The Middy and the Moors: An Algerine Story by R. M. Ballantyne (best books to read in your 20s TXT) đ
- Author: R. M. Ballantyne
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Now it must be told that, although George Foster was not a surgeon, he had an elder brother who was, and with whom he had associated constantly while he was studying and practising for his degree; hence he became acquainted with many useful facts and modes of action connected with the healing art, of which the world at large is ignorant. Perceiving that one of the pirates was bungling a very simple operation, he stepped forward, and, with that assurance which results naturally from the combination of conscious power and âcheek,â took up the dressing of the wound.
At first the men seemed inclined to resent the interference, but when they saw that the âChristianâ knew what he was about, and observed how well and swiftly he did the work, they stood aside and calmly submitted.
Foster was interrupted, however, in the midst of his philanthropic work by Peter the Great, who came forward and touched him on the shoulder.
âSorry to âtârupt you, sar, but you come wid me.â
âMaynât I finish this operation first?â said Foster, looking up.
âNo, sar. My orders is prumptory.â
Our amateur surgeon dropped the bandage indignantly and followed the negro, who led him down into the hold, at the further and dark end of which he saw several wounded men lying, and beside them one or two whose motionless and straightened figures seemed to indicate that death had relieved them from earthly troubles.
Amongst these men he spent the night and all next day, with only a couple of biscuits and a mug of water to sustain him. Next evening Peter the Great came down and bade him follow him to the other end of the hold.
âNow, sar, you go in dere,â said the negro, stopping and pointing to a small door in the bulkhead, inside of which was profound darkness.
Foster hesitated and looked at his big conductor.
ââBey orders, sar!â said the negro, in a loud, stern voice of command. Then, stooping as if to open the little door, he added, in a low voice, âDonâ be a fool, massa. Submit! Das de word, if you donâ want a whackinâ. Itâs a friend advises you. Dereâs one oder prisoner dere, but heâs wounded, anâ wonât hurt you. Go in! wonât you?â
Peter the Great accompanied the last words with a violent thrust that sent the hapless middy headlong into the dark hole, but as he closed and fastened the door he muttered, âDonâ mind my leetle ways, massa. You know Iâs bound to be a hyperkrite.â
Having thus relieved his conscience, Peter returned to the deck, leaving the poor prisoner to rise and, as a first consequence, to hit his head on the beams above him.
The hole into which he had been thrust was truly a âblack hole,â though neither so hot nor so deadly as that of Calcutta. Extending his arms cautiously, he touched the side of the ship with his left hand; with the other he felt about for some time, but reached nothing until he had advanced a step, when his foot touched something on the floor, and he bent down to feel it, but shrank hastily back on touching what he perceived at once was a human form.
âPardon me, friend, whoever you are,â he said quickly, âI did not mean toâI did not knowâare you badly hurt?â
But no reply came from the wounded manânot even a groan.
A vague suspicion crossed Fosterâs mind. The man might be dying of his wounds. He spoke to him again in French and Spanish, but still got no reply! Then he listened intently for his breathing, but all was as silent as the tomb. With an irresistible impulse, yet instinctive shudder, he laid his hand on the man and passed it up until it reached the face. The silence was then explained. The face was growing cold and rigid in death.
Drawing back hastily, the poor youth shouted to those outside to let them know what had occurred, but no one paid the least attention to him. He was about to renew his cries more loudly, when the thought occurred that perhaps they might attribute them to fear. This kept him quiet, and he made up his mind to endure in silence.
If there had been a ray of light, however feeble, in the hold, he thought his condition would have been more bearable, for then he could have faced the lifeless clay and looked at it; but to know that it was there, within a foot of him, without his being able to see it, or to form any idea of what it was like, made the case terrible indeed. Of course he drew back from it as far as the little space allowed, and crushed himself up against the side of the vessel; but that did no good, for the idea occurred to his excited brain that it might possibly come to life again, rise up, and plunge against him. At times this thought took such possession of him that he threw up his arms to defend himself from attack, and uttered a half-suppressed cry of terror.
At last nature asserted herself, and he slept, sitting on the floor and leaning partly against the vesselâs side, partly against the bulkhead. But horrible dreams disturbed him. The corpse became visible, the eyes glared at him, the blood-stained face worked convulsively, and he awoke with a shriek, followed immediately by a sigh of relief on finding that it was all a dream. Then the horror came again, as he suddenly remembered that the dead man was still there, a terrible reality!
At last pure exhaustion threw him into a dreamless and profound slumber. The plunging of the little craft as it flew southward before a stiff breeze did not disturb him, and he did not awake until some one rudely seized his arm late on the following day. Then, in the firm belief that his dream had come true at last, he uttered a tremendous yell and struggled to rise, but a powerful hand held him down, and a dark lantern revealed a coal-black face gazing at him.
âHallo! massa, hold on. I did tink you musâ be gone dead, for I hollerâd in at you ânuff to bust de kittle-drum ob your earâif you hab one!â
âLook there, Peter,â said Foster, pointing to the recumbent figure, while he wiped the perspiration from his brow.
âAh! poor feller. He gone de way ob all flesh; but he hoed sooner dan dere was any occasion forâtanks to de captain.â
As he spoke he held the lantern over the dead man and revealed the face of a youth in Eastern garb, on whose head there was a terrible sword-cut. As they looked at the sad spectacle, and endeavoured to arrange the corpse, the negro explained that the poor fellow had been a Greek captive who to save his life had joined the pirates and become a Mussulman; but, on thinking over it, had returned to the Christian faith and refused to take part in the bloody work which they were required to do. It was his refusal to fight on the occasion of the recent attack on the merchantman that had induced the captain to cut him down. He had been put into the prison in the hold, and carelessly left there to bleed to death.
âNow, you come along, massa,â said the negro, taking up the lantern, âweâs all goinâ on shore.â
âOn shore! Where have we got to?â
âTo Algiers, de city ob pirits; de hotbed ob wickedness; de home ob de Moors anâ Turks anâ Cabyles, and de cuss ob de whole wurld.â
Poor Fosterâs heart sank on hearing this, for he had heard of the hopeless slavery to which thousands of Christians had been consigned there in time past, and his recent experience of Moors had not tended to improve his opinion of them.
A feeling of despair impelled him to seize the negro by the arm as he was about to ascend the ladder and stop him.
âPeter,â he said, âI think you have a friendly feeling towards me, because youâve called me massa more than once, though you have no occasion to do so.â
âDatâs âcause Iâm fond oâ you. I always was fond oâ a nice smood young babby face, anâ I tooked a fancy to you de moment I see you knock Joe Spinks into de lee scuppers.â
âSoâhe was an Englishman that I treated so badly, eh?â
âYes, massa, onây you didnât treat him bad ânuff. But you obsarve dat I onây calls you massa wâen weâs alone anâ friendly like. Wâen weâs in public I calls you âsarâ anâ speak gruff anâ shove you into black holes.â
âAnd why do you act so, Peter?â
ââCause, donât you see, Iâs a hyperkrite. I tole you dat before.â
âWell, I can guess what you mean. You donât want to appear too friendly? Just so. Well, now, I have got nobody to take my part here, so as you are a free man I wish you would keep an eye on me when we go ashore, and see where they send me, and speak a word for me when it is in your power. You see, theyâll give me up for drowned at home and never find out that Iâm here.â
ââA free man!ââ repeated the negro, with an expansion of his mouth that is indescribable. âYou tink Iâs a free man! but Iâs a slabe, same as yourself, onây de diffârence am dat dereâs nobody to ransum me, so dey donât boder deir heads âbout me sâlong as I do my work. If I donât do my work Iâm whacked; if I rebel and kick up a shindy Iâm whacked wuss; if I tries to run away Iâm whacked till Iâm dead. Das all. But Iâs not free. No, no not at all! Howsâever Iâs free-anâ-easy, anâ dat make de pirits fond oâ me, which goes a long way, for dereâs nuffinâ like lub!â
Foster heartily agreed with the latter sentiment and addedâ
âWell, now, Peter, I will say no more, for as you profess to be fond of me, and as I can truly say the same in regard to you, we may be sure that each will help the other if he gets the chance. But, tell me, are you really one of the crew of this pirate vessel?â
âNo, massa, only for dis viage. I bâlongs to a old sinner called Hassan, what libs in de country, not far from de town. He not a bad feller, but heâs obsânitâoh! as obsânit as a deaf anâ dumb mule. If you want âim to go one way just tell him to go toder wayâanâ youâve got âim.â
At that moment the captainâs voice was heard shouting down the hatchway, demanding to know what detained the negro and his prisoners. He spoke in that jumble of languages in use at that time among the Mediterranean nations called Lingua Franca, for the negro did not understand Arabic.
âCominâ, captain, cominâ,â cried the negro, in his own peculiar Englishâwhich was, indeed, his mother tongue, for he had been born in the United States of America. âNow, den, sar,â (to Foster), âwâen you goinâ to move you stumps? Up wid you!â
Peter emphasised his orders with a real kick, which expedited his prisonerâs ascent, and, at the same time, justified the negroâs claim to be a thorough-paced âhyperkrite!â
âWhereâs the other one?â demanded the captain angrily.
âEscaped, captain!â answered Peter.
âHow? You must have helped him,â cried the captain, drawing his ever-ready sword and pointing it at the breast of the negro, who fell upon his knees, clasped his great hands, and rolled his eyes in an apparent agony of terror.
âDonât, captain. I isnât wuth killinâ, anâ wâen Iâs gone, whoâd cook for you like me? De man escaped by jumpinâ out ob his body. Heâs gone dead!â
âFool!â muttered the pirate, returning his sword to
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