CHAPTER FOUR.
OUR MIDDY IS PUT TO WORK--ALSO PUT ON HIS "WORD-OF-HONOUR," AND RECEIVESA GREAT SHOCK OF SURPRISE.
George Foster soon found that his master and owner, Ben-Ahmed, was astern and exacting, but by no means an ill-natured or cruel, man. Heappeared to be considerably over sixty years of age, but showed no signsof abated vigour. In character he was amiable and just, according tohis light, but dignified and reticent.
His first act, after seating himself cross-legged on a carpet in amarble and tessellated recess, was to call for a hookah. He smoked thatfor a few minutes and contemplated the courtyard on which the recessopened. It was a pleasant object of contemplation, being filled withyoung orange-trees and creeping plants of a tropical kind, which werewatered by a stone fountain in the centre of the court. This fountainalso served to replenish a marble bath, to cool the sultry air, and tomake pleasant tinkling music. Of course the nose was not forgotten inthis luxurious assemblage of things that were gratifying to ear and eye.Flowers of many kinds were scattered around, and sweet-scented plantsperfumed the air.
Ben-Ahmed's next act, after having lighted his pipe, was to summon Peterthe Great and his new slave--the former to act as interpreter, for itwas a peculiarity of this Moor that though he appeared to understandEnglish he would not condescend to speak it.
After asking several questions as to our hero's name, age, and callingin life, he told Peter to inform Foster that escape from that countrywas impossible, that any attempt to escape would be punished withflogging and other torture, that perseverance in such attempts wouldresult in his being sent to work in chains with the Bagnio slaves andwould probably end in death from excessive toil, torture, and partialstarvation. Having said this, the Moor asked several questions--throughthe negro, and always in the Lingua Franca.
"Massa bids me ax," said Peter, "if you are a gentleman, an' if you knowit am de custom in England for gentleman-pris'ners to give dereword-ob-honour dat dey not run away, an' den go about as if dey wasfree?"
"Tell him that every officer in the service of the King of England isconsidered a gentleman."
"Come now, sar," interrupted Peter sternly, "you know das not true. Ibin in England myself--cook to a French rest'rung in London--an' Inebber hear dat a _pleece_ officer was a gentleman!"
"Well, I mean every commissioned officer in the army and navy," returnedFoster, "and when such are taken prisoner I am aware that they arealways allowed a certain amount of freedom of action on giving theirword of honour that they will not attempt to escape."
When this was explained to Ben-Ahmed, he again said a few words to thenegro, who translated as before.
"Massa say dat as you are a gentleman if you will gib yourword-ob-honour not to escape, he will make you free. Not kite free, obcourse, but free to work in de gardin widout chains; free to sleep in deout-house widout bein' locked up ob nights, an' free to enjoy you'selfw'en you gits de chance."
Foster looked keenly at the negro, being uncertain whether or not he wasjesting, but the solemn features of that arch "hyperkrite" were no indexto the working of his eccentric mind--save when he permitted them tospeak; then, indeed, they were almost more intelligible than theplainest language.
"And what if I refuse to pledge my word for the sake of such freedom?"asked our hero.
"W'y, den you'll git whacked, an' you'll 'sperience uncommon hard times,an' you'll change you mind bery soon, so I t'ink, on de whole, youbetter change 'im at once. Seems to me you's a remarkably obs'nit youngfeller!"
With a sad feeling that he was doing something equivalent to locking thedoor and throwing away the key, Foster gave the required promise, andwas forthwith conducted into the garden and set to work.
His dark friend supplied him with a new striped cotton shirt--his ownhaving been severely torn during his recent adventures--also with a pairof canvas trousers, a linen jacket, and a straw hat with a broad rim;all of which fitted him badly, and might have caused him some discomfortin other circumstances, but he was too much depressed just then to caremuch for anything. His duty that day consisted in digging up a piece ofwaste ground. To relieve his mind, he set to work with tremendousenergy, insomuch that Peter the Great, who was looking on, exclaimed--
"Hi! what a digger you is! You'll bust up altogidder if you goes onlike dat. De moles is nuffin' to you."
But Foster heeded not. The thought that he was now doomed to hopelessslavery, perhaps for life, was pressed home to him more powerfully thanever, and he felt that if he was to save himself from going mad he mustwork with his muscles like a tiger, and, if possible, cease to think.Accordingly, he went on toiling till the perspiration ran down his face,and all his sinews were strained.
"Poor boy!" muttered the negro in a low tone, "he's tryin' to dig hisown grave. But he not succeed. Many a man try dat before now andfailed. Howsomeber, it's blowin' a hard gale wid him just now--an' deharder it blow de sooner it's ober. Arter de storm comes de calm."
With these philosophic reflections, Peter the Great went off to his ownwork, leaving our hero turning over the soil like a steam-plough.
Strong though Foster was--both of muscle and will--he was but humanafter all. In course of time he stopped from sheer exhaustion, flungdown the spade, and, raising himself with his hands stretched up and hisface turned to the sky, he cried--
"God help me! what shall I do?"
Then, dropping his face on his hands, he stood for a considerable timequite motionless.
"What a fool I was to promise not to try to escape!" he thought, and afeeling of despair followed the thought, but a certain touch of reliefcame when he reflected that at any time he could go boldly to hismaster, withdraw the promise, and take the consequences.
He was still standing like a statue, with his hands covering his face,when he felt a light touch on his shoulder. It was the negro who hadreturned to see how he was getting on.
"Look yar, now, Geo'ge," he said in quite a fatherly manner, "dis'llneber do. My massa buy you to work in de gardin, not to stand like astatoo washin' its face widout soap or water. We don't want no morestatoos. Got more'n enuff ob marble ones all around. Besides, youdon't make a good statoo--leastwise not wid dem slop clo'es on. Now,come yar, Geo'ge. I wants a little combersation wid you. I'll preachyou a small sarmin if you'll allow me."
So saying, Peter led his assistant slave into a cool arbour, whereBen-Ahmed was wont at times to soothe his spirits with a pipe.
"Now, look yar, Geo'ge, dis won't do. I say it once and for all--dis_won't do_."
"I know it won't, Peter," replied the almost heart-broken middy, with asad smile, "you're very kind. I know you take an interest in me, andI'll try to do better, but I'm not used to spade-work, you know, and--"
"Spade-work!" shouted Peter, laying his huge black hand on Foster'sshoulder, and giving him a squeeze that made him wince, "das not what Imean. Work! w'y you's done more'n a day's work in one hour, judging byde work ob or'nary slabes. No, das not it. What's wrong is dat youdon't rightly understand your priv'leges. Das de word, your priv'leges.Now, look yar. I don't want you to break your heart before de time,an' fur dat purpus I would remind you dat while dar's life dar's hope.Moreober, you's got no notion what luck you're in. If a bad massa gothold ob you, he gib you no noo clo'es, he gib you hard, black bread'stead o' de good grub what you gits yar. He make you work widoutstoppin' all day, and whack you on de sole ob your foots if you dar sayone word. Was you eber whacked on de sole ob your foots?"
"No, never," replied Foster, amused in spite of himself by the negro'searnest looks and manner.
"Ho! den you don't know yet what Paradise am."
"Paradise, Peter? You mean the other place, I suppose."
"No, sar, I mean not'ing ob de sort. I mean de Paradise what comesarter it's ober, an' you 'gins to git well again. Hah! but you'll findit out some day. But, to continoo, you's got eberyt'ing what'scomfrable here. If you on'y sawd de Bagnio slabes at work--I'll takeyou to see 'em some day--de
n you'll be content an' pleased wid your lottill de time comes when you escape."
"Escape! How can I escape, Peter, now that I have given my word ofhonour not to try?"
"Not'ing easier," replied the negro calmly, "you's on'y got to breakyour word-ob-honour!"
"I'm sorry to hear you say that, my friend," returned Foster, "for itshakes my confidence in you. You must know that an English gentleman_never_ breaks his word--that is, he never _should_ break it--and youmay rest assured that I will not break mine. If your view of suchmatters is so loose, Peter, what security have I that you won't deceive_me_ and betray _me_ when it is your interest or your whim to do so?"
"Security, Massa? I lub you! I's fond o' your smood babby face. Isn'tdat security enough?"
Foster could not help admitting that it was, as long as it lasted! "Butwhat," he asked, "what security has Ben-Ahmed that you won't be as falseto him as you recommend me to be?"
"I lub massa too!" answered the negro, with a bland smile.
"What! love a man whom you have described to me as the most obstinatefellow you ever knew?"
"Ob course I do," returned Peter. "W'y not? A obs'nit man may be asgood as anoder man what can be shoved about any way you please. Ha! younot know yit what it is to hab a _bad_ massa. Wait a bit; you find itout, p'r'aps, soon enough. Look yar."
He bared his bosom as he spoke, and displayed to his wondering andsympathetic friend a mass of old scars and gashes and healed-up sores.
"Dis what my last massa do to me, 'cause I not quite as smart as hewish. De back am wuss. Oh, if you know'd a bad massa, you'd bethankful to-day for gettin' a good un. Now, what I say is, nobody neverknows what's a-goin' to turn up. You just keep quiet an' wait. Someslabes yar hab waited patiently for ten-fifteen year, an' more. Whatden? Sure to 'scape sooner or later. Many are ransum in a year or two.Oders longer. Lots ob 'em die, an' 'scape dat way. Keep up yourheart, Geo'ge, whateber you do, and, if you won't break yourword-ob-honour, something else'll be sure to turn up."
Although the negro's mode of affording comfort and encouragement was notbased entirely on sound principles, his cheery and hopeful manner went along way to lighten the load of care that had been settling down like adead weight on young Foster's heart, and he returned to his work with ahappier spirit than he had possessed since the day he leaped upon thedeck of the pirate vessel. That night he spent under the same roof withhis black friend and a number of the other slaves, none of whom,however, were his countrymen, or could speak any language that heunderstood. His bed was the tiled floor of an out-house, but there wasplenty of straw on it. He had only one blanket, but the nights as wellas days were warm, and his food, although of the simplest kind andchiefly vegetable, was good in quality and sufficient in quantity.
The next day, at the first blush of morning light, he was aroused withthe other slaves by Peter the Great, who, he found, was the Moor'soverseer of domestics. He was put to the same work as before, but thatday his friend the negro was sent off on a mission that was to detainhim several days from home. Another man took Peter's place, but, as hespoke neither English nor French, no communication passed between theoverseer and slave except by signs. As, however, the particular job onwhich he had been put was simple, this did not matter. During theperiod of Peter's absence the poor youth felt the oppression of hisisolated condition keenly. He sank to a lower condition than before,and when his friend returned, he was surprised to find how much of hishappiness depended on the sight of his jovial black face!
"Now, Geo'ge," was the negro's first remark on seeing him, "you's downin de blues again!"
"Well, I confess I have not been very bright in your absence, Peter.Not a soul to speak a word to; nothing but my own thoughts to entertainme; and poor entertainment they have been. D'you know, Peter, I think Ishould die if it were not for you."
"Nebber a bit ob it, massa. You's too cheeky to die soon. I's noticed,in my 'sperience, dat de young slabes as has got most self-conceit an'imprence is allers hardest to kill."
"I scarce know whether to take that as encouragement or otherwise,"returned Foster, with the first laugh he had given vent to for a longtime.
"Take it how you please, Geo'ge, as de doctor said to de dyin' man--won't matter much in de long-run. But come 'long wid me an' let's hab atalk ober it all. Let's go to de bower."
In the bower the poor middy found some consolation by pouring hissorrows into the great black sympathetic breast of Peter the Great,though it must be confessed that Peter occasionally took a strange wayto comfort him. One of the negro's perplexities lay in the difficultyhe had to convince our midshipman of his great good-fortune in havingfallen into the hands of a kind master, and having escaped the terriblefate of the many who had cruel tyrants as their owners, who weretortured and beaten when too ill to work, who had bad food to eat andnot too much of it, and who were whipped to death sometimes when theyrebelled. Although Foster listened and considered attentively, hefailed to appreciate what his friend sought to impress, and continued ina state of almost overwhelming depression because of the simple factthat he was a slave--a bought and sold slave!
"Now, look yar, Geo'ge," said the negro, remonstratively, "you _is_ aslabe; das a fact, an' no application ob fut rule or compasses, or themul'plication table, or any oder table, kin change dat. Dere you am--aslabe! But you ain't a 'bused slabe, a whacked slabe, a tortered slabe,a dead slabe. You're all alibe an' kickin', Geo'ge! So you cheer up,an' somet'ing sure to come ob it; an' if not'ing comes ob it, w'y, decheerin' up hab come ob it anyhow."
Foster smiled faintly at this philosophical view of his case, and didmake a brave effort to follow the advice of his friend.
"Das right, now, Geo'ge; you laugh an' grow fat. Moreober, you go towork now, for if massa come an' find us here, he's bound to know dereason why! Go to work, Geo'ge, an' forgit your troubles. Das _my_way--an' I's got a heap o' troubles, bress you!"
So saying, Peter the Great rose and left our forlorn midshipman sittingin the arbour, where he remained for some time ruminating on past,present, and future instead of going to work.
Apart from the fact of his being a slave, the youth's condition at themoment was by no means disagreeable, for he was seated in a garden whichmust have borne no little resemblance to the great original of Eden, ina climate that may well be described as heavenly, with a view before himof similar gardens which swept in all their rich luxuriance over theslopes in front of him until they terminated on the edge of the blue andsparkling sea.
While seated there, lost in reverie, he was startled by the sound ofapproaching footsteps--very different indeed from the heavy tread of hisfriend Peter. A guilty conscience made him glance round for a way ofescape, but there was only one entrance to the bower. While he washesitating how to act, an opening in the foliage afforded him a passingglimpse of a female in the rich dress of a Moorish lady.
He was greatly surprised, being well aware of the jealousy with whichMohammedans guard their ladies from the eyes of men. The explanationmight lie in this, that Ben-Ahmed, being eccentric in this as in mostother matters, afforded the inmates of his harem unusual liberty.Before he had time to think much on the subject, however, the lady inquestion turned into the arbour and stood before him.
If the word "thunderstruck" did justice in any degree to the state ofmind which we wish to describe we would gladly use it, but it does not.Every language, from Gaelic to Chinese, equally fails to furnish anadequate word. We therefore avoid the impossible and proceed, merelyremarking that from the expression of both faces it was evident thateach had met with a crushing surprise.
We can understand somewhat the midshipman's state of mind, for the beingwho stood before him was--was--well, we are again nonplussed! Sufficeit to say that she was a girl of fifteen summers--the other forty-fiveseasons being, of course, understood. Beauty of feature and complexionshe had, but these were lost, as it were, and almost forgotten, in herbeauty of expression--tenderness, gentleness, urbanity, simplici
ty, andbenignity in a state of fusion! Now, do not run away, reader, with theidea of an Eastern princess, with gorgeous black eyes, raven hair, talland graceful form, etcetera! This apparition was fair, blue-eyed,golden-haired, girlish, sylph-like. She was graceful, indeed, as thegazelle, but not tall, and with an air of suavity that was irresistiblyattractive. She had a "good" face as well as a beautiful, and there wasa slightly pitiful look about the eyebrows that seemed to want smoothingaway.
How earnestly George Foster desired--with a gush of pity, or somethingof that sort--to smooth it away. But he had too much delicacy offeeling as well as common sense to offer his services just then.
"Oh, sir!" exclaimed the girl, in perfect English, as she hastily threwa thin gauze veil over her face, "forgive me! I did not know you werehere--else--my veil--but why should _I_ mind such customs? You are anEnglishman, I think?"
Foster did not feel quite sure at that moment whether he was English,Irish, Scotch, or Dutch, so he looked foolish and said--
"Y-yes."
"I knew it. I was sure of it! Oh! I am _so_ glad!" exclaimed thegirl, clasping her delicate little hands together and bursting intotears.
This was such a very unexpected climax, and so closely resembled theconduct of a child, that it suddenly restored our midshipman toself-possession. Stepping quickly forward, he took one of the girl'shands in his, laid his other hand on her shoulder, and said--
"Don't cry, my poor child! If I can help you in any way, I'll be onlytoo glad; but pray don't, _don't_ cry so."
"I--I--can't help it," sobbed the girl, pulling away her hand--not onaccount of propriety, by any means: that never entered her young head--but for the purpose of searching for a kerchief in a pocket that was_always_ undiscoverable among bewildering folds. "If--if--you only knewhow long, _long_ it is since I heard an English--(where _is_ that_thing_!)--an English voice, you would not wonder. And my father, mydear, dear, darling father--I have not heard of him for--for--"
Here the poor thing broke down again and sobbed aloud, while themidshipman looked on, imbecile and helpless. "Pray, _don't_ cry," saidFoster again earnestly. "Who are you? where did you come from? Who andwhere is your father? Do tell me, and how I can help you, for we may beinterrupted?"
This last remark did more to quiet the girl than anything else he hadsaid.
"You are right," she replied, drying her eyes quickly. "And, do youknow the danger you run if found conversing with me?"
"No--not great danger, I hope?"
"The danger of being scourged to death, perhaps," she replied.
"Then pray _do_ be quick, for I'd rather not get such a whipping--evenfor _your_ sake!"
"But our owner is not cruel," continued the girl. "He is kind--"
"Owner! Is he not, then, your husband?"
"Oh, no. He says he is keeping me for his son, who is away on a longvoyage. I have never seen him--and--I have such a dread of his comingback!"
"But you are English, are you not?"
"Yes."
"And your father?"
"He is also English, and a slave. We have not met, nor have I heard ofhim, since we were parted on board ship many months ago. Listen!"