by Eugène Sue
A few wretched-looking fishermen’s huts, built on the beach where their dried boats were moored, completed the wild and solitary scene. Tossed by this heavy swell, Our Lady of Seven Sorrows, sometimes rising on the waves, would strain her cables almost to breaking, and sometimes seemed to sink into a bed between two billows.
Nothing could be severer or more funereal than the aspect of this galley painted like a cenotaph.
A hundred and sixty-six feet long, eighteen feet wide, narrow, slender, and scarcely rising above the level of the sea, she resembled an immense black serpent, sleeping in the midst of the waves. In front of the parallelogram which constituted the body of the galley, was scarfed a sharp and projecting beak-head, six feet in length.
At the rear of the same parallelogram was a rounded stern, the roof of which inclined toward the prow.
Under this shelter, called the stem carriage, lodged the commander, the patron, the prior, and the king of the chevaliers of Malta.
The masts of the galley, hauled down at its entrance into harbour, had been placed in the waist, a narrow passage which ran through the entire length of the galley.
On each side of this passage were ranged the benches of the galley-slaves. Below the stem carriage, attached to a black staff, floated the standard of religion, red, quartered with white, and below the standard a bronze beacon designated the grade of the commander.
It would be difficult, in our day, to comprehend how these slaves, composing the crew of a galley, could live, chained night and day to their benches, — at sea, lying on deck without shelter; at anchor, lying under a tent of coarse, woollen stuff, which scarcely protected them from the rain and the frost.
Let one picture to himself about one hundred and thirty Moorish, Turk, or Christian galley-slaves, dressed in red jackets and brown woollen hooded mantles, on this black galley, in cold, gloomy weather.
These miserable creatures shivered under the icy blast of the tempest and under the rain, which deluged them notwithstanding the awning.
To warm themselves a little they would press close to each other on the narrow benches, to which they were chained, five and five.
All of them preserved a morose silence, and often threw an uneasy and furtive glance on the convict-keepers and the overseers.
These contemptible officers, clothed in black, and armed with a cowhide, would go through the waist of the galley, on each side of which were the benches of the crew.
There were thirteen benches on the right, and twelve on the left.
The galley-slaves, constituting the palamente, or the armament of rowers, belonging to Our Lady of Seven Sorrows, had been, as was the custom, recruited from Christians, Turks, and Moors.
Each one of these types of slaves had his peculiar physiognomy.
The Turks, sluggish, dejected, and indolent, seemed to be a prey to a morbid and contemplative apathy.
The Moors, always excited, uneasy, and of ungovernable temper, appeared to be continually on the alert to break their chains and massacre their keepers.
The Christians, whether condemned or enrolled of their own will, were, in their way, more indifferent, and some of them were occupied in weaving straw, by which they hoped to reap a profit.
Finally, the negroes, captured from Barbary pirate vessels where they rowed as slaves, remained in a sort of torpor, a stupid immobility, with their elbows on their knees and their heads in their hands.
The greater part of these blacks died of grief, while the Mussulman and Christians grew accustomed to their fate.
Among these last, some were horribly mutilated, as they belonged to the class recaptured in their efforts to escape.
In order to punish them for attempting to escape, according to the law, their noses and ears had been cut off, and even more than this, their beards, heads, and eyebrows were completely shaven; nothing could be more hideous than the faces so disfigured.
In the fore part of the galley, and confined in a sort of covered guard-house, called rambade, could be seen a battery, — the five pieces of artillery belonging to the vessel.
This place was occupied by the soldiers and gunners.
These never formed a part of the crew, but composed, if such a thing may be said, the cargo of the vessel impelled by the oars of the galley-slaves.
About twenty sailors, free also, were charged with the management of the sails, with the anchorage, and other nautical manoeuvres.
The soldiers and gunners, considered as lay brothers and servants, wore coats of buff-skin, hoods, and black breeches.
Sheltered by the roof of the rambade, some, seated on their cannon, busied themselves in cleaning their arms; others, wrapped in their hoods, lay on the deck asleep, while others still — a rare thing even among the soldiers of religion — were occupied in pious reading, or in telling their rosaries.
With the exception of the galley-slaves, the men on board this galley, carefully chosen by the commander, had a grave and thoughtful countenance.
Almost all the soldiers and sailors were of mature age; some were approaching old age. By the numerous scars with which the greater number were marked, it was evident that they had served a long time.
More than two hundred men were assembled on this galley, and yet the silence of the cloister reigned through it.
If the crew remained silent through terror of the whip of the keepers and overseers, the soldiers and sailors obeyed the pious customs maintained by the commander Pierre des Anbiez.
For more than thirty years that he had commanded this galley of religion, he had tried always to preserve the same equipment, replacing only the men that he had lost.
The severity of discipline established on board Our Lady of Seven Sorrows was well known at Malta. The commander was perhaps the only one of the officers of the religion who exacted a strict observance of the rules of the order. His galley, on board of which he received only men who had been proven, became a sort of nomadic convent, — a voluntary rendezvous for all sailors who wished to assure their salvation by binding themselves scrupulously to the rigorous requirements of this hospitable and military confraternity.
It was the same with the officers and young caravan-iflits.
Those who preferred to lead a joyous and daring life — which was the immense majority — found the greater part of the captains of the religion disposed to welcome them, and to forget everything in their union against the infidels, as their mission of monk-soldiers was at the same time that of saint and warrior.
On the contrary, the very small number of young chevaliers who loved, for its own sake, this pious and austere life in the midst of great perils, sought with eagerness the opportunity to embark on the galley of the commander Pierre des Anbiez.
There nothing offended, nothing prevented their religious customs. There they could give themselves up to their holy exercises without fear of being ridiculed, or of becoming perhaps weak enough to blush for their own zeal.
The master gunner, or captain of the mast of the galley, an old sunburnt soldier, wearing a black felt jacket with a white cross, was seated in the guard-house of the prow, or rambade, of which we have spoken.
He was talking with the captain of the sailors of Our Lady of Seven Sorrows, whose name was Simon. The first speaker was Captain Hugues, who, with his companion, had always sailed with the Commander des Anbiez.
Captain Hugues was polishing with care a collar of steel net. Captain Simon from time to time was looking through the opening of the rambade, examining the sky and the sea, so as to prognosticate the end or the increase of the storm.
“Brother,” said Hugues to Simon, “the north wind blows strong; it will be several days before we arrive at La Ciotat. Christmas will be past, and our brother commander will be grieved.”
Captain Simon, before replying to his comrade, consulted the horizon again, and said, with a serious air:
“Although it is not proper for man to seek to divine the will of the Lord, I think we may hope to see the end of this te
mpest soon: the clouds seem not so low or so heavy. Perhaps to-morrow our ancient companion, the old watchman on Cape l’Aigle, will signal our arrival in the Gulf of La Ciotat.”
“And that will be a day of joy in Maison-Forte, and to Raimond V.,” said Captain Hugues.
“And also on board Our Lady of Seven Sorrows,” said Captain Simon, “although joy appears here as rarely as the sun during a westerly wind.”
“Look at this furbished collar,” said the gunner, regarding his work with an air of satisfaction. “It is strange, Brother Simon, how blood will stick to steel. I have rubbed in vain: you can always distinguish these blackish marks on the mesh!”
“Which proves that steel loves blood as the earth loves dew,” said the sailor, smiling sadly at his pleasantry.
“But do you know,” said Hugues, “that it will soon be ten years since the commander received this wound in his combat with Mourad-Reis, the corsair of Algiers?” “I remember it as well, brother, as that with one blow of the battle-axe I struck down the miscreant who had almost broken his kangiar on the breast of the commander, who was fortunately defended by that coat of mail. But for that, Pierre des Anbiez would be dead.”
“So he still keeps this collar, and I am going to carry it to him now.”
“Stop,” said the sailor, seizing the gunner by the arm, “you have chosen an unfortunate time, — the brother commander is in one of his bad days.”
“How?”
“The head cook told me this morning that Father Elzear wished to enter the commander’s chamber, but there was crape on the door.”
“I understand, I understand; that sign suffices to prevent the entrance of any person in the commander’s chamber before he gives the order to do so.”
“Yet to-day is neither Saturday nor the seventeenth day of the month,” said Captain Hugues with a thoughtful air.
“That is true, for it is only upon the return of these days that his fits of despondency seem to overwhelm him the most,” said Captain Simon.
Just at this moment a deep, hollow murmur was heard outside among the crew.
There was nothing ominous of evil in this noise; on the contrary, it was only an expression of satisfaction.
“What is that?” asked the gunner.
“Doubtless Reverend Father Elzear has just appeared on deck. At the very sight of him the slaves think their lot less miserable.”
CHAPTER XXII. THE BROTHER OF MERCY
ELZEAR DES ANBIEZ, brother of the sacred order, royal and military, of Our Lady of Mercy, for the redemption of captives, had in fact just appeared on the deck of the galley.
The slaves welcomed his presence with a murmur of hope and satisfaction, for he always had some word of pity for these unhappy men.
The recognised discipline of the galley was so severe, so inflexible, and of such relentless justice, that Father Elzear, notwithstanding the tender attachment which bound him to his brother, the commander, would not have dared ask the pardon of an offender. But he never spared encouragement and consolation to those who were to undergo punishment.
Father Elzear advanced with a slow step into the middle of the narrow passage which separated the two rows of benches on the galley.
He wore the habit of his order: a long white cassock, with a mantle of the same material caught up on the shoulders. A rope girded his loins, and notwithstanding the cold, his bare feet had no other protection than leather sandals. In the middle of his breast showed the coat of arms belonging to his order, an escutcheon diapered with gold and gules, surmounted with a silver cross.
Father Elzear resembled Raimond V. His features were noble and majestic, but the fatigues and austerities of his holy, self-abnegating profession had stamped upon them an expression of constant suffering.
The top of his head was shaven, and a crown of white hair encircled his venerable brow.
His pale, emaciated face, his hollow cheeks, made his soft, serene black eyes appear larger still, and a sweet, sad smile gave an expression of adorable benevolence to his countenance.
He stooped a little in walking, as if he had contracted this habit by bending over the chained captives. His weak wrists were marked with deep and ineffaceable scars. Captured in one of the numerous voyages he made from France to Barbary for the ransom of slaves, he had been put in chains, and so cruelly treated that he bore all his life the marks of the barbarity practised by pirates.
Having been ransomed by his own family, he voluntarily went into slavery again in order to take the place in an Algerian prison of a poor inhabitant of La Ciotat, who could not pay his ransom, and whom a dying mother called to France.
In forty years he had ransomed more than three thousand slaves, either with the money of his own patrimony, or with the fruit of his collections from other Christians.
With the exception of a few months passed, every two or three years, in the house of his brother Raimond V., Father Elzear, noble, rich, learned, with an independent fortune, which he had devoted to the ransom of slaves, had been travelling continually, either on land for the purpose of collecting alms, or on sea, on his way to deliver captives.
Sacredly vowed to this hard and pious mission, he had always refused the positions and rank that his birth, his virtues, his courage, and his angelic piety would have conferred upon him in his order.
His self-abnegation, his simplicity, which possessed an antique grandeur, struck all minds with respect and admiration.
Endowed naturally with a noble and lofty spirit, he had directed all the powers of his soul toward one single aim, that of giving consolation, by imparting to his language that irresistible charm which won and comforted the afflicted.
And what a triumph it was for him, when his tender, sympathising words gave a little hope and courage to the poor slaves chained to their oars, when he saw their eyes, hard and dry from despair, turn to him moist with the sweet tears of gratitude.
We are overwhelmed with admiration when we reflect upon those lives so unostentatiously devoted to one of the most exalted and most sacred missions of humanity. We are lost in wonder when we think of the sublime fortitude of these men, voluntarily placed under the very cutlasses of cruel pirates. We are speechless with amazement when we think of the men who risked their lives every day in order to exhort the slaves, whom barbarians oppressed with labours and tormented with blows, to patience and resignation. What unbounded self-sacrifice and long suffering were demanded of those Brothers of Mercy who went and ransomed, in the midst of the greatest perils, people whom in all probability they were never to see again.
The priest and the missionary enjoy, for a time at least, the good which they have accomplished, the gratitude of those whom they have instructed, relieved, or saved; but the men who devoted themselves to the redemption of slaves held by pirates, were hardly acquainted with the captives whom they delivered, inasmuch as they left them for ever, after having given them the most precious of all boons, liberty!
Nevertheless, it was a joyous day for the Brothers of Mercy when those whom they had ransomed embarked for Marseilles, and there in the church offered solemn thanks to Heaven for their deliverance.
Little children clothed in white, holding green palms in their hands, accompanied them, and their tender hands removed the chains from the captives, a touching symbol of the mission of the Brothers of Mercy.
When Father Elzear appeared on the deck of the galley, all the chained slaves turned to him with a simultaneous movement.
At every step he took, the captives, Moor, Turk, or Christian, leaning beyond their benches, tried to seize his hands and carry them to their lips.
Although Father Elzear was accustomed to receive these evidences of respect and affection, he was never able to prevent tears coming to his eyes.
Never, perhaps, had his pity been more excited than to-day.
The weather was cold and gloomy, the horizon charged with tempest, the environage wild and solitary, and these poor creatures, the greater number of them accustomed to
the hot sun of the Orient, were there half naked, shivering with cold, and chained perhaps for life to their benches.
Although the compassion of Father Elzear was equally divided among all, he could not help bestowing most pity upon those whose lots seemed to him the most desperate.
Since his departure from Malta, where he had joined his brother with ten captives that he had carried back to La Ciotat, he had observed a Moorish slave about forty years old, whose countenance betrayed an incurable sorrow.
No man of the crew fulfilled his painful task with more courage or more resignation. But as soon as the hour of rest arrived, the Moor crossed his vigorous arms, bowed his head on his breast, and thus passed the hours in which his comrades tried to forget their captivity, in gloomy silence.
The captain of the mast on the galley, knowing the interest that this gentle and peaceable captive inspired in Father Elzear, approached the priest, and told him the Moor was about to suffer the usual punishment for insubordination.
That morning, this Moor, plunged in his profound and habitual reverie, had not responded to the commands of the overseer.
The officer reprimanded him sharply, and still the Moor sat in gloomy silence.
Incensed by this indifference, which he construed into an insult or a refusal to submit to service, the overseer struck him over the shoulders with the cowhide.
The Moor jumped up, uttered a savage roar, and threw himself on the overseer to the full length of his chain, throwing him down in the violence of his rage, and, but for several sailors and soldiers, would have strangled him.
The captive who raised his hand against one of the officers of the galley was subjected to terrible punishment.
He was to be stretched half naked on one of the largest cannon in the rambade, called the chase-gun, and two men, armed with sharp thongs, were to lash him until he lost consciousness.
This sentence had been pronounced that morning on the Moor by the commander. Knowing the inflexible character of his brother, Elzear did not think of asking mercy for the offender; he only desired to soften the cruelty of the sentence by informing the captive himself.
