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“But do you really mean to tell me, Peter, that Ben-Ahmed intended me and Hugh Sommers to escape?”
“Das really what I means to tell you, Geo’ge.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me all, this before, and save me from a deal of uncertainty?”
“Cause, in de fuss’ place, I had no time to tell you; in de second place, I was ordered not to tell you; in de t’ird place, it’s good for midshipmen to be put on deir mettle, an’ lef’ to find deir own way out ob diffikilties, an’, in de fourf place, slabes hab no business to be axin’ de outs an’ ins, de whys an’ de wherefores of deir massa’s affairs.”
“Well, I always knew Ben-Ahmed had a kind heart, but little thought it was so kind and self-sacrificing as to buy Sommers for the very purpose of setting him free. I regret, deeply, that I did not know this sooner, and that I cannot now have the chance of thanking him with all my heart and soul, and bidding the good man farewell. It is one comfort, however, that I’ll be able to send a message back by you. And I’m also glad that I shall not have to part from you, my dear Peter, without telling you how much I love you and how sorry, very, very sorry, I am to say good-bye.”
“Geo’ge,” returned the negro earnestly, “don’t you count your cheekins afore dey’s hatched! You’re not away yit.”
Foster made no reply. To say truth, he felt a little hurt by the way in which his protestations of regard were received, and, by way of changing the subject, he asked if Peter had ever heard anything about the old Dane and his wife and daughter who had been captured at the same time with himself.
“Dey’s bin ransom’d, all ob dem. Got rich friends, you see. Hole your tongue now, Geo’ge, we’s comin’ to de place.”
By that time Sommers and his daughter had overtaken the party. As they all proceeded silently along the road, wondering how the matter would end, they observed a figure, like that of a female, glide, as it were, out of the darkness, and, taking Peter quietly by the arm, walk along with him.
Impelled by curiosity, Foster went forward and looked into her face.
“Angelica!” he exclaimed in surprise.
“Ob course!” answered her husband for her, “you don’t suppose de wife ob Peter de Great would let Geo’ge Foster go away widout comin’ to de boat to see him off?”
Ere the middy could recover from his astonishment the party came suddenly upon a small cavern in which a light glimmered. At its entrance lay a boat, and beside it, engaged in putting it to rights, were Brown and his three companions—the two British tars and the Maltese seaman.
“Is all right?” asked Brown, in a low voice, as they approached.
“All right,” answered Peter.
“Now, Geo’ge, you go in.”
The middy entered the cave, and with, if possible, increased surprise, he found Ben-Ahmed standing there!
“You are astonished, my friend,” said the Moor with a gentle smile, as he extended his hand.
“I am indeed,” returned the middy, heartily grasping and warmly shaking it, “but I am also rejoiced that I have the opportunity—which I had not hoped for—of thanking you for all your great kindness to me in time past—especially for this crowning act.”
“You have not to thank me,” returned the Moor, “you have to thank the little English girl;” as he spoke he made a graceful motion of the hand towards Hester, who, with her father, entered the cave at the moment. “Little Hester has taught me—not by word but by example—the grand lesson of your Christian Scriptures, that a man should do to others what he would have others do to him. I have resolved to keep no more slaves, and, as a first step, I now set you all free!”
“God’s blessing rest on you for that, sir,” said Hugh Sommers, stepping forward and grasping the hand that Foster had relinquished. “Have you, then, forsaken the faith of Mohammed and adopted that of Christ?”
“Be not over-curious,” said the Moor reprovingly. “Sufficient for you to know that fresh water cannot spring from a salt fountain. We must not waste time. The boat is in the water by this time. Farewell. Kiss me, my child. We may not meet again on earth, but—we shall certainly meet hereafter!”
Hester, who saw the Moor assume all shapes and sizes through the tears that filled her eyes, ran to him, and, throwing her arms round his neck gave him a hug that made even her father jealous.
“Now, away, all of you,” cried Ben-Ahmed, when he was released, “and may the God of Abraham and Isaac and Jacob go with you.”
While he was yet speaking the clatter of horses’ hoofs in the distance was heard. Instantly the party made for the boat. There was no time for last adieux. Ben-Ahmed helped to shove off the boat and bundle them in.
“You will hear pistol-shots,” he cried, “but fear not for me. My horse can outrun the best in Algiers. I will only fire to decoy them away. Farewell!”
He ran up into the shrubbery that bordered the road, and next minute the sound of the horse’s feet was heard in the distance, as the boat skimmed swiftly out to sea under the powerful impulse of its stalwart crew.
A few minutes later and, as the Moor had prophesied, pistol-shots were heard on shore. From the sound they appeared to come from a short distance in the interior of the land, but musket-shots were also heard among them, and from the flashes on the beach it became evident that the Moor had not succeeded in turning all their pursuers off the scent—a fact which was further illustrated by the skipping of a musket ball close past the boat.
Just then it struck George Foster that Peter the Great and his wife were seated beside him.
“Hallo, Peter!” he exclaimed; “how are you and Angelica to get on shore?”
“We’s not goin’ on shore at all, Geo’ge.”
“What do you mean, Peter?”
“I means what I says. De fact is, Geo’ge, dat I’s come to de conclusion dat I couldn’t lib widout you. Angelica’s ob de same opinion, so we’s made up our minds, wid massa’s purmission, to go wid you to ole England. We’s all goin’ togidder, Geo’ge. Ain’t dat jolly?”
“But how can we ever get to England in a small boat like this?” asked the middy, in much anxiety, for in the hurry and excitement of the start the difficulty had not occurred to him.
“No fear about that, sir,” answered Brown, who pulled the bow oar; “we ain’t such fools as to make the voyage in a cockle-shell like this! The boat b’longs to a privateer as is owned by a friend o’ mine, an’ the wessel’s lyin’ off an’ on waitin’ for us.”
“There she goes!” said one of the sailors. “Look out!”
As he spoke a large schooner loomed up against the dark sky, and was hailed. A gruff voice replied. Another moment the sails flapped, and the boat was towing alongside. Our middy was first to leap on deck—and not without a purpose in view, for he was thus in a position to hand up the passengers.
“Do you forgive me, Hester?” he whispered humbly, as he stooped to grasp her little hand.
“I forgive you!” she whispered timidly, as she passed him, and was led by her father into the vessel’s cabin.
That night two of the swiftest of the piratical war-vessels were seen to warp out from the Mole, and put to sea, but long before the land breeze filled their peaked sails the privateer was cleaving her way, homeward bound, through the dark waters of the Mediterranean.
“Geo’ge, your mudder wants you.”
Such were the words which aroused George Foster from a reverie one morning as he stood at the window of a villa on the coast of Kent, fastening his necktie and contemplating the sea.
“Nothing wrong, I hope,” said the middy, turning quickly round, and regarding with some anxiety the unusually solemn visage of Peter the Great.
“Wheder dere’s anyfing wrong or not, ’snot for me to say, massa, but I t’ink dere’s suffin’ up, for she seems in a carfuffle.”
“Tell her I shall be with her instantly.” Completing his toilet hastily, our hero repaired to his mother’s apartment, where he found her seated in dishabille with an open letter in her hand, and some excitement in her face.
“Is Laronde better this morning?” she asked as her son sat down on a sofa at the foot of her bed.
“I don’t know, mother—haven’t been to his room this morning. Why do you ask? Has anything happened?”
“I will tell you presently, but first let me know what success you have had in your search.”
“Nothing but failure,” said the middy, in a desponding tone. “If there had been anything good to tell you I would have come to your room last night despite the lateness of the hour. We were later than usual in arriving because a trace broke, and after that one of the horses cast a shoe.”
“Where did you make inquiries, George?”
“At the solicitors’ office, of course. It is through them that we obtained what we hoped would be a clue, and it is to them that poor Marie Laronde used to go to inquire whether there was any chance of her husband being released for a smaller sum than was at first demanded. They had heard of a dressmaker who employed a girl or woman named Laronde in the West End, so I hunted her up with rather sanguine expectations, but she turned out to be a girl of sixteen, dark instead of fair, and unmarried! But again I ask, mother, what news, for I see by your face that you have something to tell me. That is a letter from Minnie, is it not?”
“It is, George, and I am very hopeful that while you have been away on the wrong scent in the West End of London, Minnie has fallen, quite unexpectedly, on the right scent in one of the low quarters of Liverpool. You know that she has been nursing Aunt Jeanette there for more than a fortnight.”
“Yes, I know it only too well,” answered the middy. “It is too bad that Aunt Jeanette should take it into her head to get ill and send for Minnie just three weeks after my return from slavery!—But what do you mean by her having fallen on the right scent? Surely she has not found leisure and strength both to hunt and nurse at the same time!”
“Yes, indeed, she has. Our last winter in that charming south of France has so completely restored her—through the blessing of God—that she has found herself equal to almost anything. It happens that Aunt Jeanette has got a friend living close to her who is an enthusiastic worker amongst the poor of the town, and she has taken your sister several times to visit the districts where the very poor people live. It was while she was thus engaged, probably never thinking of poor Laronde’s wife at all, that she—but here is the letter. Read it for yourself, you need not trouble yourself to read the last page—just down to here.”
Retiring to the window the middy read as follows:—
“Darling Mother,—I must begin at once with what my mind is full of, just remarking, by the way, that Aunt Jeanette is improving steadily, and that I hope to be home again in less than a week.
“Well, I told you in my last that Miss Love—who is most appropriately named—had taken me out once or twice on her visits among the poor. And, do you know, it has opened up a new world of ideas and feelings to me. It is such
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