The Pirate City: An Algerine Tale by R. M. Ballantyne (digital book reader .txt) 📖

the energies of a stout youth, and to whom a taskmaster has just administered a cut with the driving-whip, looks like one who has seen better days. Even in his ragged shirt, broken-brimmed straw hat, and naked feet, he looks like a gentleman. So he is; and there is a gentle lady and a stout son, and two sweet daughters, in Naples, who are toiling almost as hard as he does—if hours be allowed to count for pains—in order to make up his ransom. The strong bull-necked man that follows him with a hod of mortar is an unmistakable seaman of one of the Mediterranean ports. He is a desperate character, and in other lands might be dangerous; but he is safe enough here, for the bastinado is a terrible instrument of torture, and the man is now not only desperate in wrath, but is sometimes desperately frightened. His driver takes a fiendish pleasure in giving him an extra cut of the whip, just to make him apparently a willing horse, whether he will or not. The poor youth beside him is a very different character. His training has been more gentle, and his constitution less robust, for he has broken down under the cruel toil, and is evidently in the last stages of consumption. The taskmaster does not now interfere with him as he was wont to do when he first arrived. He knows that the day is not far distant when neither the bastinado nor any other species of torture will have power to force work out of him. He also knows that overdriving will only shorten the days of his usefulness; he therefore wisely lets him stagger by unmolested, with his light load.

But why go on enumerating the sorrows of these slaves? Sidi Omar looked at them with a careless glance, until he suddenly caught sight of something that caused his eyes to flash and his brows to contract. A sbirro, or officer of justice, stood near him, whether by chance or otherwise we know not. Touching the sbirro on the shoulder, he pointed to a group under the shade of an archway, and said in a low tone—

“Go, fetch hither that scoundrel Blindi.”

The sbirro at once stepped towards the group, which consisted of two persons. One was an old, apparently dying, slave; the other was a strong middle-aged man, in a quaint blue gown, who knelt by his side, and poured something from a flask into his mouth.

The sbirro seized this man rudely by the neck, and said—

“Get up, Blindi, and come along with me.” Laying the head of the old man gently on the ground, and rising with some wrath, Blindi demanded, in English so broken that we find difficulty in mending it sufficiently to be presented to the reader—

“Wot for you means by dat?”

“Speak your mother tongue, you dog, and make haste, for the Minister of Marine wants you.”

“Oh! mos’ awfrul,” exclaimed Blindi, turning pale, and drawing his blue garment hastily round him, as he meekly followed the officer of justice—whose chief office, by the way, was to administer injustice.

The man whom we have styled Blindi was a somewhat peculiar character. He was an Algerine by birth, but had served several years in the British navy, and had acquired a smattering of the English language—forecastle English, as a matter of course. In consequence of this, and of having lost an eye in the service, he had obtained a pension, and the appointment of interpreter to all his Britannic Majesty’s ships visiting Algiers. He dwelt at the harbour, or Marina, where he excited the wonder and admiration of all the Turks and Moors by his volubility in talking English. He was a man of no small importance, in his own estimation, and was so proud of his powers as a linguist that he invariably interlarded his converse with English phrases, whether he was addressing Turk, Jew, or Christian. Lingua Franca—a compound of nearly all the languages spoken on the shores of the Mediterranean—was the tongue most in use at the Marina of Algiers at that time, but as this would be unintelligible to our reader, we will give Blindi’s conversations in his favourite language. What his real name was we have failed to discover. The loss of his eye had obtained for him in the navy the name of Blind Bob. In his native city this was Italianised into Blindi Bobi. But Bobi was by no means blind of the other eye. It was like seven binocular glasses rolled into one telescope. Once he had unfortunately brought it to bear on the Minister of Marine with such a concentrated stare that he, being also blind of an eye, regarded it as a personal allusion thereto, and never forgave Blindi Bobi.

“This is the second time,” said Omar, when the culprit was brought before him, “that I have caught you interfering with the slaves.”

“Please, sar, hims was werry bad—dyin’, me s’pose.”

“Speak your own tongue, dog, else you shall smart for it,” said the Minister of Marine, with increasing wrath.

The poor interpreter to his Britannic Majesty’s navy repeated his words in the Lingua Franca, but Omar, again interrupting him, ordered the sbirro to take him off and give him the bastinado.

“And have a care, Blindi,” added Omar, observing that the interpreter was about to speak; “if you say that you are under the protection of the British consul I’ll have you flayed alive.—Off with him!”

The sbirro, with a comrade, led Bobi through several of the narrow streets of the town to a chamber which was set apart for the infliction of punishment. It was a dark, vaulted apartment under a public building. The massive pillars of stone which supported its roof looked pale and ghostlike against the thick darkness which was beyond them, giving the idea of interminable space. One of the sbirros lighted a lantern, and led the way through a massive door, all studded with huge nails, into a small square chamber, the walls of which looked as if they had been bespattered with a dark-brown liquid, especially in the neighbourhood of several iron rings, from which chains depended. In addition to these and a number of other characteristic implements, there was a pile of blood-stained rods in a corner.

Saying a few words to a powerful negro whom they found in attendance, the sbirros handed Blindi Bobi over to him. He instantly disrobed him of his blue gown, and threw him on his back with the aid of an equally powerful assistant, and began to uncover his stomach.

The interpreter was no coward. He had prepared himself to endure manfully the bastinado on the soles of his feet—as it was usually administered—but when he perceived that they were about to inflict the blows on a more tender part of his body, he trembled and remonstrated.

“Sidi Omar no’ say you hit ’im dare. Hims ’peal to British consil—”

Thus far he spoke, from the force of habit, in his adopted tongue, but fear speedily drove him to that of his mother.

All tongues, however, were alike to the negroes, who, rendered callous from long service against their will in a brutalising office, went about their preparations with calm and slow indifference.

Just as they were about to begin, one of the sbirros, who had a personal regard for Bobi, spoke a few words to one of the negroes, who immediately turned Blindi Bobi on his face and firmly raised his feet so that the naked soles were turned upwards. The other negro applied one of the rods thereto with all his might. For a few seconds the poor sufferer uttered no sound, but at last he gave vent to an irresistible yell. At a sign from the chief sbirro the punishment was stopped, and Bobi was released and allowed to rise.

Conducting him to the door, the sbirro thrust him into the street, flung his blue gown after him, and advised him to beware of again rousing the wrath of Sidi Omar.

Blindi Bobi was far too well acquainted with the cruelties perpetrated continually in the pirate city to be ignorant of the fact that he had got off with a light punishment, yet we fear that did not cause him to entertain much gratitude to Sidi Omar as he limped back to his quarters at the Marina.

Arrived there, he observed that the sick old man still lay where he had left him. Running towards him with a sudden impulse, he drew forth his flask, knelt down, raised the old man’s head and gave him a long hearty draught, after which he took another to himself.

“Derre!” he said, rising and shaking his fist defiantly in the direction in which Sidi Omar dwelt, “I’s revenged on you—brute! bah! boo-o!”

After this relief to his feelings Blindi Bobi went home to attend to his poor feet.

Note 1. In 1795 the Americans concluded peace with the Algerians by the payment of half a million piastres, and an annual tribute of 24,000 piastres.