A Modern Telemachus

In 1687, however, the nuisance had grown to such a height that Admiral Du Quesne bombarded the town of Algiers, and destroyed all the fortifications, peace being only granted on condition that a French Consul should reside at Algiers, and that French ships and subjects should be exempt from this violence of the corsairs.

The like treaties existed with the English, but had been very little heeded by the Algerines till recently, when the possession of Gibraltar and Minorca had provided harbours for British ships, which exercised a salutary supervision over these Southern sea-kings.  The last Dey, Baba Hali, had been a wise and prudent man, anxious to repress outrage, and to be on good terms with the two great European powers; but he had died in the spring of the current year, 1718, and the temper of his successor, Mehemed, had not yet been proved.

Madame de Bourke had some trust in the Dutch Reis, renegade though he was.  She had given him her beautiful watch, set with brilliants, and he had taken it with a certain gruff reluctance, declaring that he did not want it,—he was ready enough to serve her without such a toy.

Nevertheless the lady thought it well to impress on each and all, in case of any separation or further disaster, that their appeal must be to the French Consul, explaining minutely the forms in which it should be made.

‘I cannot tell you,’ she said to Arthur, ‘how great a comfort it is to me to have with me a gentleman, one of intelligence and education to whom I can confide my poor children.  I know you will do your utmost to protect them and restore them to their father.’

‘With my very heart’s blood, Madame.’

‘I hope that may not be asked of you, Monsieur,’ she returned with a faint smile,—‘though I fear there may be much of perplexity and difficulty in the way before again rejoining him.  You see where I have placed our passports?  My daughter knows it likewise; but in case of their being taken from you, or any other accident happening to you, I have written these two letters, which you had better bear about your person.  One is, as you see, to our Consul at Algiers, and may serve as credentials; the other is to my husband, to whom I have already written respecting you.’

‘A thousand thanks, Madame,’ returned Arthur.  ‘But I hope and trust we may all reach M. le Comte in safety together.  You yourself said that you expected only a brief detention before he could be communicated with, and this captain, renegade though he be, evidently has a respect for you.’

‘That is quite true,’ she returned, ‘and it may only be my foolish heart that forebodes evil; nevertheless, I cannot but recollect that c’est l’imprévu qui arrive.’

‘Then, Madame, that is the very reason there should be no misfortune,’ returned Arthur.

It was on the second day after the capture of the tartane that the sun set in a purple angry-looking bank of cloud, and the sea began to heave in a manner which renewed the earlier distresses of the voyage to such as were bad sailors.  The sails both of the corsair and of the tartane were taken in, and it was plain that a rough night was to be expected.  The children were lashed into their berths, and all prepared themselves to endure.  The last time Arthur saw Madame de Bourke’s face, by the light of the lamp swinging furiously from the cabin roof, as he assisted in putting in the dead lights, it bore the same fixed expression of fortitude and resignation as when she was preparing to be boarded by the pirates.

He remained on deck, but it was very perilous, for the vessel was so low in the water that the waves dashed over it so wildly that he could hardly help being swept away.  It was pitch dark, too, and the lantern of the other vessel could only just be seen, now high above their heads, now sinking in the trouble of the sea, while the little tartane was lifted up as though on a mountain; and in a kind of giddy dream, he thought of falling headlong upon her deck.  Finally he found himself falling.  Was he washed overboard?  No; a sharp blow showed him that he had only fallen down the hatchway, and after lying still a moment, he heard the voices of Lanty and Hébert, and presently they were all tossed together by another lurch of the ship.

It was a night of miseries that seemed endless, and when a certain amount of light appeared, and Arthur and Lanty crawled upon deck, the tempest was unabated.  They found themselves still dashed, as if their vessel were a mere cork, on the huge waves; rushes of water coming over them, whether from sea or sky there was no knowing, for all seemed blended together in one mass of dark lurid gray; and where was the Algerine ship—so lately their great enemy, now watched for as their guide and guardian?

It was no place nor time for questions, even could they have been heard or understood.  It was scarcely possible even to be heard by one another, and it was some time before they convinced themselves that the large vessel had disappeared.  The cable must have parted in the night, and they were running with bare poles before the gale; the seamanship of the man at the helm being confined to avoiding the more direct blows of the waves, on the huge crests of which the little tartane rode—gallantly perhaps in mariners’ eyes, but very wretchedly to the feelings of the unhappy landsmen within her.

Arthur thought of St. Paul, and remembered with dismay that it was many days before sun or moon appeared.  He managed to communicate his recollection to Lanty, who exclaimed, ‘And he was a holy man, and he was a prisoner too.  He will feel for us if any man can in this sore strait!  Sancte Paule, ora pro nobis.  An’ haven’t I got the blessed scapulary about me neck that will bring me through worse than this?’

The three managed to get down to tell the unfortunate inmates of the cabin what was the state of things, and to carry them some food, though at the expense of many falls and severe blows; and almost all of them were too faint or nauseated to be able to swallow such food as could survive the transport under such circumstances.  Yet high-spirited little Estelle entreated to be carried on deck, to see what a storm was like.  She had read of them so often, and wanted to see as well as to feel.  She was almost ready to cry when Arthur assured her it was quite impossible, and her mother added a grave order not to trouble him.

Madame de Bourke looked so exhausted by the continual buffeting and the closeness of the cabin, and her voice was so weak, that Arthur grieved over the impossibility of giving her any air.  Julienne tried to make her swallow some eau de vie; but the effort of steadying her hand seemed too much for her, and after a terrible lurch of the ship, which lodged the poor bonne in the opposite corner of the cabin, the lady shook her head and gave up the attempt.  Indeed, she seemed so worn out that Arthur—little used to the sight of fainting—began to fear that her forebodings of dying before she could rejoin her husband were on the point of being realised.

However, the gale abated towards evening, and the youth himself was so much worn out that the first respite was spent in sleep.  When he awoke, the sea was much calmer, and the eastern sun was rising in glory over it; the Turks, with their prayer carpets in a line, were simultaneously kneeling and bowing in prayer, with their faces turned towards it.  Lanty uttered an only too emphatic curse upon the misbelievers, and Arthur vainly tried to make him believe that their ‘Allah il Allah’ was neither addressed to Mohammed nor the sun.

‘Sure and if not, why did they make their obeisance to it all one as the Persians in the big history-book Master Phelim had at school?’

‘It’s to the east they turn Lanty, not to the sun.’

‘And what right have the haythen spalpeens to turn to the east like good Christians?’

‘’Tis to their Prophet’s tomb they look, at Mecca.’

‘There, an’ I tould you they were no better than haythens,’ returned Lanty, ‘to be praying and knocking their heads on the bare boards—that have as much sense as they have—to a dead man’s tomb.’

Arthur’s Scotch mind thought the Moors might have had the best of it in argument when he recollected Lanty’s trust in his scapulary.

They tried to hold a conversation with the Reis, between lingua Franca and the Provençal of the renegade; and they came to the conclusion that no one had the least idea where they were, or where they were going; the ship’s compass had been broken in the boarding, and there was no chart more available than the little map in the beginning of Estelle’s precious copy of Télémaque.  The Turkish Reis did not trouble himself about it, but squatted himself down with his chibouque, abandoning all guidance of the ship, and letting her drift at the will of wind and wave, or, as he said, the will of Allah.  When asked where he thought she was going, he replied with solemn indifference, ‘Kismet;’ and all the survivors of the crew—for one had been washed overboard—seemed to share his resignation.

The only thing he did seem to care for was that if the infidel woman chose to persist in coming on deck, the canvas screen—which had been washed overboard—should be restored.  This was done, and Madame de Bourke was assisted to a couch that had been prepared for her with cloaks, where the air revived her a little; but she listened with a faint smile to the assurances of Arthur, backed by Hébert, that this abandonment to fate gave the best chance.  They might either be picked up by a Christian vessel or go ashore on a Christian coast; but Madame de Bourke did not build much on these hopes.  She knew too well what were the habits of wreckers of all nations, to think that it would make much difference whether they were driven on the coast of Sicily or of Africa—‘barring,’ as Lanty said, ‘that they should get Christian burial in the former case.’

‘We are in the hands of a good God.  That at least we know,’ said the Countess.  ‘And He can hear us through, whether for life in Paradise, or trial a little longer here below.’

‘Like Blandina,’ observed Estelle.

‘Ah! my child, who knows whether trials like even that blessed saint’s may not be in reserve even for your tender age.  When I think of these miserable men, who have renounced their faith, I see what fearful ordeals there may be for those who fall into the hands of those unbelievers.  Strong men have yielded.  How may it not be with my poor children?’

‘God made Blandina brave, mamma.  I will pray that He may make me so.’

Land was in sight at last.  Purple mountains rose to the south in wild forms, looking strangely thunderous and red in the light of the sinking sun.  A bay, with rocks jutting out far into the sea, seemed to embrace them with its arms.  Soundings were made, and presently the Reis decided on anchoring.  It was a rocky coast, with cliffs descending into the sea, covered with verdure, and the water beneath was clear as glass.

‘Have we escaped the Syrtes to fall upon Æneas’ cave?’ murmured Arthur to himself.

‘And if we could meet Queen Dido, or maybe Venus herself, ’twould be no bad thing!’ observed Lanty, who remembered his Virgil on occasion.  ‘For there’s not a drop of wather left barring eau de vie, and if these Moors get at that, ’tis raving madmen they would be.’

‘Do they know where we are?’ asked Arthur.

‘Sorrah a bit!’ returned Lanty, ‘tho’ ’tis a pretty place enough.  If my old mother was here, ’tis her heart would warm to the mountains.’

‘Is it Calypso’s Island?’ whispered Ulysse to his sister.

‘See, what are they doing?’ cried Estelle.  ‘There are people—don’t you see, white specks crowding down to the water.’

There was just then a splash, and two bronzed figures were seen setting forth from the tartane to swim to shore.  The Turkish Reis had despatched them, to ascertain whether the vessel had drifted, and who the inhabitants might be.

A good while elapsed before one of these scouts returned.  There was a great deal of talk and gesticulating round him, and Lanty, mingling with it, brought back word that the place was the Bay of Golo, not far from Djigheli, and just beyond the Algerine frontier.  The people were Cabeleyzes, a wild race of savage dogs, which means dogs according the Moors, living in the mountains, and independent of the Dey.  A considerable number rushed to the coast, armed, and in great numbers, perceiving the tartane to be an Italian vessel, and expecting a raid by Sicilian robbers on their cattle; but the Moors had informed them that it was no such thing, but a prize taken in the name of the Dey of Algiers, in which an illustrious French Bey’s harem was being conveyed to Algiers.  From that city the tartane was now about a day’s sail, having been driven to the eastward of it during the storm.  ‘The Turkish commander evidently does not like the neighbourhood,’ said Arthur, ‘judging by his gestures.’

‘Dogs and sons of dogs are the best names he has for them,’ rejoined Lanty.

‘See!  They have cut the cable!  Are we not to wait for the other man who swam ashore?’

So it was.  A favourable wind was blowing, and the Reis, being by no means certain of the disposition of the Cabeleyzes, chose to leave them behind him as soon as possible, and make his way to Algiers, which began to appear to his unfortunate passengers like a haven of safety.

They were not, however, out of the bay when the wind suddenly veered, and before the great lateen sail could be reefed, it had almost caused the vessel to be blown over.  There was a pitching and tossing almost as violent as in the storm, and then wind and current began carrying the tartane towards the rocky shore.  The Reis called the men to the oars, but their numbers were too few to be availing, and in a very few minutes more the vessel was driven hopelessly towards a mass of rocks.

Arthur, the Abbé, Hébert, and Lanty were all standing together at the head of the vessel.  The poor Abbé seemed dazed, and kept dreamily fingering his rosary, and murmuring to himself.  The other three consulted in a low voice.

‘Were it not better to have the women here on deck?’ asked Arthur.

‘Eh, non!’ sobbed Master Hébert.  ‘Let not my poor mistress see what is coming on her and her little ones!’

‘Ah! and ’tis better if the innocent creatures must be drowned, that it should be without being insensed of it till they wake in our Lady’s blessed arms,’ added Lanty.  ‘Hark! and they are at their prayers.’

But just then Victorine rushed up from below, and throwing her arms round Lanty, cried, ‘Oh!  Laurent, Laurent.  It is not true that it is all over with us, is it?  Oh! save me! save me!’

‘And if I cannot save you, mine own heart’s core, we’ll die together,’ returned the poor fellow, holding her fast.  ‘It won’t last long, Victorine, and the saints have a hold of my scapulary.’

He had scarcely spoken when, lifted upon a wave, the tartane dashed upon the rocks, and there was at once a horrible shivering and crashing throughout her—a frightful mingling of shrieks and yells of despair with the wild roar of the waves that poured over her.  The party at the head of the vessel were conscious of clinging to something, and when the first burly-burly ceased a little they found themselves all together against the bulwark, the vessel almost on her beam ends, wedged into the rocks, their portion high and dry, but the stern, where the cabin was, entirely under water.

Victorine screamed aloud, ‘My lady! my poor lady.’

‘I see—I see something,’ cried Arthur, who had already thrown off his coat, and in another moment he had brought up Estelle in his arms, alive, sobbing and panting.  Giving her over to the steward, he made another dive, but then was lost sight of, and returned no more, nor was anything to be seen of the rest.  Shut up in the cabin, Madame de Bourke, Ulysse, and the three maids must have been instantly drowned, and none of the crew were to be seen.  Maître Hébert hold the little girl in his arms, glad that, though living, she was only half-conscious.  Victorine, sobbing, hung heavily on Lanty, and before he could free his hands he perceived to his dismay that the Abbé, unassisted, was climbing down from the wreck upon the rock, scarcely perhaps aware of his danger.

Lanty tried to put Victorine aside, and called out, ‘Your reverence, wait—Masther Phelim, wait till I come and help you.’  But the girl, frantic with terror, grappled him fast, screaming to him not to let her go—and at the same moment a wave broke over the Abbé.  Lanty, almost wild, was ready to leap into it after him, thinking he must be sucked back with it, but behold! he still remained clinging to the rock.  Instinct seemed to serve him, for he had stuck his knife into the rock and was holding on by it.  There seemed no foothold, and while Lanty was deliberating how to go to his assistance, another wave washed him off and bore him to the next rock, which was only separated from the mainland by a channel of smoother water.  He tried to catch at a floating plank, but in vain; however, an oar next drifted towards him, and by it he gained the land, but only to be instantly surrounded by a mob of Cabeleyzes, who seemed to be stripping off his garments.  By this time many were swimming towards the wreck; and Estelle, who had recovered breath and senses, looked over Hébert’s shoulder at them.  ‘The savages! the infidels!’ she said.  ‘Will they kill me? or will they try to make me renounce my faith?  They shall kill me rather than make me yield.’

‘Ah! yes, my dear demoiselle, that is right.  That is the only way.  It is my resolution likewise,’ returned Hébert.  ‘God give us grace to persist.’

‘My mamma said so,’ repeated the child.  ‘Is she drowned, Maître Hébert?’

‘She is happier than we are, my dear young lady.’

‘And my little brother too!  Ah! then I shall remember that they are only sending me to them in Paradise.’

By this time the natives were near the wreck, and Estelle, shuddering, clung closer to Hébert; but he had made up his mind what to do.  ‘I must commit you to these men, Mademoiselle,’ he said; ‘the water is rising—we shall perish if we remain here.’

‘Ah! but it would not hurt so much to be drowned,’ said Estelle, who had made up her mind to Blandina’s chair.

‘I must endeavour to save you for your father, Mademoiselle, and your poor grandmother!  There! be a good child!  Do not struggle.’

He had attracted the attention of some of the swimmers, and he now flung her to them.  One caught her by an arm, another by a leg, and she was safely taken to the shore, where at once a shoe and a stocking were taken from her, in token of her becoming a captive; but otherwise her garments were not meddled with; in which she was happier than her uncle, whom she found crouched up on a rock, stripped almost to the skin, so that he shrank from her, when she sprang to his side amid the Babel of wild men and women, who were shouting in exultation and wonder over his big flapped hat, his soutane and bands, pointing at his white limbs and yellow hair—or, what amazed them even more, Estelle’s light, flaxen locks, which hung soaked around her.  She felt a hand pulling them to see whether anything so strange actually grew on her head, and she turned round to confront them with a little gesture of defiant dignity that evidently awed them, for they kept their hands off her, and did not interfere as she stood sentry over her poor shivering uncle.

Lanty was by this time trying to drag Victorine over the rocks and through the water.  The poor Parisienne was very helpless, falling, hurting herself, and screaming continually; and trebly, when a couple of natives seized upon her, and dragged her ashore, where they immediately snatched away her mantle and cap, pulled off her gold chain and cross, and tore out her earrings with howls of delight.

Lanty, struggling on, was likewise pounced upon, and bereft of his fine green and gold livery coat and waistcoat, which, though by no means his best, and stained with the sea water, were grasped with ecstasy, quarrelled over, and displayed in triumph.  The steward had secured a rope by which he likewise reached the shore, only to become the prey of the savages, who instantly made prize of his watch and purse, as well as of almost all his garments.  The five unfortunate survivors would fain have remained huddled together, but the natives pointing to some huts on the hillside, urged them thither by the language of shouts and blows.

‘Faith and I’m not an ox,’ exclaimed Lanty, as if the fellow could have understood him, ‘and is it to the shambles you’re driving me?’

‘Best not resist!  There’s nothing for it but to obey them,’ said the steward, ‘and at least there will be shelter for the child.’

No objection was made to his lifting her in his arms, and he carried her, as the party, half-drowned, nearly starved and exhausted, stumbled on along the rocky paths which cut their feet cruelly, since their shoes had all been taken from them.  Lanty gave what help he could to the Abbé and Victorine, who were both in a miserable plight, but ere long he was obliged to take his turn in carrying Estelle, whose weight had become too much for the worn out Hébert.  He was alarmed to find, on transferring her, that her head sank on his shoulder as if in a sleep of exhaustion, which, however, shielded her from much terror.  For, as they arrived at a cluster of five or six tents, built of clay and the branches of trees, out rushed a host of women, children, and large fierce dogs, all making as much noise as they were capable of.  The dogs flew at the strange white forms, no doubt utterly new to them.  Victorine was severely bitten, and Lanty, trying to rescue her, had his leg torn.

These two were driven into one hut; Estelle, who was evidently considered as the greatest prize, was taken into another and rather better one, together with the steward and the Abbé.  The Moors, who had swum ashore, had probably told them that she was the Frankish Bey’s daughter; for this, miserable place though it was, appeared to be the best hut in the hamlet, nor was she deprived of her clothes.  A sort of bournouse or haik, of coarse texture and very dirty, was given to each of the others, and some rye cakes baked in the ashes.  Poor little Estelle turned away her head at first, but Hébert, alarmed at her shivering in her wet clothes, contrived to make her swallow a little, and then took off the soaked dress, and wrapped her in the bournouse.  She was by this time almost unconscious from weariness, and made no resistance to the unaccustomed hands, or the disgusting coarseness and uncleanness of her wrapper, but dropped asleep the moment he laid her down, and he applied himself to trying to dry her clothes at a little fire of sticks that had been lighted outside the open space, round which the huts stood.

The Abbé too had fallen asleep, as Hébert managed to assure poor Lanty, who rushed out of the other tent, nearly naked, and bloodstained in many places, but more concerned at his separation from his foster-brother than at anything else that had befallen him.  Men, women, children, and dogs were all after him, supposing him to be trying to escape, and he was seized upon and dragged back by main force, but not before the steward had called out—

‘M. l’Abbé sleeps—sleeps sound—he is not hurt!  For Heaven’s sake, Laurent, be quiet—do not enrage them!  It is the only hope for him, as for Mademoiselle and the rest of us.’

Lanty, on hearing of the Abbé’s safety, allowed himself to be taken back, making himself, however, a passive dead weight on his captor’s hands.

‘Arrah,’ he muttered to himself, ‘if ye will have me, ye shall have the trouble of me, bad luck to you.  ’Tis little like ye are to the barbarous people St. Paul was thrown with; but then what right have I to expect the treatment of a holy man, the like of him?  If so be, I can save that poor orphan that’s left, and bring off Master Phelim safe, and save poor Victorine from being taken for some dirty spalpeen’s wife, when he has half a dozen more to the fore—’tis little it matters what becomes of Lanty Callaghan; they might give him to their big brutes of dogs, and mighty lean meat they would find him!’

So came down the first night upon the captives.