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 by Robert Michael Ballantyne (large ebook reader .TXT) 📖
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Exmouth was inexorable. He insisted on every individual being set free, and spared no pains to ascertain that none were left behind. Of course it is more than probable that some unfortunates were so carefully concealed as to escape detection, still, as far as it lay in the power of man to act, this part of the Admiral's duty was thoroughly performed.
Thereafter, having accomplished its object, the British fleet left the stricken city, and the freed captives were ultimately returned to their homes.
Thus at last, in 1816, after the lapse of centuries of murder, rapine, and robbery on the high seas, did the Pirate City receive a fatal blow, from which it never completely recovered. It revived a little, indeed, in after years, and made a struggle to renew its old strength and resume its old practices; but, fortunately for mankind, the reigning Dey in 1827 struck the French consul on the face with his fan. The French thereupon declared war and blockaded the town, but it was not till 1833 that they set themselves vigorously to effect a conquest. In that year they landed an army in Algeria at Sidi Ferruch, and swept everything before them. The history of this conquest--and of the subsequent wars of France in Algeria--is full of the deepest interest and most romantic incidents. The barbarians did indeed show fight, and fought bravely, but they might as well have tried to drive back the sea as to check the disciplined battalions of France. In a brief but brilliant campaign they were utterly defeated, the Dey capitulated, the gates were thrown open, and the French marched in and took possession.
From that day to this they have held it, and the Pirate City is now a charming town--with a French foreground, a Moorish middle-distance, and a bright green background--in which, along with Frenchmen, Turks, Kabyles, Negroes and Moors, and amid orange-groves, date-palms, cacti and prickly pears, the invalids of Europe may enjoy summer heat in winter days, and sit outside in December dreaming peacefully, it may be almost sceptically, of other days, when the bastinado and the bow-string flourished in the land.
Less than sixty years ago the Algerine corsairs were the pest of the civilised world and the terror of the Mediterranean. Now, their city is one of our "summer retreats," a sort of terrestrial paradise, and those who resort to it find it difficult to believe that the immediate forefathers of the fine-looking fellows who saunter about the French boulevards and Moorish streets were the ruthless pirates which history too surely proclaims them to have been.
But what of the various characters whom we have thus summoned from the "vasty deep" of memory, to play their little part in this veracious tale?
Of some we know not the end. Of others it would be almost well that we did not. A few terminated their career happily.
Poor Bacri fell a victim to the avarice of Omar, who desired to possess himself of the Jew's wealth. Being an autocrat, he easily found means to accomplish his purpose. He invited Bacri to the palace, conversed affably for a time, and then bowed him out with a smile. On the stair, as he descended, the Jew was met by three chaouses, who seized him, and took him to the strangling-room. Bacri was, as we have said, a powerful man, and struggled long and vigorously for life. But what could he do unarmed against three stalwart men? He ultimately gave in, with the name of the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob on his lips, and perished as many a former chief of the Jews in Algiers had perished before him.
Rais Ali having given, as we have seen, incontestable proof of his courage and fidelity during the bombardment, was raised to a position of easy affluence, and for many years continued a respected and harmless inhabitant of the town. His kindly disposition induced him to forego his Mohammedan prejudices against Christians--perchance his intercourse with Christians had something to do with that--and he became a firm friend of the Padre Giovanni during the course of that good old man's career, which did not last long after slavery was abolished. The same feelings induced him to befriend Blindi Bobi, who was also a friend of the Padre.
Poor Ashweesha, and her father, Sidi Cadua, perished under the rod and the bow-string; and Hadji Baba, the story-teller, continued to tell stories and to jest to the end of his days. How the Deys tolerated him has ever remained a matter of surprise to the thoughtful. Ziffa, his naughty daughter, became a wife and a mother, in connexion with three other wives, who were also mothers, and belonged to the Turk whom we have more than once mentioned as the captain of the port.
Colonel Langley returned to England with his wife and children, inexpressibly glad to exchange the atmosphere of the Crescent for that of the Cross. Ted Flaggan was installed as butler to the family, and remained in that position for many years. It is supposed by some of his descendants that he would have continued in it to the present day, if any of the family had remained alive.
As to the various members of the Rimini family, it may suffice that we should dismiss them by drawing a slight sketch:
In a Sicilian cottage near the sea, a little old lady--some would say a dear little old lady--sits in a high-backed chair. She gazes pensively, now on the blue Mediterranean, now on a family group which consists of the dark-eyed Juliet and the earnest Lucien, who are vainly striving to restrain the violence of their youngest son; the eldest being engaged in a surreptitious attempt to pull down a map of Algiers, which hangs on the opposite wall. Mariano, with his wonted vivacity, stands before the old lady tossing a small female specimen of humanity as near to the ceiling as is compatible with prolonged existence. Angela looks on admiringly. She does not appear to care much for Mariano now! Why she takes so much interest in the female baby we leave to the reader to discover. Old Francisco is there too, bluffer and bolder than ever, and so is Paulina, with a beautiful dark-haired girl, who is the very image of the tall handsome man engaged in conversation with Francisco.
It is no accidental coincidence this meeting. It is a family gathering, planned and carried out from year to year, in commemoration of the day when the family was delivered from slavery and sorrow.
They have just finished dinner, and there has been much earnest, thankful converse about the days gone by. They have fought their battles o'er again. They have re-told the oft-told tales, feeling as if they were almost new, and have reiterated their gratitude to the God of Love for His great and manifold mercies.
We have not space to relate all that they said, but we may give the concluding sentences.
"You're a wild boy, Mariano, as you always were," said the little old lady with the rippling mouth, as the young man plunged his little daughter into her lap head-foremost.
"And as I mean to be to the end of the chapter," replied Mariano. "How often, grandmother, have you not tried to impress on me the importance of following good examples? Have I not acted on your advice? Doubtless no man is perfect, and I am far--very far--from claiming to have been thoroughly successful in my efforts; but I have tried hard. Did I not, while in Algiers, follow the example of my dear father in exhibiting at all times a spirit of obstinacy that all but drove the pirates delirious with rage? Did I not afterwards imitate Lucien, (your pet-pattern), in getting to me the very best wife that the wide world could produce, and do I not now intend to follow your own example in remaining young in spirit until I am old in years? Taunt me not, then, with being wild-- you cannot cure me."
"I fear not," replied the little old lady with a sigh which did not accord in the slightest degree with the ripples that played round her lips.
"Wildness runs in the family, mother," said Francisco, with a broad smile and a glance at Lucien's eldest hope, who had at that moment succeeded in breaking the string of the map, and pulling Algiers down on his head, "the Riminis have it in the blood and bone.--Get up and don't whimper, there's a brave fellow," added the burly merchant as the astonished youth arose; "I only wish that one of the great Powers would pull down the real city of pirates as effectually as you have settled the map. Lord Exmouth no doubt gave it a magnificent pounding, but utter obliteration is the only thing that will do."
"That's true, father," cried Lucien; "it must be conquered by a civilised nation, and the Turks be driven out, or held in subjection, if Europe is to have peace. Depend on't they will be at their old tricks ere long."
"I should like to be commander-in-chief when the war of conquest begins," said Mariano.
"A poor job you'd make of it, my son," said Francisco.
"Why so, father?"
"Why? because hot blood and a giddy head with a revengeful spirit are not the best elements wherewith to construct a commander-in-chief."
"Ah! father, with every wish to be respectful I cannot refrain from reminding you of a certain pot which was reported once to have called a kettle black. Ha!" continued Mariano, turning towards the little old lady, "you should have seen him, granny, in the Bagnio of Algiers, when the guards were inclined to be rather hard on some of the sick--"
"No, no!" interrupted the old lady, shaking her head; "don't talk of that."
"Well, I won't, except to say that I'm thankful we are well out of it."
"It seems all like a strange dream," returned the old lady thoughtfully.
"So it does, mother," murmured Francisco, "so it does,--an almost incredible dream."
And so it seems to us, reader, now that we have closed the record of it; nevertheless it was no dream, but a sad and stern reality to those who played their part in it--to those who sorrowed and suffered, sixty years ago, in the Pirate City.
THE END.
Imprint
Thereafter, having accomplished its object, the British fleet left the stricken city, and the freed captives were ultimately returned to their homes.
Thus at last, in 1816, after the lapse of centuries of murder, rapine, and robbery on the high seas, did the Pirate City receive a fatal blow, from which it never completely recovered. It revived a little, indeed, in after years, and made a struggle to renew its old strength and resume its old practices; but, fortunately for mankind, the reigning Dey in 1827 struck the French consul on the face with his fan. The French thereupon declared war and blockaded the town, but it was not till 1833 that they set themselves vigorously to effect a conquest. In that year they landed an army in Algeria at Sidi Ferruch, and swept everything before them. The history of this conquest--and of the subsequent wars of France in Algeria--is full of the deepest interest and most romantic incidents. The barbarians did indeed show fight, and fought bravely, but they might as well have tried to drive back the sea as to check the disciplined battalions of France. In a brief but brilliant campaign they were utterly defeated, the Dey capitulated, the gates were thrown open, and the French marched in and took possession.
From that day to this they have held it, and the Pirate City is now a charming town--with a French foreground, a Moorish middle-distance, and a bright green background--in which, along with Frenchmen, Turks, Kabyles, Negroes and Moors, and amid orange-groves, date-palms, cacti and prickly pears, the invalids of Europe may enjoy summer heat in winter days, and sit outside in December dreaming peacefully, it may be almost sceptically, of other days, when the bastinado and the bow-string flourished in the land.
Less than sixty years ago the Algerine corsairs were the pest of the civilised world and the terror of the Mediterranean. Now, their city is one of our "summer retreats," a sort of terrestrial paradise, and those who resort to it find it difficult to believe that the immediate forefathers of the fine-looking fellows who saunter about the French boulevards and Moorish streets were the ruthless pirates which history too surely proclaims them to have been.
But what of the various characters whom we have thus summoned from the "vasty deep" of memory, to play their little part in this veracious tale?
Of some we know not the end. Of others it would be almost well that we did not. A few terminated their career happily.
Poor Bacri fell a victim to the avarice of Omar, who desired to possess himself of the Jew's wealth. Being an autocrat, he easily found means to accomplish his purpose. He invited Bacri to the palace, conversed affably for a time, and then bowed him out with a smile. On the stair, as he descended, the Jew was met by three chaouses, who seized him, and took him to the strangling-room. Bacri was, as we have said, a powerful man, and struggled long and vigorously for life. But what could he do unarmed against three stalwart men? He ultimately gave in, with the name of the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob on his lips, and perished as many a former chief of the Jews in Algiers had perished before him.
Rais Ali having given, as we have seen, incontestable proof of his courage and fidelity during the bombardment, was raised to a position of easy affluence, and for many years continued a respected and harmless inhabitant of the town. His kindly disposition induced him to forego his Mohammedan prejudices against Christians--perchance his intercourse with Christians had something to do with that--and he became a firm friend of the Padre Giovanni during the course of that good old man's career, which did not last long after slavery was abolished. The same feelings induced him to befriend Blindi Bobi, who was also a friend of the Padre.
Poor Ashweesha, and her father, Sidi Cadua, perished under the rod and the bow-string; and Hadji Baba, the story-teller, continued to tell stories and to jest to the end of his days. How the Deys tolerated him has ever remained a matter of surprise to the thoughtful. Ziffa, his naughty daughter, became a wife and a mother, in connexion with three other wives, who were also mothers, and belonged to the Turk whom we have more than once mentioned as the captain of the port.
Colonel Langley returned to England with his wife and children, inexpressibly glad to exchange the atmosphere of the Crescent for that of the Cross. Ted Flaggan was installed as butler to the family, and remained in that position for many years. It is supposed by some of his descendants that he would have continued in it to the present day, if any of the family had remained alive.
As to the various members of the Rimini family, it may suffice that we should dismiss them by drawing a slight sketch:
In a Sicilian cottage near the sea, a little old lady--some would say a dear little old lady--sits in a high-backed chair. She gazes pensively, now on the blue Mediterranean, now on a family group which consists of the dark-eyed Juliet and the earnest Lucien, who are vainly striving to restrain the violence of their youngest son; the eldest being engaged in a surreptitious attempt to pull down a map of Algiers, which hangs on the opposite wall. Mariano, with his wonted vivacity, stands before the old lady tossing a small female specimen of humanity as near to the ceiling as is compatible with prolonged existence. Angela looks on admiringly. She does not appear to care much for Mariano now! Why she takes so much interest in the female baby we leave to the reader to discover. Old Francisco is there too, bluffer and bolder than ever, and so is Paulina, with a beautiful dark-haired girl, who is the very image of the tall handsome man engaged in conversation with Francisco.
It is no accidental coincidence this meeting. It is a family gathering, planned and carried out from year to year, in commemoration of the day when the family was delivered from slavery and sorrow.
They have just finished dinner, and there has been much earnest, thankful converse about the days gone by. They have fought their battles o'er again. They have re-told the oft-told tales, feeling as if they were almost new, and have reiterated their gratitude to the God of Love for His great and manifold mercies.
We have not space to relate all that they said, but we may give the concluding sentences.
"You're a wild boy, Mariano, as you always were," said the little old lady with the rippling mouth, as the young man plunged his little daughter into her lap head-foremost.
"And as I mean to be to the end of the chapter," replied Mariano. "How often, grandmother, have you not tried to impress on me the importance of following good examples? Have I not acted on your advice? Doubtless no man is perfect, and I am far--very far--from claiming to have been thoroughly successful in my efforts; but I have tried hard. Did I not, while in Algiers, follow the example of my dear father in exhibiting at all times a spirit of obstinacy that all but drove the pirates delirious with rage? Did I not afterwards imitate Lucien, (your pet-pattern), in getting to me the very best wife that the wide world could produce, and do I not now intend to follow your own example in remaining young in spirit until I am old in years? Taunt me not, then, with being wild-- you cannot cure me."
"I fear not," replied the little old lady with a sigh which did not accord in the slightest degree with the ripples that played round her lips.
"Wildness runs in the family, mother," said Francisco, with a broad smile and a glance at Lucien's eldest hope, who had at that moment succeeded in breaking the string of the map, and pulling Algiers down on his head, "the Riminis have it in the blood and bone.--Get up and don't whimper, there's a brave fellow," added the burly merchant as the astonished youth arose; "I only wish that one of the great Powers would pull down the real city of pirates as effectually as you have settled the map. Lord Exmouth no doubt gave it a magnificent pounding, but utter obliteration is the only thing that will do."
"That's true, father," cried Lucien; "it must be conquered by a civilised nation, and the Turks be driven out, or held in subjection, if Europe is to have peace. Depend on't they will be at their old tricks ere long."
"I should like to be commander-in-chief when the war of conquest begins," said Mariano.
"A poor job you'd make of it, my son," said Francisco.
"Why so, father?"
"Why? because hot blood and a giddy head with a revengeful spirit are not the best elements wherewith to construct a commander-in-chief."
"Ah! father, with every wish to be respectful I cannot refrain from reminding you of a certain pot which was reported once to have called a kettle black. Ha!" continued Mariano, turning towards the little old lady, "you should have seen him, granny, in the Bagnio of Algiers, when the guards were inclined to be rather hard on some of the sick--"
"No, no!" interrupted the old lady, shaking her head; "don't talk of that."
"Well, I won't, except to say that I'm thankful we are well out of it."
"It seems all like a strange dream," returned the old lady thoughtfully.
"So it does, mother," murmured Francisco, "so it does,--an almost incredible dream."
And so it seems to us, reader, now that we have closed the record of it; nevertheless it was no dream, but a sad and stern reality to those who played their part in it--to those who sorrowed and suffered, sixty years ago, in the Pirate City.
THE END.
Imprint
Publication Date: 07-08-2010
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