CHAPTER TWO.
AMONG PIRATES--ENSLAVED.
When George Foster was again permitted to go on deck the sight that hebeheld was not calculated to comfort him in his misfortunes.
Several Moorish seamen were going about with bared legs and arms,swishing water on the decks and swabbing up the blood, with which theywere bespattered. Most of these men were more or less wounded andbandaged, for the crew of the merchantman they had attacked had offereda desperate resistance, knowing well the fate in store for them ifcaptured.
The said merchantman, a large brig, sailed close alongside of the piratevessel with a prize crew on board. Her own men, who were Russians, hadbeen put in chains in the fore part of their vessel under theforecastle, so as to be out of sight. Her officers and severalpassengers had been removed to the pirate's quarter-deck. Among themwere an old gentleman of dignified bearing, and an elderly lady whoseemed to be supported, physically as well as mentally, by a tall,dark-complexioned, noble-looking girl, who was evidently the daughter ofthe old gentleman, though whether also the daughter of the elderly ladyyoung Foster could not discover, there being little or no resemblancebetween them. The memory of his mother and sister strongly inclined thesympathetic midshipman to approach the party and offer words ofconsolation to the ladies. As he advanced to them for that purpose, adoubt as to which language he should use assailed him. French, he knew,was the language most likely to be understood, but a girl with suchmagnificent black eyes must certainly be Spanish! His knowledge ofSpanish was about equal to that of an ill-trained parrot, but what ofthat? Was he not a Briton, whose chief characteristic is to go in foranything and stick at nothing?
We do not venture to write down what he said, but when he had said itthe blank look of the elderly lady and the peculiar look of the girlinduced him to repeat the speech in his broken--his very much broken--French, whereupon the old gentleman turned to him gravely and said--
"My vife is Engleesh, an' my datter is Danish--no, not joost--vell, sheis 'af-an'-'af. Speak to dem in your nattif tong."
"_You_ are not English, anyhow, old boy," thought Foster, as he turnedwith a mingled feeling of confusion and recklessness to the elderlylady.
"Pardon me, madam," he said, "but from the appearance of--of--your--"
He was interrupted at this point by the captain, who, flushed andblood-bespattered from the recent fight, came aft with a drawn scimitarin his hand, and sternly ordered the young midshipman to go forward.
It was a humiliating position to be placed in; yet, despite the"stick-at-nothing" spirit, he felt constrained to obey, but did so,nevertheless, with an air of defiant ferocity which relieved hisfeelings to some extent. The said feelings were utterly ignored by thepirate captain, who did not condescend even to look at him after thefirst glance, but turned to the other captives and ordered them, inrather less stern tones, to "go below," an order which was promptlyobeyed.
On reaching the fore part of the vessel, Foster found several of thecrew engaged in bandaging each other's wounds, and, from the clumsy wayin which they went to work, it was very clear that they were much moreaccustomed to inflict wounds than to bandage them.
Now it must be told that, although George Foster was not a surgeon, hehad an elder brother who was, and with whom he had associated constantlywhile he was studying and practising for his degree; hence he becameacquainted with many useful facts and modes of action connected with thehealing art, of which the world at large is ignorant. Perceiving thatone of the pirates was bungling a very simple operation, he steppedforward, and, with that assurance which results naturally from thecombination of conscious power and "cheek," took up the dressing of thewound.
At first the men seemed inclined to resent the interference, but whenthey saw that the "Christian" knew what he was about, and observed howwell and swiftly he did the work, they stood aside and calmly submitted.
Foster was interrupted, however, in the midst of his philanthropic workby Peter the Great, who came forward and touched him on the shoulder.
"Sorry to 't'rupt you, sar, but you come wid me."
"Mayn't I finish this operation first?" said Foster, looking up.
"No, sar. My orders is prumptory."
Our amateur surgeon dropped the bandage indignantly and followed thenegro, who led him down into the hold, at the further and dark end ofwhich he saw several wounded men lying, and beside them one or two whosemotionless and straightened figures seemed to indicate that death hadrelieved them from earthly troubles.
Amongst these men he spent the night and all next day, with only acouple of biscuits and a mug of water to sustain him. Next eveningPeter the Great came down and bade him follow him to the other end ofthe hold.
"Now, sar, you go in dere," said the negro, stopping and pointing to asmall door in the bulkhead, inside of which was profound darkness.
Foster hesitated and looked at his big conductor.
"'Bey orders, sar!" 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,"Don' be a fool, massa. _Submit_! Das de word, if you don' want awhackin'. It's a friend advises you. Dere's one oder prisoner dere,but he's wounded, an' won't hurt you. _Go_ in! won't you?"
Peter the Great accompanied the last words with a violent thrust thatsent the hapless middy headlong into the dark hole, but as he closed andfastened the door he muttered, "Don' mind my leetle ways, massa. Youknow I's bound to be a hyperkrite."
Having thus relieved his conscience, Peter returned to the deck, leavingthe poor prisoner to rise and, as a first consequence, to hit his headon the beams above him.
The hole into which he had been thrust was truly a "black hole," thoughneither so hot nor so deadly as that of Calcutta. Extending his armscautiously, he touched the side of the ship with his left hand; with theother he felt about for some time, but reached nothing until he hadadvanced a step, when his foot touched something on the floor, and hebent down to feel it, but shrank hastily back on touching what heperceived at once was a human form.
"Pardon me, friend, whoever you are," he said quickly, "I did not meanto--I did not know--are you badly hurt?"
But no reply came from the wounded man--not even a groan.
A vague suspicion crossed Foster's mind. The man might be dying of hiswounds. He spoke to him again in French and Spanish, but still got noreply! Then he listened intently for his breathing, but all was assilent as the tomb. With an irresistible impulse, yet instinctiveshudder, he laid his hand on the man and passed it up until it reachedthe face. The silence was then explained. The face was growing coldand rigid in death.
Drawing back hastily, the poor youth shouted to those outside to letthem 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 occurredthat 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, hethought his condition would have been more bearable, for then he couldhave faced the lifeless clay and looked at it; but to know that it wasthere, within a foot of him, without his being able to see it, or toform any idea of what it was like, made the case terrible indeed. Ofcourse he drew back from it as far as the little space allowed, andcrushed 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 cometo life again, rise up, and plunge against him. At times this thoughttook such possession of him that he threw up his arms to defend himselffrom attack, and uttered a half-suppressed cry of terror.
At last nature asserted herself, and he slept, sitting on the floor andleaning partly against the vessel's side, partly against the bulkhead.But horrible dreams disturbed him. The corpse became visible, the eyesglared at him, the blood-stained face worked convulsively, and he awokewith a shriek, followed immediately by a sigh of relief on finding thatit was all a dream. Then the horror came again, a
s he suddenlyremembered 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 stiffbreeze did not disturb him, and he did not awake until some one rudelyseized his arm late on the following day. Then, in the firm belief thathis dream had come true at last, he uttered a tremendous yell andstruggled to rise, but a powerful hand held him down, and a dark lanternrevealed a coal-black face gazing at him.
"Hallo! massa, hold on. I did tink you mus' be gone dead, for Iholler'd in at you 'nuff to bust de kittle-drum ob your ear--if you habone!"
"Look there, Peter," said Foster, pointing to the recumbent figure,while he wiped the perspiration from his brow.
"Ah! poor feller. He gone de way ob all flesh; but he hoed sooner dandere was any occasion for--tanks to de captain."
As he spoke he held the lantern over the dead man and revealed the faceof a youth in Eastern garb, on whose head there was a terriblesword-cut. As they looked at the sad spectacle, and endeavoured toarrange the corpse, the negro explained that the poor fellow had been aGreek captive who to save his life had joined the pirates and become aMussulman; but, on thinking over it, had returned to the Christian faithand refused to take part in the bloody work which they were required todo. It was his refusal to fight on the occasion of the recent attack onthe merchantman that had induced the captain to cut him down. He hadbeen put into the prison in the hold, and carelessly left there to bleedto death.
"Now, you come along, massa," said the negro, taking up the lantern,"we's all goin' on shore."
"On shore! Where have we got to?"
"To Algiers, de city ob pirits; de hotbed ob wickedness; de home ob deMoors an' Turks an' Cabyles, and de cuss ob de whole wurld."
Poor Foster's heart sank on hearing this, for he had heard of thehopeless slavery to which thousands of Christians had been consignedthere in time past, and his recent experience of Moors had not tended toimprove his opinion of them.
A feeling of despair impelled him to seize the negro by the arm as hewas about to ascend the ladder and stop him.
"Peter," he said, "I think you have a friendly feeling towards me,because you've called me massa more than once, though you have nooccasion to do so."
"Dat's 'cause I'm fond o' you. I always was fond o' a nice smood youngbabby face, an' I tooked a fancy to you de moment I see you knock JoeSpinks into de lee scuppers."
"So--he was an Englishman that I treated so badly, eh?"
"Yes, massa, on'y you didn't treat him bad 'nuff. But you obsarve dat Ion'y calls you massa w'en we's alone an' friendly like. W'en we's inpublic I calls you `sar' an' speak gruff an' shove you into blackholes."
"And why do you act so, Peter?"
"'Cause, don't you see, I's a hyperkrite. I tole you dat before."
"Well, I can guess what you mean. You don't want to appear toofriendly? 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 goashore, and see where they send me, and speak a word for me when it isin your power. You see, they'll give me up for drowned at home andnever find out that I'm here."
"`A free man!'" repeated the negro, with an expansion of his mouth thatis indescribable. "You tink I's a free man! but I's a slabe, same asyourself, on'y de diff'rence am dat dere's nobody to ransum _me_, so deydon't boder deir heads 'bout me s'long as I do my work. If I don't domy work I'm whacked; if I rebel and kick up a shindy I'm whacked wuss;if I tries to run away I'm whacked till I'm dead. Das all. But I's notfree. No, no not at all! Hows'ever I's free-an'-easy, an' dat make depirits fond o' me, which goes a long way, for dere's nuffin' like lub!"
Foster heartily agreed with the latter sentiment and added--
"Well, now, Peter, I will say no more, for as you profess to be fond ofme, and as I can truly say the same in regard to you, we may be surethat each will help the other if he gets the chance. But, tell me, areyou really one of the crew of this pirate vessel?"
"No, massa, only for dis viage. I b'longs to a old sinner calledHassan, what libs in de country, not far from de town. He not a badfeller, but he's obs'nit--oh! as obs'nit as a deaf an' dumb mule. Ifyou want 'im to go one way just tell him to go toder way--an' you've got'im."
At that moment the captain's voice was heard shouting down the hatchway,demanding to know what detained the negro and his prisoners. He spokein that jumble of languages in use at that time among the Mediterraneannations called Lingua Franca, for the negro did not understand Arabic.
"Comin', captain, comin'," cried the negro, in his own peculiarEnglish--which was, indeed, his mother tongue, for he had been born inthe United States of America. "Now, den, sar," (to Foster), "w'en yougoin' to move you stumps? Up wid you!"
Peter emphasised his orders with a real kick, which expedited hisprisoner's ascent, and, at the same time, justified the negro's claim tobe a thorough-paced "hyperkrite!"
"Where's the other one?" demanded the captain angrily.
"Escaped, captain!" answered Peter.
"How? You must have helped him," cried the captain, drawing hisever-ready sword and pointing it at the breast of the negro, who fellupon his knees, clasped his great hands, and rolled his eyes in anapparent agony of terror.
"Don't, captain. I isn't wuth killin', an' w'en I's gone, who'd cookfor you like me? De man escaped by jumpin' out ob his body. He's gonedead!"
"Fool!" muttered the pirate, returning his sword to its sheath, "bindthat prisoner, and have him and the others ready to go on shoredirectly."
In a few seconds all the prisoners were ranged between the cabinhatchway and the mast. The hands of most of the men were loosely tied,to prevent trouble in case desperation should impel any of them toassault their captors, but the old Dane and the women were leftunfettered.
And now George Foster beheld, for the first time, the celebrated city,which was, at that period, the terror of the merchant vessels of allnations that had dealings with the Mediterranean shores. A small pierand breakwater enclosed a harbour which was crowded with boats andshipping. From this harbour the town rose abruptly on the side of asteep hill, and was surrounded by walls of great strength, whichbristled with cannon. The houses were small and square-looking, and inthe midst, here and there, clusters of date-palms told of the almosttropical character of the climate, while numerous domes, minarets, andcrescents told of the Moor and the religion of Mohammed.
But religion in its true sense had little footing in that piraticalcity, which subsisted on robbery and violence, while cruelty andinjustice of the grossest kind were rampant. Whatever Islamism may havetaught them, it did not produce men or women who held the golden rule tobe a virtue, and certainly few practised it. Yet we would not beunderstood to mean that there were none who did so. As there wereChristians in days of old, even in Caesar's household, so there existedmen and women who were distinguished by the Christian graces, even inthe Pirate City. Even there God had not left Himself without a witness.
As the vessel slowly entered the harbour under a very light breeze, shewas boarded by several stately officers in the picturesque costume--turbans, red leathern boots, etcetera--peculiar to the country. Afterspeaking a few minutes with the captain, one of the officers politelyaddressed the old Dane and his family through an interpreter; but asthey spoke in subdued tones Foster could not make out what was said.Soon he was interrupted by a harsh order from an unknown Moor in anunknown tongue.
An angry order invariably raised in our hero the spirit of rebellion.He flushed and turned a fierce look on the Moor, but that haughty andgrave individual was accustomed to such looks. He merely repeated hisorder in a quiet voice, at the same time translating it by pointing tothe boat alongside. Foster felt that discretion was the better part ofvalour, all the more that there stood at the Moor's back five or sixpowerful Arabs, who seemed quite ready to enforce his instructions.
The poor middy glance
d round to see if his only friend, Peter the Great,was visible, but he was not; so, with a flushed countenance at thusbeing compelled to put his pride in his pocket, he jumped into the boat,not caring very much whether he should break his neck by doing so withtied hands, or fall into the sea and end his life in a shark's maw!
In a few minutes he was landed on the mole or pier, and made to join aband of captives, apparently from many nations, who already stoodwaiting there.
Immediately afterwards the band was ordered to move on, and as theymarched through the great gateway in the massive walls Foster felt as ifhe were entering the portals of Dante's Inferno, and had left all hopebehind. But his feelings misled him. Hope, thank God! is not easilyextinguished in the human breast. As he tramped along the narrow andwinding streets, which seemed to him an absolute labyrinth, he began totake interest in the curious sights and sounds that greeted him on everyside, and his mind was thus a little taken off himself.
And there was indeed much there to interest a youth who had never seenEastern manners or customs before. Narrow and steep though the streetswere--in some cases so steep that they formed flights of what may bestyled broad and shallow stairs--they were crowded with bronzed men invaried Eastern costume; Moors in fez and gay vest and red moroccoslippers; Turks with turban and pipe; Cabyles from the mountains; Arabsfrom the plains; water-carriers with jar on shoulder; Jews in sombrerobes; Jewesses with rich shawls and silk kerchiefs as headgear; donkeyswith panniers that almost blocked the way; camels, and veiled women, andmany other strange sights that our hero had up to that time only seen inpicture-books.
Presently the band of captives halted before a small door which wasthickly studded with large nails. It seemed to form the only opening ina high dead wall, with the exception of two holes about a foot square,which served as windows. This was the Bagnio, or prison, in which theslaves were put each evening after the day's labour was over, there tofeed and rest on the stone floor until daylight should call them forthagain to renewed toil. It was a gloomy courtyard, with cells around itin which the captives slept. A fountain in the middle kept the floordamp and seemed to prove an attraction to various centipedes, scorpions,and other noisome creatures which were crawling about.
Here the captives just arrived had their bonds removed, and were left totheir own devices, each having received two rolls of black bread beforethe jailor retired and locked them up for the night.
Taking possession of an empty cell, George Foster sat down on the stonefloor and gazed at the wretched creatures around him, many of whom weredevouring their black bread with ravenous haste. The poor youth couldhardly believe his eyes, and it was some time before he could convincehimself that the whole thing was not a dream but a terrible reality.