-storey palace were constructed from giant slabs of stone, bleached snow-white with lime. A huge decorated gate opened to admit the ogling captives to a central square paved with white marble and shaded by lemon trees. Elaborate fountains threw handfuls of water at the hot, dry air.
In the women’s quarters on the first floor, the Pasha’s wives would be inspecting the newcomers from behind copper-latticed windows, eagerly looking out for a new maidservant or companion to provide diversion in the harem. Having earmarked their favourites, they would despatch a eunuch to the Pasha begging the favour.
As workmen piled the meagre booty from the expedition in the courtyard, John, Joane and the rest of the Baltimore villagers filed in to a large room whose walls were covered with hand-painted earthenware tiles and cedar fretwork. Joane stared in wonder at the marble columns that supported its two elegant galleries and soared towards ceilings of gilded olive wood. All around her were the richest furnishings of Africa and Asia: cedar trunks inlaid with pearl, filigree screens, marble fountains, and giant urns containing sago palms.
Officials sat at low tables or reclined on sumptuous sofas. No doubt the Algerine corsair admiral Ali Bichnin was there to greet Morat and congratulate him personally. And at the head of the hall, dominating this exotic scene, was the Governor – His Excellency, Pasha Hussein. There is no record of his appearance on that day, but we have a verbal snapshot of one of his successors:
‘[H]is feet [were] shod with buskins bound upon his legs with diamond buttons in loops of pearl; around his waist was brought a sash glittering with jewels, to which was suspended a broad scimitar, its sheath of the finest velvet. Upon [his] head was a turban [with] a large diamond crescent [and] two large ostrich feathers …’
The English captive T. S. recalled that he and his fellow captives were left to wait for quite some time while the ruler lingered over his morning bath. It wasn’t until 2 pm that the courtiers filed in, armed with scimitars.
‘Next came a grave fellow with a turban almost as big as our English half bushel,’ he wrote. ‘At one side of it he had a set of diamonds, that did sparkle as his eyes; his vesture was green, his legs were bare, on his feet he did wear sandals … his pace was slow and grave. I could have numbered twenty between every step. He marched in that manner to the upper end, where there was canopy of State over his head, and two Turk carpets with a large pillow covered with damask under him.’
The ship captain formally presented his bill of lading and invited
the turbaned Pasha to inspect the slaves. The ruler left his throne and
filed slowly past the captives, pausing to stare into their eyes.
‘He cast a jest on every one of us,’ the writer recalled, ‘which gave the
company a great deal of mirth and increased our sadness.’
When the Pasha reached T.S., he joked that that he would not be
prepared to trust this man anywhere near his women.
This account matches other versions of the Algerines’ vetting
procedure. They enjoyed psyching out their captives in this way. The
legendary Ali Bichnin wrinkled the truth out of his newly arrived
slaves with a simple but effective technique. If he captured someone
who appeared to be a middle-class gentleman, he would address him
as ‘My Lord’ or ‘Count’. A humble cleric would be flattered with
‘Your Eminence’. The horrified captives would rush to correct the
mistake, thus giving away their true status.
Some rich aristocrats treated the whole business with contempt.
Emmanuel d’Aranda tells of one Portuguese nobleman, captured in
1638, who haughtily reeled off his family pedigree, including the fact
that his uncle was General of Brazil.
‘Nobility and servility will not do well together,’ the shrewd Pasha
flattered him, before citing a ludicrously high 4,000 ducats for his
freedom.
The wealthy dimwit agreed, thus setting the same impossible rate
for his fellow captives.
When the horrified D’Aranda told him he could have got away
with only 1,500 ducats, the nobleman shrugged disdainfully. ‘To
what end should a man have money?’ he demanded. ‘To work like
a dog, or to procure his liberty?’
At these hearings, consuls would desperately try to argue for the release of their citizens. The Algerines loved show-trials and would happily debate the finer points of law for hours before deciding in their own favour.
Filippo Pananti recalled how a nail-biting trial took place before the Divan (the Janissary parliament) to decide whether his consignment of slaves was ‘a good prize’ – that is, legitimate in international law.
A large crowd waited with bated breath outside the building as the English consul of the day argued that the ship had been seized unlawfully. However, the corsair captain responded with all the skill of a top barrister and ‘boldly sustained the remorseless laws of piracy, drawing the finest distinctions imaginable between domiciliation and nationality’. When the corsair won his case, the news spread out to the waiting crowd.
‘“A good prize! Prisoners! Slaves!” was now murmured throughout the councils,’ Pananti wrote, ‘and soon communicated to the crowd assembled without; which by its cries and vociferation, seemed to demand such a decision.’
Now, in 1631, James Frizell argued with justification that the Baltimore raid had contravened Sir Thomas Roe’s peace agreement with the Turkish Emperor. But Algiers was not Constantinople, as the consul had found out many times before.
Another seventeenth-century English diplomat described the tortuous legal situation with an air of weariness. ‘The pirates of Algiers and Tunis began to cast off their respect and reverence to the Ottoman Emperor, for being become rich by prizes they had taken on Christian vessels, they resolved to set up for themselves and to esteem the peace which Christian princes had made with the [Emperor], not to concern them,’ he wrote.
‘[T]he Turks were inwardly pleased with these piracies [but] gave good words to the Christian ambassadors. [They] promised much, and effected nothing.’
Frizell’s arguments were soon dismissed. The captives were declared as slaves, and the Pasha could turn his attention to his most important task – selecting the most desirable women.
Joane would have felt a sense of dread as Pasha Hussein surveyed the miserable lineup of women and girls by her side. She probably suspected that this was the last time they would be together as a group: after this, they would be scattered to the four winds.
The Pasha was normally expected to send several female slaves as tribute to the Sultan in Constantinople. He might also need to send two or three women to the harem of a counterpart in Tunis or Tripoli in order to return a favour. And, of course, he must not overlook the needs of his personal harem.
There was a respectful silence as the ruler carefully inspected Anna, Miss Croffine and the rest of the younger women. He was enti
tled by law to one in eight of the adult females and the older girls, and of course he would choose only the best.
In his eyes, it was not a problem that the chosen women might have been married, or the mothers of young children. These were not full human beings, after all, but infidel prisoners of war – tutsaklar. Their heathen marriages were invalid here, and the Pasha would have felt no more compunction at separating mother from child than a horse-breeder might feel at separating a mare from her foal. Mothers like Mrs John Ryder could be dragged screaming from their children and into an enclosed harem which would be their home for years to come.
There was one way to avoid all this unpleasantness. At any stage of these grim proceedings, a rich woman could announce that her family would pay for her freedom. She would then be escorted to a safe home where she would idle away the weeks until the money arrived.
This was what happened to the optimistic woman on Cathcart’s ship. She was sent to a hospital to await the arrival of her ransom. Sadly, the cash never materialised and she was ‘purchased by the Regency’.
But without access to 4,000 ducats – or even 1,500 – the Baltimore fisherfolk had no prospect of making such a dignified exit. There were screams and entreaties, tearful supplications and angry struggles as the palace guards enforced the Pasha’s whims. None of their pleas made any difference. Afterwards, as Pananti put it, the ruler ‘looked at us with a mingled smile of exultation and contempt, and then, making a sign with his hand, we were ordered to depart.’
Once the captives had left the royal palace, all pretence at politeness and civility was abandoned. They were now auction fodder, with no more rights than cattle or sheep. They were bound for the slave market.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The Slave Market
Father Pierre Dan thought he had seen everything in Algiers, but nothing could have prepared him for the experience of the Baltimore captives being put up for sale in the slave market. These were images that would haunt him for the rest of his days: little girls torn, screaming, from their mothers’ arms … husbands struggling desperately while their wives were sold into the beds of other men. As the French priest took up pen and paper and steeled himself to record their horrific ordeal in a report to his superiors, he found himself almost at a loss for words. First the facts. He must report the basic facts …