The Middy and the Moors: An Algerine Story

Our amateur surgeon dropped the bandage indignantly and followed the negro, who led him down into the hold, at the further and dark end of which he saw several wounded men lying, and beside them one or two whose motionless and straightened figures seemed to indicate that death had relieved them from earthly troubles.

Amongst these men he spent the night and all next day, with only a couple of biscuits and a mug of water to sustain him. Next evening Peter the Great came down and bade him follow him to the other end of the hold.

“Now, sar, you go in dere,” said the negro, stopping and pointing to a small 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 a whackin’. 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 that sent the hapless middy headlong into the dark hole, but as he closed and fastened the door he muttered, “Don’ mind my leetle ways, massa. You know I’s bound to be a hyperkrite.”

Having thus relieved his conscience, Peter returned to the deck, leaving the poor prisoner to rise and, as a first consequence, to hit his head on the beams above him.

The hole into which he had been thrust was truly a “black hole,” though neither so hot nor so deadly as that of Calcutta. Extending his arms cautiously, he touched the side of the ship with his left hand; with the other he felt about for some time, but reached nothing until he had advanced a step, when his foot touched something on the floor, and he bent down to feel it, but shrank hastily back on touching what he perceived at once was a human form.

“Pardon me, friend, whoever you are,” he said quickly, “I did not mean to—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 his wounds. He spoke to him again in French and Spanish, but still got no reply! Then he listened intently for his breathing, but all was as silent as the tomb. With an irresistible impulse, yet instinctive shudder, he laid his hand on the man and passed it up until it reached the face. The silence was then explained. The face was growing cold and rigid in death.

Drawing back hastily, the poor youth shouted to those outside to let them 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 occurred that 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, he thought his condition would have been more bearable, for then he could have faced the lifeless clay and looked at it; but to know that it was there, within a foot of him, without his being able to see it, or to form any idea of what it was like, made the case terrible indeed. Of course he drew back from it as far as the little space allowed, and crushed 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 come to life again, rise up, and plunge against him. At times this thought took such possession of him that he threw up his arms to defend himself from attack, and uttered a half-suppressed cry of terror.

At last nature asserted herself, and he slept, sitting on the floor and leaning partly against the vessel’s side, partly against the bulkhead. But horrible dreams disturbed him. The corpse became visible, the eyes glared at him, the blood-stained face worked convulsively, and he awoke with a shriek, followed immediately by a sigh of relief on finding that it was all a dream. Then the horror came again, as he suddenly remembered 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 stiff breeze did not disturb him, and he did not awake until some one rudely seized his arm late on the following day. Then, in the firm belief that his dream had come true at last, he uttered a tremendous yell and struggled to rise, but a powerful hand held him down, and a dark lantern revealed a coal-black face gazing at him.

“Hallo! massa, hold on. I did tink you mus’ be gone dead, for I holler’d in at you ’nuff to bust de kittle-drum ob your ear—if you hab one!”

“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 dan dere was any occasion for—tanks to de captain.”

As he spoke he held the lantern over the dead man and revealed the face of a youth in Eastern garb, on whose head there was a terrible sword-cut. As they looked at the sad spectacle, and endeavoured to arrange the corpse, the negro explained that the poor fellow had been a Greek captive who to save his life had joined the pirates and become a Mussulman; but, on thinking over it, had returned to the Christian faith and refused to take part in the bloody work which they were required to do. It was his refusal to fight on the occasion of the recent attack on the merchantman that had induced the captain to cut him down. He had been put into the prison in the hold, and carelessly left there to bleed to 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 de Moors an’ Turks an’ Cabyles, and de cuss ob de whole wurld.”

Poor Foster’s heart sank on hearing this, for he had heard of the hopeless slavery to which thousands of Christians had been consigned there in time past, and his recent experience of Moors had not tended to improve his opinion of them.

A feeling of despair impelled him to seize the negro by the arm as he was 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 no occasion to do so.”

“Dat’s ’cause I’m fond o’ you. I always was fond o’ a nice smood young babby face, an’ I tooked a fancy to you de moment I see you knock Joe Spinks 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 I on’y calls you massa w’en we’s alone an’ friendly like. W’en we’s in public I calls you ‘sar’ an’ speak gruff an’ shove you into black holes.”

“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 too friendly? 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 go ashore, and see where they send me, and speak a word for me when it is in your power. You see, they’ll give me up for drowned at home and never find out that I’m here.”

“‘A free man!’” repeated the negro, with an expansion of his mouth that is indescribable. “You tink I’s a free man! but I’s a slabe, same as yourself, on’y de diff’rence am dat dere’s nobody to ransum me, so dey don’t boder deir heads ’bout me s’long as I do my work. If I don’t do my 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 not free. No, no not at all! Hows’ever I’s free-an’-easy, an’ dat make de pirits 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 of me, and as I can truly say the same in regard to you, we may be sure that each will help the other if he gets the chance. But, tell me, are you really one of the crew of this pirate vessel?”

“No, massa, only for dis viage. I b’longs to a old sinner called Hassan, what libs in de country, not far from de town. He not a bad feller, but he’s obs’nit—oh! as obs’nit as a deaf an’ dumb mule. If you 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 spoke in that jumble of languages in use at that time among the Mediterranean nations called Lingua Franca, for the negro did not understand Arabic.

“Comin’, captain, comin’,” cried the negro, in his own peculiar English—which was, indeed, his mother tongue, for he had been born in the United States of America. “Now, den, sar,” (to Foster), “w’en you goin’ to move you stumps? Up wid you!”

Peter emphasised his orders with a real kick, which expedited his prisoner’s ascent, and, at the same time, justified the negro’s claim to be 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 his ever-ready sword and pointing it at the breast of the negro, who fell upon his knees, clasped his great hands, and rolled his eyes in an apparent agony of terror.

“Don’t, captain. I isn’t wuth killin’, an’ w’en I’s gone, who’d cook for you like me? De man escaped by jumpin’ out ob his body. He’s gone dead!”

“Fool!” muttered the pirate, returning his sword to its sheath, “bind that prisoner, and have him and the others ready to go on shore directly.”

In a few seconds all the prisoners were ranged between the cabin hatchway and the mast. The hands of most of the men were loosely tied, to prevent trouble in case desperation should impel any of them to assault their captors, but the old Dane and the women were left unfettered.

And now George Foster beheld, for the first time, the celebrated city, which was, at that period, the terror of the merchant vessels of all nations that had dealings with the Mediterranean shores. A small pier and breakwater enclosed a harbour which was crowded with boats and shipping. From this harbour the town rose abruptly on the side of a steep hill, and was surrounded by walls of great strength, which bristled with cannon. The houses were small and square-looking, and in the midst, here and there, clusters of date-palms told of the almost tropical character of the climate, while numerous domes, minarets, and crescents told of the Moor and the religion of Mohammed.

But religion in its true sense had little footing in that piratical city, which subsisted on robbery and violence, while cruelty and injustice of the grossest kind were rampant. Whatever Islamism may have taught them, it did not produce men or women who held the golden rule to be a virtue, and certainly few practised it. Yet we would not be understood to mean that there were none who did so. As there were Christians in days of old, even in Caesar’s household, so there existed men and women who were distinguished by the Christian graces, even in the Pirate City. Even there God had not left Himself without a witness.

As the vessel slowly entered the harbour under a very light breeze, she was boarded by several stately officers in the picturesque costume—turbans, red leathern boots, etcetera—peculiar to the country. After speaking a few minutes with the captain, one of the officers politely addressed the old Dane and his family through an interpreter; but as they 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 an unknown 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 and grave individual was accustomed to such looks. He merely repeated his order in a quiet voice, at the same time translating it by pointing to the boat alongside. Foster felt that discretion was the better part of valour, all the more that there stood at the Moor’s back five or six powerful Arabs, who seemed quite ready to enforce his instructions.

The poor middy glanced round to see if his only friend, Peter the Great, was visible, but he was not; so, with a flushed countenance at thus being 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 with tied 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 a band of captives, apparently from many nations, who already stood waiting there.