The Middy and the Moors: An Algerine Story by R. M. Ballantyne (best books to read in your 20s TXT) 📖

British naval officer as he could well be. But he had never been particularly vain of his personal appearance, and the high purpose by which he was now actuated set him above all such trifling considerations.

“Is your business a secret?” asked Foster, as he and his companion descended the picturesque road that led to the city.

“No, it am no secret, ’cause I’s got no business.”

“You seem to be in a mysterious mood this morning, Peter. What do you mean?”

“I mean dat you an’ me’s out for a holiday—two slabes out for a holiday! T’ink ob dat!”

The negro threw back his head, opened his capacious jaws, and gave vent to an almost silent chuckle.

“That does indeed mound strange,” returned Foster; “how has such a wonderful event been brought about?”

“By lub, Geo’ge. Di’n’t I tell you before dat hub am eberyt’ing?”

“Yes; and my dear old mother told me, long before you did, that ‘love is the fulfilling of the law.’”

“Well, I dun know much about law, ’xcep’ dat I b’lieve it’s a passel o’ nonsense, for what we’s got here an’t o’ no use—leastwise not for slabes.”

“But my mother did not refer to human laws,” returned Foster. “She quoted what the Bible says about God’s laws.”

“Oh! das a bery diff’rent t’ing, massa, an’ I s’pose your mudder was right. Anyway it was lub what obercame Ben-Ahmed. You see, I put it to ’im bery tender like. ‘Massa,’ says I, ‘here I’s bin wid you night an’ day for six year, an’ you’s nebber say to me yet, “Peter de Great, go out for de day an’ enjoy you’self.” Now, massa, I wants to take dat small raskil Geo’ge Fuster to de town, an’ show him a few t’ings as’ll make him do his work better, an’ dat’ll make you lub ’im more, an’ so we’ll all be more comfrable.’ Das what I say; an’ when I was sayin’ it, I see de wrinkles a-comin’ round massa’s eyes, so I feel sure; for w’en dem wrinkles come to de eyes, it is all right. An’ massa, he say, ‘Go’—nuffin more; only ‘Go;’ but ob course das nuff for me, so I hoed; an’ now—we’re bof goin’.”

At this point in the conversation they came to a place where the road forked. Here they met a number of Arabs, hasting towards the town in a somewhat excited frame of mind. Following these very slowly on a mule rode another Arab, whose dignified gravity seemed to be proof against all excitement. He might have been the Dey of Algiers himself, to judge from his bearing and the calm serenity with which he smoked a cigar. Yet neither his occupation nor position warranted his dignified air, for he was merely a seller of oranges, and sat on a huge market-saddle, somewhat in the lady-fashion—side-wise, with the baskets of golden fruit on either side of him.

Going humbly towards this Arab, the negro asked him in Lingua Franca if there was anything unusual going on in the town?

The Arab replied by a calm stare and a puff of smoke as he rode by.

“I ’ope his pride won’t bust ’im,” muttered Peter, as he fell behind and rejoined his companion.

“Do you think anything has happened, then?”

“Dere’s no sayin’. Wonderful geese dey is in dis city. Dey seem to t’ink robbery on the sea is just, an’ robbery ob de poor an’ helpless is just; but robbery ob de rich in Algiers—oh! dat awrful wicked! not to be tololerated on no account wa’somever. Konsikence is—de poor an’ de helpless git some ob de strong an’ de clebber to go on dere side, an’ den dey bust up, strangle de Dey, rob de Jews, an’ set up another guv’ment.”

“Rob the Jews, Peter! Why do they do that?”

“Dun know, massa—”

“Please don’t call me massa any more, Peter, for I’m not massa in any sense—being only your friend and fellow-slave.”

“Well, I won’t, Geo’ge. I’s a-goin’ to say I s’pose dey plunder de Jews ’cause dey’s got lots o’ money an’ got no friends. Eberybody rob de Jews w’en dere’s a big rumpus. But I don’t t’ink dere’s a row jus’ now—only a scare.”

The scare, if there was one, had passed away when they reached the town. On approaching the Bab-Azoun gate, Peter got ready their passports to show to the guard. As he did so, Foster observed, with a shudder, that shreds of a human carcass were still dangling from 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.