Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. The Pirate City: An Algerine Tale by R. M. Ballantyne (digital book reader .txt) 📖
- Author: R. M. Ballantyne
Book online «The Pirate City: An Algerine Tale by R. M. Ballantyne (digital book reader .txt) 📖». Author R. M. Ballantyne
“Be it so,” said Hassan, as he rose, and, following the conspirator into the street, hurried up to the citadel.
When Hamet Dey issued the order to have Sidi Hassan arrested, as already related, Hadji Baba, having returned to his wonted place in the lobby of the palace, heard the order, and, being a bold man, ventured into the audience-chamber after the Dey had left it. There he found the pieces of the torn commission. Picking them hastily up, he retired to his own apartment, put them together, and very soon guessed the nature of the quarrel between his new master and Sidi Hassan. Rightly concluding, from the insolent violence of Hassan’s exit and the extremity of the Dey’s rage, that the breach was irreparable, and knowing that Hassan was a man of some weight with the army, he resolved to ascertain the views of that worthy, and, in the event of his designing mischief, to aid him.
With this end in view he hastened out to search for Hassan, but, like the officers of justice, failed for some time to find him. He met, however, with two of the searchers in the persons of the chaouses who had so recently administered the bastinado in a mild manner to himself.
“Well met, comrades,” he said, with a nod; “we have no chance of finding Sidi Hassan, I fear, for when fools are abroad, wise men stop at home.”
“Thou hadst better get thee home, then,” retorted the executioner gruffly.
“Not badly thrust,” said the jester, laughing; “but have patience with me, comrade. I am no fool to-day. For once in a way I mean to act the wiseacre. You see,”—here he became confidential—“what the household of the palace may expect from our new master.”
“I see nothing,” replied the man testily, “except that whatever master rules there is always plenty of work for me and my chum here to do; and let me tell you, Master Baba, that I am no revolutionist—I mind my own business.”
“Very good, comrade,” returned Baba lightly; “thou wilt play the fool to-day and change places with me. But bear in remembrance that a chaouse may have to be beaten as well as a jester, and that it would not be difficult to find others to take thy place. I might even be tempted to do so myself in case of necessity. It would be a rare jest to have a chaouse beaten by a jester, would it not?”
“If it ever comes to that, I hope you will prove grateful and lay on lightly,” returned the man, with a grim smile.
“That will depend on thy behaviour. If thou art resolved to play the fool now, I must of necessity be in earnest then.”
“What mean you?”
“This,” said Baba, with sudden gravity, “that those who stand by a falling man must e’en fall along with him.”
“But Hamet Dey is not falling. He has only just risen!” said the chaouse, with a perplexed look.
“He is not the first who has risen to fall,” replied Hadji Baba gravely. “I would not stand in his slippers for all the treasure in the casba. Be wise, and take advice from a fool. Sidi Hassan did not quit the palace to-day to go and smoke his pipe. He is a man of power and a malcontent. There are other men of power who are also malcontents and more popular than Hamet. When this is so, it behoves the like of you and me to look carefully after our necks, to say nothing of our soles!”
As he said this an exclamation from the elder chaouse drew his attention to the fact that Sidi Hassan himself had just turned the corner of the street in which they had been conversing, and was at that moment so earnestly engaged in conversation with Sidi Omar, that the two approached without at first observing the officers of justice.
The instant Hassan’s eye alighted on them, he stopped and became visibly paler. Omar also stopped, but pretended not to observe the change in his companion’s countenance, nor its cause, as he continued the conversation.
“Hist!” whispered Hadji Baba to his companions, “when enemies become sudden friends, we should know how to act.”
It was evident from the look of anxiety and uncertainty depicted in the visage of the elder chaouse that he did not by any means know how to act. With the stern resolution of a bull-dog nature, however, he suddenly made up his mind to do his duty.
Advancing quickly toward Hassan, he was about to lay hold of him, when Hadji Baba stepped abruptly before him, and said with an affable air and smile—
“His Highness the Dey has sent these good fellows to arrest Sidi Hassan, and I have taken upon my own shoulders the weighty responsibility—being, as is well-known, a fool—to offer our united services in the reversal of the decree by the arrestment of the Dey instead.”
“A bold jest, good fellow, and one that may cost thee thy life, for the present Dey understands not a jest.”
“It is no jest,” returned Baba, with a keen glance at Omar, whom he knew to be a plotter in the state; “my soles tingle now with what they have already received, and my thoughts tingle with what is yet to come. If you have need of friends in the palace here are two—good and true,” said Baba, turning to the chaouses, who stood mute with amazement at the man’s impudence, “and I am one, which makes three, according to the rules of arithmetic. If we are not wanted, then these men must do their duty, for Sidi Hassan is wanted, and we may as well go blithely to our doom together.”
“Fellow,” said Omar sternly, “dost know that I have power to have thee flayed alive without consulting thy master?”
“Nay, not without consulting my master,” said Baba, bowing respectfully, “for my master is before me!”
“In sooth thou art a very impudent knave,” returned Omar, smiling in spite of himself; “and were I the vile plotter thou imaginest, I should be afraid of having such a changeable friend in the palace.”
“Am I changeable for preferring the kind master who was slain to him who slew him?” said Baba simply.
“That is true, Hadji Baba,” returned Omar, suddenly changing his tone.—“Sidi Hassan, fortune is favourable to us. We will trust these men. They dare not play us false even though they would, because their own lives would be forfeited.—Hadji Baba, it may be well for thee to know that, while we avail ourselves of thine aid and that of thy friends, we are quite independent of it, because it happens that the train is already laid, and nothing that thou couldst do, not even the instant alarm of the palace guards, could prevent it from being fired, I believe thee faithful, but this information may help to increase thy fidelity. Go, and, hark ’ee, be very careful to have the guards well placed and looked after to-night at the hour of nine.”
“Madman!” exclaimed the elder chaouse, after Omar and Hassan had left, “you have put the bow-string round our necks as well as your own.”
“True,” answered Baba, with a bland smile, “and if we would not have it drawn tight, we must e’en obey the commands of Omar the Dey.”
“I suppose we must,” returned the chaouse gloomily; “but it is hard enough to be compelled to spend our days in strangling, thrashing, burning, beheading, flaying, and tormenting other men, without the addition of having our own necks put in jeopardy.”
The injustice attaching to themselves and their office seemed to weigh heavily for some time on the minds of both the executioners, notwithstanding the sallies and remonstrances of Hadji Baba, but before reaching the palace they had gone through the not difficult process—to a Turk—of setting the whole matter down to the decrees of Fate, and washing their hands of all guilt.
That evening, as the hour for action drew nigh, Hadji Baba and his colleagues began to grow rather uneasy—all the more so that the Dey was in a particularly bad humour.
Being an ignorant and uneducated man, he had found the work of gathering up the reins of government a very difficult task, notwithstanding the boldness of his heart and the determination of his will. True, he had simplified several knotty matters by bastinadoing and cutting off the heads of all concerned, but this left a multitude of matters which could not be disposed of in that summary fashion.
Among other things, he had been thwarted in his resolution to get possession of Angela Diego, whom he intended to have made a slave of the palace. Finding that she had taken refuge with the British consul at his country house, he sent a peremptory order to have the girl returned immediately, and, pending the result of that order, had locked Bacri up in a dungeon, with threats of the bastinado, and even death, in the event of any difficulty being thrown in the way.
After this he called for his coffee and pipe, his tame gazelle, chief executioners, and story-teller, resolving to throw the cares of state aside for the night and enjoy himself.
It was nearly eight o’clock when this order was given, to the consternation of Hadji Baba and his confederates, who were thus deprived of the power of rendering, in the guard-room, any assistance to the insurrectionists. There was, however, no alternative,—obedience was imperative.
“Sit down,” said the Dey to the unfortunate jester, when he entered the presence, limping with much apparent difficulty. “We will extend clemency to thee, in the hope that thou wilt redeem thy character. I am fond of marvellous stories. Thou mayest sit on that carpet. Now, look behind thee.”
Hadji Baba obeyed, and observed his two friends standing mute and motionless, like statues, ready at a moment’s notice to do their master’s bidding.
“Knowest thou these men?” asked the Dey.
“Your highness’s slave knows them but too well,” replied Baba, with a well-feigned shudder, which changed into a real one on his observing that a gorgeous time-piece opposite pointed to the hour of eight.
“Proceed, then, and acquit thee well, else thou shalt come to know them still better ere long.”
Thus admonished, the story-teller cleared his throat, wished intensely for a draught of water, and taxed his fertile brain to the uttermost. At last under a feeling of absolute desperation, he began—
“Once upon a time—”
The Dey nodded, as though he thought that not a bad beginning.
“Once upon a time,” continued Baba, and then, checking himself—“Your highness wishes a very marvellous story, I believe?”
“Yes, very marvellous,” said the Dey, not quite pleased with the interruption.
“Your highness shall have it—a very marvellous story, and, what is more, it shall be a true story.”
Hadji Baba said this with so much energy and fire that the Dey again nodded his approval, and sent two thin clouds of tobacco-smoke through his nostrils, as he patted the gazelle which crouched at his feet, resting its head on his knee, and gazing affectionately at the tyrant with its magnificent eyes.
“Once upon a time,” resumed the story-teller with sustained vigour and fluency, as he glanced at the clock, “there was a poor shoemaker who dwelt in a certain town, and was noted among his friends for his powers of song. One day the Sultan of the country chanced to hear of this man’s talent, and sent for him to the palace. He was so pleased with him that he made him his chief musician. This shoemaker possessed magical gifts.”
“Villain!” exclaimed the Dey, “didst thou not say that the story should be a true one? How can that be, when thou speakest of gifts which do not and never did exist?”
“Your highness’s slave,” replied Baba, “refers to those powers of legerdemain, or pretended magic, with which some men are gifted.”
“Go on,” returned the Dey.
“Well, one day the shoemaker offered to amuse the Sultan by mesmerising his guards.”
“Mesmerising!”
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