The Middy and the Moors by Robert Michael Ballantyne (new books to read TXT) 📖

the large hooks on the wall.

Suddenly their steps were arrested by a shriek, and several men immediately appeared on the top of the wall, holding fast a struggling victim. But the poor wretch's struggles were vain. He was led to the edge of the wall by four strong men, and not hurled, but dropped over, so that he should not fail to be caught on one of the several hooks below.

Another shriek of terror burst from the man as he fell. It was followed by an appalling yell as one of the hooks caught him under the armpit, passed upwards right through his shoulder and into his jaws, while the blood poured down his convulsed and naked limbs. That yell was the poor man's last. The action of the hook had been mercifully directed, and after a few struggles, the body hung limp and lifeless.

Oh! it is terrible to think of the cruelty that man is capable of practising on his fellows. The sight was enough, one would think, to rouse to indignation a heart of stone, yet the crowds that beheld this did not seem to be much affected by it. True, there were several faces that showed traces of pity, but few words of disapproval were uttered.

"Come, come!" cried our midshipman, seizing his companion by the arm and dragging him away, "let us go. Horrible! They are not men but devils. Come away."

They passed through the gate and along the main street of the city a considerable distance, before Foster could find words to express his feelings, and then he had difficulty in restraining his indignation on finding that the negro was not nearly as much affected as he himself was by the tragedy which they had just witnessed.

"We's used to it, you know," said Peter in self-defence. "I's seen 'em hangin' alibe on dem hooks for hours. But dat's nuffin to what some on 'em do. Look dar; you see dat ole man a-sittin' ober dere wid de small t'ings for sale--him what's a-doin' nuffin, an' sayin' nuffin, an' almost expectin' nuffin? Well, I once saw dat ole man whacked for nuffin--or next to nuffin--on de sole ob his foots, so's he couldn't walk for 'bout two or t'ree mont's."

They had reached the market-square by that time, and Foster saw that the man referred to was the identical old fellow with the blue coat and hood, the white beard, and the miscellaneous old articles for sale, whom he had observed on his first visit to the square. The old Arab gave Peter the Great a bright look and a cheerful nod as they passed.

"He seems to know you," remarked Foster.

"Oh yes. He know me. I used to carry him on my back ebery mornin' to his place here dat time when he couldn't walk. Bress you! dar's lots o' peepil knows me here. Come, I'll 'troduce you to some more friends, an' we'll hab a cup o' coffee."

Saying this, he conducted our middy into a perfect labyrinth of narrow streets, through which he wended his way with a degree of certainty that told of intimate acquaintance. Foster observed that he nodded familiarly to many of those who crowded them--to Jews, Arabs, water-carriers, and negroes, as well as to the dignified men who kept little stalls and shops, many of which shops were mere niches in the sides of the houses. So close were the fronts of these houses to each other that in many places they almost met overhead and obscured much of the light.

At last the middy and his friend stopped in front of a stair which descended into what appeared to be a dark cellar. Entering it, they found themselves in a low Arab coffee-house.


CHAPTER SIX.


OUR HERO SEES THE MOORS IN SEVERAL ASPECTS, AND MAKES A GREAT DISCOVERY.

Whatever may be said of Mohammedanism as a religion, there can be no question, we should think, that it has done much among the Eastern nations to advance the cause of Temperance.

We make no defence of Mohammed--very much the reverse--but we hold that even a false prophet cannot avoid teaching a certain modicum of truth in his system, and when Mohammed sternly put his foot down upon strong drink, and enforced the principle of total abstinence therefrom, he did signal service to a large portion of the human family. Although, for want of better teaching, Mohammedans cling to many vices, one never sees them howling through the streets in a state of wild ferocity, or staggering homewards in a condition of mild imbecility, from the effects of intoxicating drink.

Instead of entering a low den where riot and revelry, with bad language and quarrelling, might be expected to prevail, George Foster found himself in a small white-washed apartment, where there sat several grave and sedate men, wrapped in the voluminous folds of Eastern drapery, sipping very small cups of coffee, and enjoying very large pipes of tobacco.

The room was merely a cellar, the walls being thickly stuccoed and white-washed, and the ceiling arched; but, although plain, the place was reasonably clean and eminently quiet. The drinkers did not dispute. Conversation flowed in an undertone, and an air of respectability pervaded the whole place.

At the further end of the apartment there was a curious-looking fireplace, which seemed to have been formed without the use of square or plummet, and around which were scattered and hung in comfortable confusion the implements and utensils of cookery. Nothing of the cook was visible except his bare legs and feet, the rest of him being shrouded in a recess. Beside the fireplace an Arab sat cross-legged on a bench, sipping his coffee. Beyond him in a recess another Arab was seated. He appeared to be sewing while he conversed with a negro who stood beside him. Elsewhere, in more or less remote and dim distances, other customers were seated indulging in the prevailing beverage.

"You sit down here, Geo'ge; drink an' say not'ing, but wait for me."

With this admonition Peter the Great whispered a few words to the man who owned the establishment, and hurriedly left the place.

The middy naturally felt a little disconcerted at being thus left alone among strangers, but, knowing that in the circumstances he was absolutely helpless, he wisely and literally obeyed orders. Sitting down on a bench opposite the fire, from which point of observation he could see the entrance-door and all that went on around him, he waited and said nothing until the chief of the establishment presented him with a white cup of coffee, so very small that he felt almost equal to the swallowing of cup and coffee at one gulp. With a gracious bow and "Thank you," he accepted the attention, and began to sip. The dignified Arab who gave it to him did not condescend upon any reply, but turned to attend upon his other customers.

Foster's first impulse was to spit out the sip he had taken, for to his surprise the coffee was thick with grounds. He swallowed it, however, and wondered. Then, on taking another sip and considering it, he perceived that the grounds were not as grounds to which he had been accustomed, but were reduced--no doubt by severe pounding--to a pasty condition, which made the beverage resemble chocolate. "Coffee-soup! with sugar--but no milk!" he muttered, as he tried another sip. This third one convinced him that the ideas of Arabs regarding coffee did not coincide with those of Englishmen, so he finished the cup at the fourth sip, much as he would have taken a dose of physic, and thereafter amused himself with contemplating the other coffee-sippers.

At the time when our hero first arrived at Ben-Ahmed's home, he had been despoiled of his own garments while he was in bed--the slave costume having been left in their place. On application to his friend Peter, however, his pocket-knife, pencil, letters, and a few other things had been returned to him. Thus, while waiting, he was able to turn his time to account by making a sketch of the interior of the coffee-house, to the great surprise and gratification of the negroes there--perhaps, also, of the Moors--but these latter were too reticent and dignified to express any interest by word or look, whatever they might have felt.

He was thus engaged when Peter returned.

"Hallo, Geo'ge!" exclaimed the negro, "what you bin up to--makin' picturs?"

"Only a little sketch," said Foster, holding it up.

"A skitch!" repeated Peter, grasping the letter, and holding it out at arm's length with the air of a connoisseur, while he compared it with the original. "You call dis a skitch? Well! I neber see de like ob dis--no, neber. It's lubly. Dere's de kittles an' de pots an' de jars, an'--ha, ha! dere's de man wid de--de--wart on 'is nose! Oh! das fust-rate. Massa's awrful fond ob skitchin'. He wouldn't sell you now for ten t'ousand dollars."

Fortunately the Arab with the wart on his nose was ignorant of English, otherwise he might have had some objection to being thus transferred to paper, and brought, as Arabs think, under "the power of the evil eye." Before the exact nature of what had been done, however, was quite understood, Peter had paid for the coffee, and, with the amateur artist, had left the place.

"Nothing surprises me more," said Foster, as they walked along, "than to see such beautiful wells and fountains in streets so narrow that one actually has not enough room to step back and look at them properly. Look at that one now, with the negress, the Moor, and the water-carrier waiting their turn while the little girl fills her water-pot. See what labour has been thrown away on that fountain. What elegance of design, what columns of sculptured marble, and fine tessellated work stuck up where few people can see it, even when they try to."

"True, Geo'ge. De water would run as well out ob a ugly fountain as a pritty one."

"But it's not that I wonder at, Peter; it's the putting of such splendid work in such dark narrow lanes that surprises me. Why do they go to so much expense in such a place as this?"

"Oh! as to expense, Geo'ge. Dey don't go to none. You see, we hab no end ob slabes here, ob all kinds, an' trades an' purfessions, what cost nuffin but a leetle black bread to keep 'em alibe, an' a whackin' now an' den to make 'em work. Bress you! dem marble fountains an' t'ings cost the pirits nuffin. Now we's goin' up to see the Kasba."

"What is that, Peter?"

"What! you not know what de Kasba am? My, how ignorant you is! De Kasba is de citad'l--de fort--where all de money an' t'ings--treasure you call it--am kep' safe. Strong place, de Kasba--awrful strong."

"I'll be glad to see that," said Foster.

"Ho yes. You be glad to see it _wid me_," returned the negro significantly, "but not so glad if you go dere wid chains on you legs an' pick or shovel on you shoulder. See--dere dey go!"

As he spoke a band of slaves was seen advancing up the narrow street. Standing aside in a doorway to let them pass, Foster saw that the band was composed of men of