CHAPTER THREE.
THE BAGNIO--OUR HERO SEES SOMETHING OF MISERY, AND IS SOLD AS A SLAVE.
There are some things in this world so unbelievable that even when weknow them to be true we still remain in a state of semi-scepticism.
When our unfortunate midshipman awoke next morning, raised himself onhis elbow, and felt that all his bones and muscles were stiff and painedfrom lying on a stone floor, it was some time before he could make outwhere he was, or recall the events of the last few days. The firstthing that revived his sluggish memory was the scuttling away, inanxious haste, of a scorpion that had sought and found comfortablequarters during the night under the lee of his right leg. Starting up,he crushed the reptile with his foot.
"You will get used to that," said a quietly sarcastic voice with aslightly foreign accent, close to him.
The speaker was a middle-aged man with grey hair, hollow cheeks, anddeep sunken eyes.
"They trouble us a little at first," he continued, "but, as I have said,we get used to them. It is long since I cared for scorpions."
"Have you, then, been long here?" asked Foster.
"Yes. Twelve years."
"A prisoner?--a slave?" asked the midshipman anxiously.
"A prisoner, yes. A slave, yes--a mummified man; a dead thing with lifeenough to work, but not yet quite a brute, more's the pity, for then Ishould not care! But here I have been for twelve years--long, longyears! It has seemed to me an eternity."
"It _is_ a long time to be a slave. God help you, poor man!" exclaimedFoster.
"You will have to offer that prayer for yourself, young man," returnedthe other; "you will need help more than I. At first we are fools, buttime makes us wise. It even teaches Englishmen that they are notunconquerable."
The man spoke pointedly and in a harsh sarcastic tone which tended tocheck Foster's new-born compassion; nevertheless, he continued toaddress his fellow-sufferer in a sympathetic spirit.
"You are not an Englishman, I think," he said, "though you speak ourlanguage well."
"No, I am French, but my wife is English."
"Your wife! Is she here also?"
"Thank God--no," replied the Frenchman, with a sudden burst ofseriousness which was evidently genuine. "She is in England, trying tomake up the sum of my ransom. But she will never do it. She is poor.She has her daughter to provide for besides herself, and we have nofriends. No, I have hoped for twelve years, and hope is now dead--nearly dead."
The overwhelming thoughts that this information raised in Foster's mindrendered him silent for a few minutes. The idea of the poor wife inEngland, toiling for twelve years almost hopelessly to ransom herhusband, filled his susceptible heart with pity. Then the thought ofhis mother and Minnie--who were also poor--toiling for years to procurehis ransom, filled him with oppressive dread. To throw the depressingsubject off his mind, he asked how the Frenchman had guessed that he wasan Englishman before he had heard him speak.
"I know your countrymen," he answered, "by their bearing. Besides, youhave been muttering in your sleep about `Mother and Minnie.' If thelatter is, as I suppose, your sweetheart--your _fiancee_--the sooner youget her out of your mind the better, for you will never see her more."
Again Foster felt repelled by the harsh cynicism of the man, yet at thesame time he felt strangely attracted to him, a fact which he showedmore by his tones than his words when he said--
"My friend, you are not yet enrolled among the infallible prophets.Whether I shall ever again see those whom I love depends upon the willof God. But I don't wonder that with your sad experience you shouldgive way to despair. For myself, I will cling to the hope that God willdeliver me, and I would advise you to do the same."
"How many I have seen, who had the sanguine temperament, like yours,awakened and crushed," returned the Frenchman. "See, there is one ofthem," he added, pointing to a cell nearly opposite, in which a form wasseen lying on its back, straight and motionless. "That young man wassuch another as you are when he first came here."
"Is he dead?" asked the midshipman, with a look of pity.
"Yes--he died in the night while you slept. It was attending to him inhis last moments that kept me awake. He was nothing to me but afellow-slave and sufferer, but I _was_ fond of him. He was hard toconquer, but they managed it at last, for they beat him to death."
"Then they did _not_ conquer him," exclaimed Foster with a gush ofindignant pity. "To beat a man to death is to murder, not to conquer.But you called him a young man. The corpse that lies there has thingrey hair and a wrinkled brow."
"Nevertheless he was young--not more than twenty-seven--but six years ofthis life brought him to what you see. He might have lived longer, as Ihave, had he been submissive!"
Before Foster could reply, the grating of a rusty key in the door causeda movement as well as one or two sighs and groans among the slaves, forthe keepers had come to summon them to work. The Frenchman rose andfollowed the others with a hook of sullen indifference. Most of themwere without fetters, but a few strong young men wore chains and fettersmore or less heavy, and Foster judged from this circumstance, as well astheir expressions, that these were rebellious subjects whom it wasdifficult to tame.
Much to his surprise, the youth found that he was not called on to joinhis comrades in misfortune, but was left behind in solitude. Whilecasting about in his mind as to what this could mean, he observed in acorner the two rolls of black bread which he had received the previousnight, and which, not being hungry at the time, he had neglected. As ahealthy appetite was by that time obtruding itself on his attention, hetook hold of one and began to eat. It was not attractive, but, notbeing particular, he consumed it. He even took up the other and atethat also, after which he sighed and wished for more! As there was nomore to be had, he went to the fountain in the court and washed hisbreakfast down with water.
About two hours later the door was again opened, and a man in theuniform of a janissary entered. Fixing a keen glance on the youngcaptive, he bade him in broken English rise and follow.
By this time the lesson of submission had been sufficiently impressed onour hero to induce him to accord prompt obedience. He followed hisguide into the street, where he walked along until they arrived at asquare, on one side of which stood a large mosque. Here marketing wasbeing carried on to a considerable extent, and, as he threaded his waythrough the various groups, he could not help being impressed with theextreme simplicity of the mode of procedure, for it seemed to him thatall a man wanted to enable him to set himself up in trade was a fewarticles of any kind--old or new, it did not matter which--with a day'slease of about four feet square of the market pavement. There theretail trader squatted, smoked his pipe, and calmly awaited the decreesof Fate!
One of these small traders he noted particularly while his conductorstopped to converse with a friend. He was an old man, evidently adescendant of Ishmael, and clothed in what seemed to be a raggedcast-off suit that had belonged to Abraham or Isaac. He carried hisshop on his arm in the shape of a basket, out of which he took a littlebit of carpet, and spread it close to where they stood. On this he satdown and slowly extracted from his basket, and spread on the groundbefore him, a couple of old locks, several knives, an old brasscandlestick, an assortment of rusty keys, a flat-iron, and half a dozenother articles of household furniture. Before any purchases were made,however, the janissary moved on, and Foster had to follow.
Passing through two or three tortuous and narrow lanes, which, however,were thickly studded with shops--that is, with holes in the wall, inwhich merchandise was displayed outside as well as in--they came to adoor which was strictly guarded. Passing the guards, they foundthemselves in a court, beyond which they could see another court whichlooked like a hall of justice--or injustice, as the case might be. Whatstrengthened Foster in the belief that such was its character, was thefact that, at the time they entered, an officer was sitting cross-leggedon a bench, smoking comfortably, while in front of him
a man lay on hisface with his soles turned upwards, whilst an executioner was applyingto them the punishment of the bastinado. The culprit could not havebeen a great offender, for, after a sharp yell or two, he was allowed torise and limp away.
Our hero was led before the functionary who looked like a judge. Heregarded the middy with no favour. We should have recorded that Foster,when blown out to sea, as already described, had leaped on the pirate'sdeck without coat or vest. As he was still in this dismantledcondition, and had neither been washed nor combed since that eventoccurred, his appearance at this time was not prepossessing.
"Who are you, and where do you come from?" was the first question put byan interpreter.
Of course Foster told the exact truth about himself. After he had doneso, the judge and interpreter consulted together, glancing darkly attheir prisoner the while. Then the judge smiled significantly andnodded his head. The interpreter turned to a couple of negroes whostood ready to execute any commands, apparently, and said a few words tothem. They at once took hold of Foster and fastened a rope to hiswrist. As they did so, the interpreter turned to the poor youth andsaid--
"What you tell is all lies."
"Indeed, indeed, it is not," exclaimed the midshipman fervently.
"Go!" said the interpreter.
A twitch from the rope at the same moment recalled our hero to his rightmind; and the remembrance of the poor wretch who had just suffered thebastinado, and also of Peter the Great's oft-repeated reference to"whacking," had the effect of crushing the spirit of rebellion which hadjust begun to arise in his breast. Thus he was conducted ignominiouslyinto the street and back to the market-square, where he was made tostand with a number of other men, who, like himself, appeared to beslaves. For what they were there waiting he could not tell, but he wassoon enlightened, as after half an hour, a dignified-looking Moor inflowing apparel came forward, examined one of the captives, felt hismuscles, made him open his mouth, and otherwise show his paces, afterwhich he paid a sum of money for him and a negro attendant led him away.
"I'm to be sold as a slave," Foster involuntarily groaned aloud.
"Like all the rest of us," growled a stout sailor-like man, who stood athis elbow.
Foster turned quickly to look at him, but a sudden movement in the groupseparated them after the first glance at each other.
By way of relieving his overcharged feelings he tried to interesthimself in the passers-by. This, however, he found very difficult,until he observed a sturdy young Cabyle coming along with two enormousfeathery bundles suspended over his right shoulder, one hanging before,the other behind. To his surprise these bundles turned out to be livingfowls, tied by the legs and hanging with their heads down. There couldnot, he thought, have been fewer than thirty or forty birds in eachbundle, and it occurred to him at once that they had probably beencarried to market thus from some distance in the country. At allevents, the young Cabyle seemed to be dusty and warm with walking. Heeven seemed fatigued, for, when about to pass the group of slaves, hestopped to rest and flung down his load. The shock of the fall musthave snapped a number of legs, for a tremendous cackle burst from thebundles as they struck the ground.
This raised the thought in Foster's mind that he could hope for no mercywhere such wanton cruelty was not even deemed worthy of notice by thebystanders; but the sound of a familiar voice put all other thoughts toflight.
"Dis way, massa, you's sure to git fuss-rate fellers here. We brought'im in on'y yesterday--all fresh like new-laid eggs."
The speaker was Peter the Great. The man to whom he spoke was a Moor oftall stature and of somewhat advanced years.
Delighted more than he could express, in his degraded and forlorncondition, at this unlooked-for meeting with his black friend, Fosterwas about to claim acquaintance, when the negro advanced to the groupamong whom he stood, exclaiming loudly--
"Here dey am, massa, dis way." Then turning suddenly on Foster with afierce expression, he shouted, "What you lookin' at, you babby-facedijit? Hab you nebber seen a handsome nigger before dat you look allt'under-struck of a heap? Can't you hold your tongue, you chatterin'monkey?" and with that, although Foster had not uttered a syllable, thenegro fetched him a sounding smack on the cheek, to the great amusementof the bystanders.
Well was it then for our middy that it flashed into his mind that Peterthe Great, being the most astounding "hyperkrite" on earth, was at workin his deceptive way, else would he have certainly retaliated andbrought on himself swift punishment--for slaves were not permitted toresent injuries or create riots. As it was, he cast down his eyes,flushed scarlet, and restrained himself.
"Now, massa," continued the negro, turning to the fine, sailor-like manwho had spoken to Foster a few minutes before, "here's a nice-lookin'man. Strong an' healfy--fit for anyt'ing no doubt."
"Ask him if he understands gardening," said the Moor.
We may remark, in passing, that Peter the Great and his owner had apeculiar mode of carrying on conversation. The latter addressed hisslave in the Lingua Franca, while Peter replied in his own niggerEnglish, which the Moor appeared to understand perfectly. Why theycarried it on thus we cannot explain, but it is our duty to record thefact.
"Understand gardening!" exclaimed the sailor, in supreme contempt, "Ishould think not. Wot d'you take me for, you black baboon! Do I looklike a gardener? Ploughin' an' diggin' I knows nothin' aboutwotsomever, though I _have_ ploughed the waves many a day, an' I'mconsidered a fust-rate hand at diggin' into wittles."
"Oh! massa, das de man for your money! Buy him, quick!" cried thenegro, with a look of earnest entreaty at his master. "He say he'sploughed many a day, an''s a fuss-rate hand at diggin'. _Do_ buy 'im!"
But the Moor would not buy him. Either he understood the sailor'slanguage to some extent, or that inveterate obstinacy of which Peter hadmade mention as being part of his character was beginning to assertitself.
"Ask this one what he knows about it," said the Moor, pointing to a thinyoung man, whose sprightly expression showed that he had not yet fullyrealised what fate was in store for him in the pirates' stronghold.
"Wich is it you mean, massa, dis one?" said Peter, purposely mistakingand turning to Foster. "Oh! you needn't ask about _him_. He not wuffhis salt. I could tell him at a mile off for a lazy, useless feller.Gib more trouble dan he's wuff. Dere now, dis looks a far better man,"he added, laying hold of the thin sprightly youth and turning him round."What d'ye t'ink ob dis one?"
"I _told_ you to ask that one," replied the Moor sharply.
"Can you do gardenin', you feller?" asked Peter.
"Oui, oui--un peu," replied the youth, who happened to be French, butunderstood English.
"None ob your wee-wees an' poo-poos to me. Can't you speak English?"
"Oui, yes, I gardin ver' leetle."
"Jus' so. Das de man for us, massa, if you won't hab de oder. I likesde look ob 'im. I don't t'ink he'll be hard on de wittles, an' he's sot'in dat he won't puspire much when he works in de sun in summer. Dobuy _him_, massa."
But "massa" would not buy him, and looked hard for some time at ourhero.
"I see how it am," said the negro, growing sulky. "You set your hearton dat useless ijit. Do come away, massa, it 'ud break my heart to libwid sich a feller."
This seemed to clinch the matter, for the Moor purchased theobjectionable slave, ordered Peter the Great to bring him along, andleft the market-place.
"Didn't I tell you I's de greatest hyperkrite as ever was born?" saidPeter, in a low voice, when sufficiently far in rear to prevent beingoverheard by his master.
"You certainly did," replied Foster, who felt something almost likesatisfaction at this change in his fate; "you are the most perfecthypocrite that I ever came across, and I am not sorry for it. Only Ihope you won't deceive your friends."
"Honour bright!" said the negro, with a roll of the eyes and a solemnityof expression that told far more than words could express.
"Can you te
ll me," asked the middy, as they walked along, "what hasbecome of that fine-looking girl that was captured with her father andmother by your captain?"
"Don't say _my_ captain, sar," replied Peter sternly. "He no captain obmine. I was on'y loaned to him. But I knows nuffin ob de gall. Berylikely she's de Dey's forty-second wife by dis time. Hush! look sulky,"he added quickly, observing that his master was looking back.
Poor Foster found himself under the necessity of following his blackfriend's lead, and acting the "hyperkrite," in order to prevent theirfriendship being discovered. He did it with a bad grace, it is true,but felt that, for his friend's sake if not his own, he was bound tocomply. So he put on an expression which his cheery face had not knownsince that period of infancy when his frequent demands for sugar werenot gratified. Wheels worked within wheels, however, for he felt sodisgusted with the part he had to play that he got into the sulksnaturally!
"Fuss-rate!" whispered Peter, "you's a'most as good as myself."
By this time they had reached one of the eastern gates of the city. Itwas named Bab-Azoun. As they passed through it the negro told hisbrother-slave that the large iron hooks which ornamented the wall therewere used for the purpose of having criminals cast on them; the wretchedvictims being left to hang there, by whatever parts of their bodieschanced to catch on the hooks, till they died.
Having reached the open country outside the walls, they walked along abeautiful road, from which were obtained here and there splendid viewsof the surrounding country. On one side lay the blue Mediterranean,with its picturesque boats and shipping, and the white city descendingto the very edge of the sea; on the other side rose the wooded slopes ofa suburb named Mustapha, with numerous white Moorish houses in the midstof luxuriant gardens, where palms, bananas, cypresses, aloes,lemon-trees, and orange groves perfumed the balmy air, and affordedgrateful shade from the glare of the African sun.
Into one of those gardens the Moor at last turned and led the way to ahouse, which, if not in itself beautiful according to European notionsof architecture, was at least rendered cheerful with whitewash, andstood in the midst of a beauty and luxuriance of vegetation that couldnot be surpassed.
Opening a door in this building, the Turk entered. His slaves followed,and Foster, to his surprise, found what may be styled a miniature gardenin the courtyard within.
The Middy and the Moors: An Algerine Story Page 3
