The Middy and the Moors: An Algerine Story

by R. M. Ballantyne

  CHAPTER EIGHT.

  A SEVERE TRIAL--SECRET COMMUNICATION UNDER DIFFICULTIES, AND SUDDENFLIGHT.

  The devotion of our middy to the fine arts was so satisfactory in itsresults that Ben-Ahmed set him to work at various other apartments inhis dwelling when the first drawing was nearly finished.

  We say nearly finished, because, owing to some unaccountable whim, theMoor would not allow the first drawing to be completed. When Foster hadfinished a painting of the central court, his master was so pleased withthe way in which he had drawn and coloured the various shrubs andflowers which grew there, that he ordered him forthwith to commence aseries of drawings of the garden from various points of view. In one ofthese Foster introduced such a life-like portrait of Peter the Greatthat Ben-Ahmed was charmed, and immediately gave orders to have most ofhis slaves portrayed while engaged in their various occupations.

  In work of this kind many months were spent, for Foster was apainstaking worker. He finished all his paintings with minute care,having no capacity for off-hand or rapid sketching. During this periodthe engrossing nature of his work--of which he was extremely fond--tended to prevent his mind from dwelling too much on his condition ofslavery, but it was chiefly the knowledge that Hester Sommers was underthe same roof, and the expectation that at any moment he might encounterher, which reconciled him to his fate, and even made him cheerful underit.

  But as week after week passed away, and month after month, without evena flutter of her dress being seen by him, his heart failed him again,and he began to fear that Ben-Ahmed's son Osman might have returned andcarried her off as his bride, or that she might have been sold to somerich Moor--even to the Dey himself! Of course his black friendcomforted him with the assurance that Osman had not returned, and thatBen-Ahmed was not the man to sell a slave he was fond of; but suchassurances did not afford him much comfort. His mind was also burdenedwith anxiety about his mother and sister.

  He was sitting one day while in this state at an angle of the gardentrying to devote his entire mind to the portrayal of a tree-fern, andvainly endeavouring to prevent Hester Sommers from coming between himand the paper, when he was summoned to attend upon Ben-Ahmed. As thiswas an event of by no means uncommon occurrence, he listlessly gatheredup his materials and went into the house.

  He found the Moor seated cross-legged on a carpet, smoking his hookah,with only a negress in attendance. His easel, he found, was alreadyplaced, and, to his surprise, he observed that the original drawing withwhich his career as a painter had commenced was placed upon it.

  "I wish you to finish that picture by introducing a figure," saidBen-Ahmed, with solemn gravity.

  He spoke in Lingua Franca, which Foster understood pretty well by thattime.

  It now became evident to him why the drawing of the room had been leftunfinished, and he thought it probable that modesty--or, perhaps, adifficulty in overcoming the Moslem's dislike to being transferred tocanvas at all--had caused the delay.

  "In what attitude do you wish to be painted?" asked the middy, as hemoved the easel a little, and took a professional, head-on-one-side lookat his subject.

  "In no attitude," returned the Moor gravely.

  "Pardon me," said Foster in surprise. "Did you not say that--that--"

  "I said that I wish you to finish the drawing by introducing a figure,"returned Ben-Ahmed, taking a long draw at the hookah.

  "Just so--and may I ask--"

  "The figure," resumed the Moor, taking no notice of the interruption,"is to be one of my women slaves."

  Here he turned his head slightly and gave a brief order to the negressin waiting, who retired by the door behind her.

  The middy stood silent for a minute or so, lost in wonder andexpectation, when another door opened and a female entered. She wasgorgeously dressed, and closely veiled, so that her face was entirelyconcealed; nevertheless, George Foster's heart seemed to bound into histhroat and half choke him, for he knew the size, air, and general effectof that female as well as if she had been his own mother.

  The Moor rose, led her to a cushion, and bade her sit down. She did sowith the grace of Venus, and then the Moor removed her veil--lookingfixedly at the painter as he did so.

  But the middy had recovered self-possession by that time. He wassurprised as well as deeply concerned to observe that Hester's beautifulface was very pale, and her eyes were red and swollen, as if from muchcrying, but not a muscle in his stolid countenance betrayed theslightest emotion. He put his head a little to one side, in theorthodox manner, and looked steadily at her. Then he looked at hispainting and frowned, as if considering the best spot in which to placethis "figure." Then he began to work.

  Meanwhile the Moor sat down to smoke in such a position that he couldsee both painter and sitter.

  It was a severe test of our middy's capacity to act the "hyperkrite!"His heart was thumping at his ribs like a sledge-hammer anxious to getout. His hand trembled so that he could scarcely draw a line, and hewas driven nearly mad with the necessity of presenting a calm,thoughtful exterior when the effervescence within, as he afterwardsadmitted, almost blew his head off like a champagne cork.

  By degrees he calmed down, ceased breaking the point of his pencil, andused his india-rubber less frequently. Then he took to colour and thebrush, and here the tide began to turn in his favour. _Such_ a subjectsurely never before sat to painter since the world began! He becameengrossed in his work. The eyes became intent, the hand steady, theheart regular, the whole man intense, while a tremendous frown andcompressed lips told that he "meant business!"

  Not less intense was the attention of the Moor. Of course we cannottell what his thoughts were, but it seemed not improbable that hiseccentric recklessness in violating all his Mohammedan habits andtraditions as to the seclusion of women, by thus exposing Hester to thegaze of a young infidel, had aroused feelings of jealousy and suspicion,which were not natural to his kindly and un-Moorish cast of soul.

  But while young Foster was employed in the application of his powers toenergetic labour, the old Moor was engaged in the devotion of _his_powers to the consumption of smoke. The natural results followed.While the painter became more and more absorbed, so as to forget allaround save his sitter and his work, the Moor became more and moredevoted to his hookah, till he forgot all around save the soporificinfluences of smoke. An almost oppressive silence ensued, broken onlyby the soft puffing of Ben-Ahmed's lips, and an occasional change in theattitude of the painter. And oh! how earnestly did that painter wishthat Ben-Ahmed would retire--even for a minute--to give him a chance ofexchanging a word or two with his subject.

  But the Moor was steady as a rock. Indeed he was too steady, for thecurtains of his eyes suddenly fell, and shut in the owlish glare withwhich he had been regarding the middy. At the same moment a sharp clickand clatter sent an electric thrill to the hearts of all. The Moor'smouthpiece had fallen on the marble floor! Ben-Ahmed picked it up andreplaced it with severe gravity, yet a faint flicker of red in hischeek, and a very slight air of confusion, showed that even amagnificent Moor objects to be caught napping by his slaves.

  This incident turned Foster's thoughts into a new channel. If the Moorshould again succumb to the demands of nature--or the influence oftobacco--how could he best make use of the opportunity? It was apuzzling question. To speak--in a whisper or otherwise--was not to bethought of. Detection would follow almost certainly. The dumb alphabetwould have been splendid, though dangerous, but neither he nor Hesterunderstood it. Signs might do. He would try signs, though he had nevertried them before. What then? Did not "Never venture, never win,""Faint heart never won," etcetera, and a host of similar proverbs assurehim that a midshipman, of all men, should "never say die."

  A few minutes more gave him the chance. Again the mouthpiece fell, butthis time it dropped on the folds of the Moor's dress, and in anotherminute steady breathing told that Ben-Ahmed was in the land of Nod--ifnot of dreams.

  A sort of lightning change
took place in the expressions of the youngpeople. Hester's face beamed with intelligence. Foster's blazed withmute interrogation. The little maid clasped her little hands, gazedupwards anxiously, looked at the painter entreatingly, and glanced atthe Moor dubiously.

  Foster tried hard to talk to her "only with his eyes." He even addedsome amazing motions of the lips which were meant to convey--"What's thematter with you?" but they conveyed nothing, for Hester only shook herhead and looked miserable.

  A mild choke at that moment caused the maid to fall into statuesquecomposure, and the painter to put his frowning head tremendously to oneside as he stepped back in order to make quite sure that the last touchwas really equal, if not superior, to Michael Angelo himself!

  The Moor resumed his mouthpiece with a suspicious glance at both slaves,and Foster, with the air of a man who feels that Michael was fairlyoverthrown, stepped forward to continue his work. Truly, if Peter theGreat had been there at the time he might have felt that he also wasfairly eclipsed in his own particular line!

  Foster now became desperate, and his active mind began to rush wildlyabout in quest of useful ideas, while his steady hand pursued its labouruntil the Moor smoked himself into another slumber.

  Availing himself of the renewed opportunity, the middy wrapped a smallpiece of pencil in a little bit of paper, and, with the reckless daringof a man who had boarded a pirate single-handed, flung it at hislady-love.

  His aim was true--as that of a midshipman should be. The little bombstruck Hester on the nose and fell into her lap. She unrolled itquickly, and an expression of blank disappointment was the result, forthe paper was blank and she had expected a communication. She looked upinquiringly, and beaming intelligence displaced the blank when she sawthat Foster made as though he were writing large text on his drawing.She at once flattened the bit of paper on her knee--eyeing the Mooranxiously the while--and scribbled a few words on the paper.

  A loud cough from Foster, followed by a violent sneeze, caused her tocrush the paper in her hand and again become intensely statuesque.Prompt though she was, this would not have saved her from detection ifthe violence of Foster's sneeze had not drawn the Moor's first glanceaway from her and towards himself.

  "Pardon me," said the middy, with a deprecatory air, "a sneeze issometimes difficult to repress."

  "Does painting give Englishmen colds?" asked the Moor sternly.

  "Sometimes it does--especially if practised out of doors in badweather," returned Foster softly.

  "H'm! That will do for to-day. You may return to your painting in thegarden. It will, perhaps, cure your cold. Go!" he added, turning toHester, who immediately rose, pushed the paper under the cushion onwhich she had been sitting, and left the room with her eyes fixed on theground.

  As the cat watches the mouse, Foster had watched the girl's everymovement while he bent over his paint-box. He saw where she put thepaper. In conveying his materials from the room, strange to say, heslipped on the marble floor, close to the cushion, secured the paper ashe rose, and, picking up his scattered things with an air ofself-condemnation, retired humbly--yet elated--from thepresence-chamber.

  Need we say that in the first convenient spot he could find he eagerlyunrolled the paper, and read--

  "I am lost! Oh, save me! Osman has come! I have _seen_ him!_Hateful_! He comes to-morrow to--"

  The writing ended abruptly.

  "My hideous sneeze did that!" growled Foster savagely. "But if I hadbeen a moment later Ben-Ahmed might have--well, well; no matter. She_must_ be saved. She _shall_ be saved!"

  Having said this, clenched his teeth and hands, and glared, he began towonder _how_ she was to be saved. Not being able to arrive at anyconclusion on this point, he went off in search of his friend Peter theGreat.

  He found that worthy man busy mending a rake in a tool-house, and in afew eager words explained how matters stood. At first the negrolistened with his wonted, cheerful smile and helpful look, whichhitherto had been a sort of beacon-light to the poor midshipman in histroubles, but when he came to the piece of paper and read its contentsthe smile vanished.

  "Osman home!" he said. "If Osman come back it's a black look-out forpoor Hester! And the paper says to-morrow," cried Foster; "to take heraway and marry her, no doubt. Peter, I tell you, she must be saved_to-night_! You and I must save her. If you won't aid me I will do italone--or die in the attempt."

  "Geo'ge, if you was to die a t'ousan' times dat wouldn't sabe her. Youknow de Kasba?"

  "Yes, yes--go on!"

  "Well, if you was to take dat on your shoulders an' pitch 'im into desea, _dat_ wouldn't sabe her."

  "Yes it would, you faint-hearted nigger!" cried the middy, losing allpatience, "for if I could do that I'd be able to wring the neck of everypirate in Algiers--and I'd do it too!"

  "Now, Geo'ge, keep cool. I's on'y p'intin' out what you can't do; butp'r'aps somet'ing may be done. Yes," (he struck his forehead with hisfist, as if to clinch a new idea),--"yes, I knows! I's hit it!"

  "What!" cried Foster eagerly.

  "Dat you's got nuffin to do wid," returned the negro decisively. "Youmust know not'ing, understand not'ing, hear an' see not'ing, for if youdo you'll be whacked to deaf. Bery likely you'll be whacked anyhow, butdat not so bad. You must just shut your eyes an' mout' an' trust all to_me_. You understand, Geo'ge?"

  "I think I do," said the relieved middy, seizing the negro's right handand wringing it gratefully. "Bless your black face! I trust you fromthe bottom of my soul."

  It was, indeed, a source of immense relief to poor Foster that hisfriend not only took up the matter with energy, but spoke in such acheery, hopeful tone, for the more he thought of the subject the morehopeless did the case of poor Hester Sommers appear. He could of coursedie for her--and would, if need were--but this thought was alwaysfollowed by the depressing question, "What good would that do to _her_?"

  Two hours after the foregoing conversation occurred Peter the Great wasseated in a dark little back court in a low coffee-house in one of thedarkest, narrowest, and most intricate streets of Algiers. He sat on anempty packing-box. In front of him was seated a stout negress, in whoman Ethiopian might have traced some family likeness to Peter himself.

  "Now, Dinah," said he, continuing an earnest conversation which hadalready lasted for some time, "you understand de case properly--eh?"

  "Ob course I does," said Dinah.

  "Well, den, you must go about it at once. Not a minute to lose. You'llfind me at de gardin door. I'll let you in. You know who you's got tosabe, an' you must find out your own way to sabe her, an'--now, hol'your tongue! You's just a-goin' to speak--I must know nuffin'. Don'tell me one word about it. You's a cleber woman, Dinah."

  "Yes, my brudder. I wasn't born yesterday--no, nor yet the day before."

  "An', Samson, will you trust _him_?"

  "My husband is as good as gold. I trust him wid eberyt'ing!" repliedthis pattern wife.

  "An' Youssef--what ob him?"

  "He's more'n t'ree quarters blind. Kin see not'ing, an' understan'sless."

  "Dinah, you's a good woman," remarked her appreciative brother, as herose to depart. "Now, remember, dis am de most important job you an' Ihab had to do since we was took by de pirits out ob de same ship. An' Ido t'ink de Lord hab bin bery good to us, for He's gi'n us good massasat last, though we had some roughish ones at fust. Foller me as quickas you can."

  Dinah, being a warm-hearted woman, and very sympathetic, did not wastetime. She reached Ben-Ahmed's villa only half an hour later than herbrother, with a basket of groceries and other provisions that Peter hadpurchased in town. Peter took care that the young negress, whom we havealready introduced as an attendant in the house, should be sent toreceive the basket, and Dinah took care that she should not return tothe house until she had received a bouquet of flowers to present to theyoung English girl in the harem. Inside of this bouquet was a littlenote written by Peter. It ran thus--

  "Tri
an git owt to de gardin soons yoo kan."

  When Hester Sommers discovered this note, the first ray of hope enteredinto her fluttering heart, and she resolved to profit by it.

  Meanwhile, Dinah, instead of quitting the place after delivering herbasket, hid herself in the shrubbery. It was growing dark by that time,and Peter made a noisy demonstration of sending one of the slaves to seethat the garden gate was locked for the night. Thereafter he remainedall the rest of the evening in his own apartments in pretty loudconversation with the slaves.

  Suddenly there was a cry raised, and several slaves belonging to theinner household rushed into the outer house with glaring eyes, shoutingthat the English girl could not be found.

  "Not in de house?" cried Peter, starting up in wild excitement.

  "No--nowhar in de house!"

  "To de gardin, quick!" shouted Peter, leading the way, while Ben-Ahmedhimself, with undignified haste, joined in the pursuit.

  Lanterns were lighted, and were soon flitting like fireflies all overthe garden, but no trace of the fugitive was found. Peter entered intothe search with profound interest, being as yet utterly ignorant of themethod of escape devised by his sister. Suddenly one of the slavesdiscovered it. A pile of empty casks, laid against the wall in the formof a giant staircase, showed how Hester had climbed, and a crushed bushon the other side testified to her mode of descent.

  Ben-Ahmed and Peter ran up to the spot together. "Dey can't hab gonefar, massa. You want de horses, eh?" asked the latter.

  "Yes. Two horses, quick!"

  Peter went off to the stables in hot haste, remarking as he ran--

  "_What_ a hyperkrite I is, to be sure!"