Chapter Four.
Our Middy is put to Work—Also put on his “word-of-Honour,” and receives a Great Shock of Surprise.
George Foster soon found that his master and owner, Ben-Ahmed, was a stern and exacting, but by no means an ill-natured or cruel, man. He appeared to be considerably over sixty years of age, but showed no signs of abated vigour. In character he was amiable and just, according to his light, but dignified and reticent.
His first act, after seating himself cross-legged on a carpet in a marble and tessellated recess, was to call for a hookah. He smoked that for a few minutes and contemplated the courtyard on which the recess opened. It was a pleasant object of contemplation, being filled with young orange-trees and creeping plants of a tropical kind, which were watered by a stone fountain in the centre of the court. This fountain also served to replenish a marble bath, to cool the sultry air, and to make pleasant tinkling music. Of course the nose was not forgotten in this luxurious assemblage of things that were gratifying to ear and eye. Flowers of many kinds were scattered around, and sweet-scented plants perfumed the air.
Ben-Ahmed’s next act, after having lighted his pipe, was to summon Peter the Great and his new slave—the former to act as interpreter, for it was a peculiarity of this Moor that though he appeared to understand English he would not condescend to speak it.
After asking several questions as to our hero’s name, age, and calling in life, he told Peter to inform Foster that escape from that country was impossible, that any attempt to escape would be punished with flogging and other torture, that perseverance in such attempts would result in his being sent to work in chains with the Bagnio slaves and would probably end in death from excessive toil, torture, and partial starvation. Having said this, the Moor asked several questions—through the negro, and always in the Lingua Franca.
“Massa bids me ax,” said Peter, “if you are a gentleman, an’ if you know it am de custom in England for gentleman-pris’ners to give dere word-ob-honour dat dey not run away, an’ den go about as if dey was free?”
“Tell him that every officer in the service of the King of England is considered a gentleman.”
“Come now, sar,” interrupted Peter sternly, “you know das not true. I bin in England myself—cook to a French rest’rung in London—an’ I nebber hear dat a pleece officer was a gentleman!”
“Well, I mean every commissioned officer in the army and navy,” returned Foster, “and when such are taken prisoner I am aware that they are always allowed a certain amount of freedom of action on giving their word of honour that they will not attempt to escape.”
When this was explained to Ben-Ahmed, he again said a few words to the negro, who translated as before.
“Massa say dat as you are a gentleman if you will gib your word-ob-honour not to escape, he will make you free. Not kite free, ob course, but free to work in de gardin widout chains; free to sleep in de out-house widout bein’ locked up ob nights, an’ free to enjoy you’self w’en you gits de chance.”
Foster looked keenly at the negro, being uncertain whether or not he was jesting, but the solemn features of that arch “hyperkrite” were no index to the working of his eccentric mind—save when he permitted them to speak; then, indeed, they were almost more intelligible than the plainest 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, you better change ’im at once. Seems to me you’s a remarkably obs’nit young feller!”
With a sad feeling that he was doing something equivalent to locking the door and throwing away the key, Foster gave the required promise, and was forthwith conducted into the garden and set to work.
His dark friend supplied him with a new striped cotton shirt—his own having been severely torn during his recent adventures—also with a pair of 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 discomfort in other circumstances, but he was too much depressed just then to care much for anything. His duty that day consisted in digging up a piece of waste ground. To relieve his mind, he set to work with tremendous energy, insomuch that Peter the Great, who was looking on, exclaimed—
“Hi! what a digger you is! You’ll bust up altogidder if you goes on like dat. De moles is nuffin’ to you.”
But Foster heeded not. The thought that he was now doomed to hopeless slavery, perhaps for life, was pressed home to him more powerfully than ever, and he felt that if he was to save himself from going mad he must work 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 his own grave. But he not succeed. Many a man try dat before now and failed. Howsomeber, it’s blowin’ a hard gale wid him just now—an’ de harder it blow de sooner it’s ober. Arter de storm comes de calm.”
With these philosophic reflections, Peter the Great went off to his own work, leaving our hero turning over the soil like a steam-plough.
Strong though Foster was—both of muscle and will—he was but human after all. In course of time he stopped from sheer exhaustion, flung down the spade, and, raising himself with his hands stretched up and his face 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 time quite motionless.
“What a fool I was to promise not to try to escape!” he thought, and a feeling of despair followed the thought, but a certain touch of relief came when he reflected that at any time he could go boldly to his master, 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 had returned to see how he was getting on.
“Look yar, now, Geo’ge,” he said in quite a fatherly manner, “dis’ll neber do. My massa buy you to work in de gardin, not to stand like a statoo washin’ its face widout soap or water. We don’t want no more statoos. Got more’n enuff ob marble ones all around. Besides, you don’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 preach you a small sarmin if you’ll allow me.”
So saying, Peter led his assistant slave into a cool arbour, where Ben-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 a sad smile, “you’re very kind. I know you take an interest in me, and I’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’s shoulder, and giving him a squeeze that made him wince, “das not what I mean. Work! w’y you’s done more’n a day’s work in one hour, judging by de work ob or’nary slabes. No, das not it. What’s wrong is dat you don’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 got hold 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 widout stoppin’ all day, and whack you on de sole ob your foots if you dar say one word. Was you eber whacked on de sole ob your foots?”
“No, never,” replied Foster, amused in spite of himself by the negro’s earnest 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 comes arter it’s ober, an’ you ’gins to git well again. Hah! but you’ll find it out some day. But, to continoo, you’s got eberyt’ing what’s comfrable here. If you on’y sawd de Bagnio slabes at work—I’ll take you to see ’em some day—den you’ll be content an’ pleased wid your lot till de time comes when you escape.”
“Escape! How can I escape, Peter, now that I have given my word of honour not to try?”
“Not’ing easier,” replied the negro calmly, “you’s on’y got to break your word-ob-honour!”
“I’m sorry to hear you say that, my friend,” returned Foster, “for it shakes my confidence in you. You must know that an English gentleman never breaks his word—that is, he never should break it—and you may rest assured that I will not break mine. If your view of such matters 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’t dat security enough?”
Foster could not help admitting that it was, as long as it lasted! “But what,” he asked, “what security has Ben-Ahmed that you won’t be as false to 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 obstinate fellow you ever knew?”
“Ob course I do,” returned Peter. “W’y not? A obs’nit man may be as good as anoder man what can be shoved about any way you please. Ha! you not know yit what it is to hab a bad massa. Wait a bit; you find it out, p’r’aps, soon enough. Look yar.”
He bared his bosom as he spoke, and displayed to his wondering and sympathetic 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 he wish. De back am wuss. Oh, if you know’d a bad massa, you’d be thankful to-day for gettin’ a good un. Now, what I say is, nobody never knows what’s a-goin’ to turn up. You just keep quiet an’ wait. Some slabes yar hab waited patiently for ten-fifteen year, an’ more. What den? 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 your heart, Geo’ge, whateber you do, and, if you won’t break your word-ob-honour, something else’ll be sure to turn up.”
Although the negro’s mode of affording comfort and encouragement was not based entirely on sound principles, his cheery and hopeful manner went a long way to lighten the load of care that had been settling down like a dead weight on young Foster’s heart, and he returned to his work with a happier spirit than he had possessed since the day he leaped upon the deck of the pirate vessel. That night he spent under the same roof with his black friend and a number of the other slaves, none of whom, however, were his countrymen, or could speak any language that he understood. His bed was the tiled floor of an out-house, but there was plenty of straw on it. He had only one blanket, but the nights as well as days were warm, and his food, although of the simplest kind and chiefly vegetable, was good in quality and sufficient in quantity.
The next day, at the first blush of morning light, he was aroused with the other slaves by Peter the Great, who, he found, was the Moor’s overseer of domestics. He was put to the same work as before, but that day his friend the negro was sent off on a mission that was to detain him several days from home. Another man took Peter’s place, but, as he spoke neither English nor French, no communication passed between the overseer and slave except by signs. As, however, the particular job on which he had been put was simple, this did not matter. During the period of Peter’s absence the poor youth felt the oppression of his isolated condition keenly. He sank to a lower condition than before, and when his friend returned, he was surprised to find how much of his happiness depended on the sight of his jovial black face!
“Now, Geo’ge,” was the negro’s first remark on seeing him, “you’s down in 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 entertain me; and poor entertainment they have been. D’you know, Peter, I think I should 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 long time.
“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 a talk ober it all. Let’s go to de bower.”
In the bower the poor middy found some consolation by pouring his sorrows into the great black sympathetic breast of Peter the Great, though it must be confessed that Peter occasionally took a strange way to comfort him. One of the negro’s perplexities lay in the difficulty he had to convince our midshipman of his great good-fortune in having fallen into the hands of a kind master, and having escaped the terrible fate of the many who had cruel tyrants as their owners, who were tortured and beaten when too ill to work, who had bad food to eat and not too much of it, and who were whipped to death sometimes when they rebelled. Although Foster listened and considered attentively, he failed to appreciate what his friend sought to impress, and continued in a state of almost overwhelming depression because of the simple fact that he was a slave—a bought and sold slave!
“Now, look yar, Geo’ge,” said the negro, remonstratively, “you is a slabe; das a fact, an’ no application ob fut rule or compasses, or the mul’plication table, or any oder table, kin change dat. Dere you am—a slabe! 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, de cheerin’ up hab come ob it anyhow.”
Foster smiled faintly at this philosophical view of his case, and did make a brave effort to follow the advice of his friend.
“Das right, now, Geo’ge; you laugh an’ grow fat. Moreober, you go to work now, for if massa come an’ find us here, he’s bound to know de reason 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 sitting in 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 the moment was by no means disagreeable, for he was seated in a garden which must have borne no little resemblance to the great original of Eden, in a climate that may well be described as heavenly, with a view before him of similar gardens which swept in all their rich luxuriance over the slopes in front of him until they terminated on the edge of the blue and sparkling sea.
While seated there, lost in reverie, he was startled by the sound of approaching footsteps—very different indeed from the heavy tread of his friend Peter. A guilty conscience made him glance round for a way of escape, but there was only one entrance to the bower. While he was hesitating how to act, an opening in the foliage afforded him a passing glimpse of a female in the rich dress of a Moorish lady.
He was greatly surprised, being well aware of the jealousy with which Mohammedans guard their ladies from the eyes of men. The explanation might lie in this, that Ben-Ahmed, being eccentric in this as in most other matters, afforded the inmates of his harem unusual liberty. Before he had time to think much on the subject, however, the lady in question turned into the arbour and stood before him.
If the word “thunderstruck” did justice in any degree to the state of mind which we wish to describe we would gladly use it, but it does not. Every language, from Gaelic to Chinese, equally fails to furnish an adequate word. We therefore avoid the impossible and proceed, merely remarking that from the expression of both faces it was evident that each had met with a crushing surprise.
We can understand somewhat the midshipman’s state of mind, for the being who stood before him was—was—well, we are again nonplussed! Suffice it to say that she was a girl of fifteen summers—the other forty-five seasons being, of course, understood. Beauty of feature and complexion she had, but these were lost, as it were, and almost forgotten, in her beauty of expression—tenderness, gentleness, urbanity, simplicity, and benignity in a state of fusion! Now, do not run away, reader, with the idea of an Eastern princess, with gorgeous black eyes, raven hair, tall and graceful form, etcetera! This apparition was fair, blue-eyed, golden-haired, girlish, sylph-like. She was graceful, indeed, as the gazelle, but not tall, and with an air of suavity that was irresistibly attractive. She had a “good” face as well as a beautiful, and there was a slightly pitiful look about the eyebrows that seemed to want smoothing away.
How earnestly George Foster desired—with a gush of pity, or something of that sort—to smooth it away. But he had too much delicacy of feeling as well as common sense to offer his services just then.
“Oh, sir!” exclaimed the girl, in perfect English, as she hastily threw a thin gauze veil over her face, “forgive me! I did not know you were here—else—my veil—but why should I mind such customs? You are an Englishman, 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 the girl, clasping her delicate little hands together and bursting into tears.
This was such a very unexpected climax, and so closely resembled the conduct of a child, that it suddenly restored our midshipman to self-possession. Stepping quickly forward, he took one of the girl’s hands 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 only too glad; but pray don’t, don’t cry so.”
“I—I—can’t help it,” sobbed the girl, pulling away her hand—not on account 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 knew how long, long it is since I heard an English—(where is that thing!)—an English voice, you would not wonder. And my father, my dear, dear, darling father—I have not heard of him for—for—”
Here the poor thing broke down again and sobbed aloud, while the midshipman looked on, imbecile and helpless. “Pray, don’t cry,” said Foster again earnestly. “Who are you? where did you come from? Who and where is your father? Do tell me, and how I can help you, for we may be interrupted?”
This last remark did more to quiet the girl than anything else he had said.
“You are right,” she replied, drying her eyes quickly. “And, do you know 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—even for 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 long voyage. I have never seen him—and—I have such a dread of his coming back!”
“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 of him, since we were parted on board ship many months ago. Listen!”
Chapter Five.
The Maiden’s Story—Peter the Great and the Middy go for a Holiday and see Awful Things.
During the conversation detailed in the last chapter the young English girl had spoken with her veil down. She now threw it carelessly back, and, sitting down on a bench opposite our midshipman, folded her hands in her lap and remained silent for a few seconds, during which George Foster said—not aloud, but very privately to himself, “Although your eyes are swelled and your little nose is red with crying, I never—no I never—did see such a dear, sweet, pretty little innocent face in all my life!”
All unconscious of his thoughts, and still giving vent now and then to an irresistible sob, the poor child—for she was little more—looked up and began her sad tale.
“About eight months ago my dear father, who is a merchant, resolved to take me with him on a voyage to some of the Mediterranean ports. My father’s name is Hugh Sommers—”
“And yours?” asked Foster.
“Is Hester. We had only just entered the Mediterranean when one of those dreadful Algerine pirates took our vessel and made slaves of us all. My darling father, being a very big, strong, and brave man, fought like a tiger. Oh! I never imagined that his dear kind face could have looked as it did that awful day. But although he knocked down and, I fear, killed many men, it was all of no use, they were so numerous and our men so few. The last I saw of my father was when they were lowering him into a boat in a state of insensibility, with an awful cut all down his brow and cheek, from which the blood was pouring in streams.
“I tried to get to him, but they held me back and took me down into the cabin. There I met our owner, who, when he saw me, threw a veil over my head and bade me sit still. I was too terrified and too despairing about my father to think of disobeying.
“I think Ben-Ahmed, our owner, must be a man of power, for everybody seemed to obey him that day as if he was the chief man, though he was not the captain of the ship. After a time he took my hand, put me into a small sailing boat, and took me ashore. I looked eagerly for my father on landing, but he was nowhere to be seen, and—I have not seen him since.”
“Nor heard of or from him?” asked Foster.
“No.”
At this point, as there were symptoms of another breakdown, our middy became anxious, and entreated Hester to go on. With a strong effort she controlled her feelings.
“Well, then, Ben-Ahmed brought me here, and, introducing me to his wives—he has four of them, only think!—said he had brought home a little wife for his son Osman. Of course I thought they were joking, for you know girls of my age are never allowed to marry in England; but after a time I began to see that they meant it, and, d’you know— By the way, what is your name?”
“Foster—George Foster.”
“Well, Mr Foster, I was going to say that I cannot help wishing and hoping that their son may never come home! Isn’t that sinful?”
“I don’t know much about the sin of it,” said Foster, “but I fervently hope the same thing from the very bottom of my heart.”
“And, oh!” continued Hester, whimpering a little, “you can’t think what a relief it is to be able to talk with you about it. It would have been a comfort to talk even to our big dog here about it, if it could only have understood English. But, now,” continued the poor little creature, while the troubled look returned to her eyebrows, “what is to be done?”
“Escape—somehow!” said Foster promptly.
“But nothing would induce me to even try to escape without my father,” said Hester.
This was a damper to our midshipman. To rescue a little girl seemed to him a mere nothing, in the glowing state of his heroic soul at that moment, but to rescue her “very big, strong, and brave” father at the same time did not appear so easy. Still, something must be attempted in that way.
“Tell me,” he said, “what is your father like?”
“Tall, handsome, sweet, ex—”
“Yes, yes. I know. But I mean colour of hair, kind of nose, etcetera; be more particular, and do be quick! I don’t like to hurry you, but remember the possible scourging to death that hangs over me!”
“Well, he is very broad and strong, a Roman nose, large sweet mouth always smiling, large grey eyes—such loving eyes, too—with iron-grey hair, moustache, and beard. You see, although it is not the fashion in England to wear beards, my dear father thinks it right to do so, for he is fond, he says, of doing only those things that he can give a good reason for, and as he can see no reason whatever for shaving off his moustachios and beard, any more than the hair of his head and eyebrows, he lets them grow. I’ve heard people say that my father is wild in his notions, and some used to say, as if it was very awful, that,” (she lowered her voice here), “he is a Radical! You know what a Radical is, I suppose?”
“Oh yes,” said Foster, with the first laugh he had indulged in during the interview, “a Radical is a man who wants to have everything his own way; to have all the property in the world equally divided among everybody; who wants all the power to be equally shared, and, in short, who wants everything turned upside down!”
“Hush! don’t laugh so loud!” said Hester, looking anxiously round, and holding up one of her pretty little fingers, “some one may hear you and find us! Strange,” she added pensively, “surely you must be under some mistake, for I heard my dear father try to explain it once to a friend, who seemed to me unwilling to understand. I remember so well the quiet motion of his large, firm but sweet mouth as he spoke, and the look of his great, earnest eyes—‘A Radical,’ he said, ‘is one who wishes and tries to go to the root of every matter, and put all wrong things right without delay.’”
What George Foster might have said to this definition of a Radical, coming, as it did, from such innocent lips, we cannot say, for the abrupt closing of a door at the other end of the garden caused Hester to jump up and run swiftly out of the bower. Foster followed her example, and, returning to the scene of his labours, threw off his coat and began to dig with an amount of zeal worthy of his friend the incorrigible “hyperkrite” himself.
A few minutes later and Ben-Ahmed approached, in close conversation with Peter the Great.
“Hallo!” exclaimed the latter, in stern tones, as they came up, “what you bin about, sar? what you bin doin’? Not’ing done since I was here more an hour past—eh, sar?”
The midshipman explained, with a somewhat guilty look and blush, that he had been resting in the bower, and that he had stayed much longer than he had intended.
“You just hab, you rascal! But I cure you ob dat,” said the negro, catching up a piece of cane that was lying on the ground, with which he was about to administer condign chastisement to the idle slave, when his master stopped him.
“Hurt him not,” he said, raising his hand; “is not this his first offence?”
“Yes, massa, de bery fust.”
“Well, tell him that the rod shall be applied next time he is found idling. Enough, follow me!”
With a stately step the amiable Moor passed on. With a much more stately port Peter the Great followed him, but as he did so he bestowed on Foster a momentary look so ineffably sly, yet solemn, that the latter was obliged to seize the spade and dig like a very sexton in order to check his tendency to laugh aloud.
Half an hour later the negro returned to him.
“What you bin do all dis time?” he asked in surprise. “I was more’n half t’ink you desarve a lickin’!”
“Perhaps I do, Peter,” answered the young slave, in a tone so hearty and cheerful that the negro’s great eyes increased considerably in size.
“Well, Geo’ge,” he said, with a sudden change in his expression, “I wouldn’t hab expeck it ob you; no, I wouldn’t, if my own mudder was to tell me! To t’ink dat one so young, too, would go on de sly to de rum-bottle! But where you kin find ’im’s more’n I kin tell.”
“I have not been at the rum-bottle at all,” returned the middy, resting on his spade, “but I have had something to raise my spirits and brace my energies, and take me out of myself. Come, let us go to the bower, and I will explain—that is, if we may safely go there.”
“Go whar?”
“To the bower.”
“Do you know, sar,” replied Peter, drawing himself up and expanding his great chest—“do you know, sar, dat I’s kimmander-in-chief ob de army in dis yar gardin, an’ kin order ’em about whar I please, an’ do what I like? Go up to de bower, you small Bri’sh officer, an’ look sharp if you don’t want a whackin’!”
The slave obeyed with alacrity, and when the two were seated he described his recent interview with Hester Sommers.
No words can do full justice to the varied expressions that flitted across the negro’s face as the midshipman’s narrative went on.
“So,” he said slowly, when it was concluded, “you’s bin an’ had a long privit convissation wid one ob Ben-Ahmed’s ladies! My! you know what dat means if it found out?”
“Well, Miss Sommers herself was good enough to tell me that it would probably mean flogging to death.”
“Floggin’ to deaf!” echoed Peter. “P’r’aps so wid massa, for he’s a kind man; but wid most any oder man it ’ud mean roastin’ alibe ober a slow fire! Geo’ge, you’s little better’n a dead man!”
“I hope it’s not so bad as that, for no one knows about it except the lady and yourself.”
“Das so; an’ you’re in luck, let me tell you. Now you go to work, an’ I’ll retire for some meditation—see what’s to come ob all dis.”
Truly the changes that take place in the feelings and mind of man are not less sudden and complete than the physical changes which sometimes occur in lands that are swept by the tornado and desolated by the earthquake. That morning George Foster had risen from his straw bed a miserable white slave, hopeless, heartless, and down at spiritual zero—or below it. That night he lay down on the same straw bed, a free man—in soul, if not in body—a hero of the most ardent character—up at fever-heat in the spiritual thermometer, or above it, and all because his heart throbbed with a noble purpose—because an object worthy of his efforts was placed before him, and because he had made up his mind to do or die in a good cause!
What that cause was he would have found it difficult to define clearly in detail. Sufficient for him that an unknown but stalwart father, with Radical tendencies, and a well-known and lovely daughter, were at the foundation of it, and that “Escape!” was the talismanic word which formed a battery, as it were, with which to supply his heart with electric energy.
He lived on this diet for a week, with the hope of again seeing Hester; but he did not see her again for many weeks.
One morning Peter the Great came to him as he was going out to work in the garden and said—
“You git ready and come wid me into town dis day.”
“Indeed,” returned Foster, as much excited by the order as if it had been to go on some grand expedition. “For what purpose?”
“You ’bey orders, sar, an’ make your mind easy about purpisses.”
In a few minutes Foster was ready.
No part of his original costume now remained to him. A blue-striped cotton jacket, with pants too short and too wide for him; a broad-brimmed straw hat, deeply sunburnt face and hands, with a pair of old boots two sizes too large, made him as unlike a 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.
Chapter Six.
Our Hero sees the Moors in Several Aspects, and makes a Great Discovery.
Whatever may be said of Mohammedanism as a religion, there can be no question, we should think, that it has done much among the Eastern nations to advance the cause of Temperance.
We make no defence of Mohammed—very much the reverse—but we hold that even a false prophet cannot avoid teaching a certain modicum of truth in his system, and when Mohammed sternly put his foot down upon strong drink, and enforced the principle of total abstinence therefrom, he did signal service to a large portion of the human family. Although, for want of better teaching, Mohammedans cling to many vices, one never sees them howling through the streets in a state of wild ferocity, or staggering homewards in a condition of mild imbecility, from the effects of intoxicating drink.
Instead of entering a low den where riot and revelry, with bad language and quarrelling, might be expected to prevail, George Foster found himself in a small white-washed apartment, where there sat several grave and sedate men, wrapped in the voluminous folds of Eastern drapery, sipping very small cups of coffee, and enjoying very large pipes of tobacco.
The room was merely a cellar, the walls being thickly stuccoed and white-washed, and the ceiling arched; but, although plain, the place was reasonably clean and eminently quiet. The drinkers did not dispute. Conversation flowed in an undertone, and an air of respectability pervaded the whole place.
At the further end of the apartment there was a curious-looking fireplace, which seemed to have been formed without the use of square or plummet, and around which were scattered and hung in comfortable confusion the implements and utensils of cookery. Nothing of the cook was visible except his bare legs and feet, the rest of him being shrouded in a recess. Beside the fireplace an Arab sat cross-legged on a bench, sipping his coffee. Beyond him in a recess another Arab was seated. He appeared to be sewing while he conversed with a negro who stood beside him. Elsewhere, in more or less remote and dim distances, other customers were seated indulging in the prevailing beverage.
“You sit down here, Geo’ge; drink an’ say not’ing, but wait for me.”
With this admonition Peter the Great whispered a few words to the man who owned the establishment, and hurriedly left the place.
The middy naturally felt a little disconcerted at being thus left alone among strangers, but, knowing that in the circumstances he was absolutely helpless, he wisely and literally obeyed orders. Sitting down on a bench opposite the fire, from which point of observation he could see the entrance-door and all that went on around him, he waited and said nothing until the chief of the establishment presented him with a white cup of coffee, so very small that he felt almost equal to the swallowing of cup and coffee at one gulp. With a gracious bow and “Thank you,” he accepted the attention, and began to sip. The dignified Arab who gave it to him did not condescend upon any reply, but turned to attend upon his other customers.
Foster’s first impulse was to spit out the sip he had taken, for to his surprise the coffee was thick with grounds. He swallowed it, however, and wondered. Then, on taking another sip and considering it, he perceived that the grounds were not as grounds to which he had been accustomed, but were reduced—no doubt by severe pounding—to a pasty condition, which made the beverage resemble chocolate. “Coffee-soup! with sugar—but no milk!” he muttered, as he tried another sip. This third one convinced him that the ideas of Arabs regarding coffee did not coincide with those of Englishmen, so he finished the cup at the fourth sip, much as he would have taken a dose of physic, and thereafter amused himself with contemplating the other coffee-sippers.
At the time when our hero first arrived at Ben-Ahmed’s home, he had been despoiled of his own garments while he was in bed—the slave costume having been left in their place. On application to his friend Peter, however, his pocket-knife, pencil, letters, and a few other things had been returned to him. Thus, while waiting, he was able to turn his time to account by making a sketch of the interior of the coffee-house, to the great surprise and gratification of the negroes there—perhaps, also, of the Moors—but these latter were too reticent and dignified to express any interest by word or look, whatever they might have felt.
He was thus engaged when Peter returned.
“Hallo, Geo’ge!” exclaimed the negro, “what you bin up to—makin’ picturs?”
“Only a little sketch,” said Foster, holding it up.
“A skitch!” repeated Peter, grasping the letter, and holding it out at arm’s length with the air of a connoisseur, while he compared it with the original. “You call dis a skitch? Well! I neber see de like ob dis—no, neber. It’s lubly. Dere’s de kittles an’ de pots an’ de jars, an’—ha, ha! dere’s de man wid de—de—wart on ’is nose! Oh! das fust-rate. Massa’s awrful fond ob skitchin’. He wouldn’t sell you now for ten t’ousand dollars.”
Fortunately the Arab with the wart on his nose was ignorant of English, otherwise he might have had some objection to being thus transferred to paper, and brought, as Arabs think, under “the power of the evil eye.” Before the exact nature of what had been done, however, was quite understood, Peter had paid for the coffee, and, with the amateur artist, had left the place.
“Nothing surprises me more,” said Foster, as they walked along, “than to see such beautiful wells and fountains in streets so narrow that one actually has not enough room to step back and look at them properly. Look at that one now, with the negress, the Moor, and the water-carrier waiting their turn while the little girl fills her water-pot. See what labour has been thrown away on that fountain. What elegance of design, what columns of sculptured marble, and fine tessellated work stuck up where few people can see it, even when they try to.”
“True, Geo’ge. De water would run as well out ob a ugly fountain as a pritty one.”
“But it’s not that I wonder at, Peter; it’s the putting of such splendid work in such dark narrow lanes that surprises me. Why do they go to so much expense in such a place as this?”
“Oh! as to expense, Geo’ge. Dey don’t go to none. You see, we hab no end ob slabes here, ob all kinds, an’ trades an’ purfessions, what cost nuffin but a leetle black bread to keep ’em alibe, an’ a whackin’ now an’ den to make ’em work. Bress you! dem marble fountains an’ t’ings cost the pirits nuffin. Now we’s goin’ up to see the Kasba.”
“What is that, Peter?”
“What! you not know what de Kasba am? My, how ignorant you is! De Kasba is de citad’l—de fort—where all de money an’ t’ings—treasure you call it—am kep’ safe. Strong place, de Kasba—awrful strong.”
“I’ll be glad to see that,” said Foster.
“Ho yes. You be glad to see it wid me,” returned the negro significantly, “but not so glad if you go dere wid chains on you legs an’ pick or shovel on you shoulder. See—dere dey go!”
As he spoke a band of slaves was seen advancing up the narrow street. Standing aside in a doorway to let them pass, Foster saw that the band was composed of men of many nations. Among them he observed the fair hair and blue eyes of the Saxon, the dark complexion and hair of the Spaniard and Italian, and the black skin of the negro—but all resembled each other in their looks and lines of care, and in the weary anxiety and suffering with which every countenance was stamped,—also in the more or less dejected air of the slaves, and the soiled ragged garments with which they were covered.
But if some of the resemblances between these poor creatures were strong, some of their differences were still more striking. Among them were men whose robust frames had not yet been broken down, whose vigorous spirits had not been quite tamed, and whose scowling eyes and compressed lips revealed the fact that they were “dangerous.” These walked along with clanking chains on their limbs—chains which were more or less weighty, according to the strength and character of the wearer. Others there were so reduced in health, strength, and spirit, that the chain of their own feebleness was heavy enough for them to drag to their daily toil. Among these were some with hollow cheeks and sunken eyes, whose weary pilgrimage was evidently drawing to a close; but all, whether strong or weak, fierce or subdued, were made to tramp smartly up the steep street, being kept up to the mark by drivers, whose cruel whips cracked frequently on the shoulders of the lagging and the lazy.
With a heart that felt as if ready to burst with conflicting emotions, the poor midshipman looked on, clenching his teeth to prevent unwise exclamations, and unclenching his fists to prevent the tendency to commit assault and battery!
“This is dreadful,” he said, in a low voice, when the gang had passed.
“Yes, Geo’ge, it is drefful—but we’s used to it, you know. Come, we’ll foller dis gang.”
Keeping about twenty yards behind, they followed the slaves into the Kasba, where they met with no interruption from the guards, who seemed to be well acquainted with Peter the Great, though they did not condescend to notice him, except by a passing glance.
“How is it that every one lets you pass so easily?” asked Foster, when they had nearly reached the southern wall of the fortress.
“Eberybody knows me so well—das one reason,” answered the negro, with a grin of self-satisfaction.
“I’s quite a public krakter in dis yar city, you mus’ know. Den, anoder t’ing is, dat our massa am a man ob power. He not got no partikler office in de state, ’cause he not require it, for he’s a rich man, but he’s got great power wid de Dey—we’s bof got dat!”
“Indeed; how so?”
“Stand here, under dis doorway, and I tell you—dis way, where you can see de splendid view ob de whole city an’ de harbour an’ sea b’yond. We kin wait a bit here while de slabes are gittin’ ready to work. You see de bit ob wall dat’s damaged dere? Well, dey’re goin’ to repair dat. We’ll go look at ’em by-an’-by.”
As the incident which Peter narrated might prove tedious if given in his own language, we take the liberty of relating it for him.
One fine morning during the previous summer the Dey of Algiers mounted his horse—a fiery little Arab—and, attended by several of his courtiers, cantered away in the direction of the suburb which is now known by the name of Mustapha Supérieur. When drawing near to the residence of Ben-Ahmed the Dey’s horse became unmanageable and ran away. Being the best horse of the party, the courtiers were soon left far behind. It chanced that Ben-Ahmed and his man, Peter the Great, were walking together towards the city that day. On turning a sharp bend in the road where a high bank had shut out their view they saw a horseman approaching at a furious gallop.
“It is the Dey!” exclaimed Ben-Ahmed.
“So it am!” responded Peter.
“He can’t make the turn of the road and live!” cried the Moor, all his dignified self-possession vanishing as he prepared for action.
“I will check the horse,” he added, in a quick, low voice. “You break his fall, Peter. He’ll come off on the left side.”
“Das so, massa,” said Peter, as he sprang to the other side of the narrow road.
He had barely done so, when the Dey came thundering towards them.
“Stand aside!” he shouted as he came on, for he was a fearless horseman and quite collected, though in such peril.
But Ben-Ahmed would not stand aside. Although an old man, he was still active and powerful. He seized the reins of the horse as it was passing, and, bringing his whole weight and strength to bear, checked it so far that it made a false step and stumbled. This had the effect of sending the Dey out of the saddle like a bomb from a mortar, and of hurling Ben-Ahmed to the ground. Ill would it have fared with the Dey at that moment if Peter the Great had not possessed a mechanical turn of mind, and a big, powerful body, as well as a keen, quick eye for possibilities. Correcting his distance in a moment by jumping back a couple of paces, he opened his arms and received the chief of Algiers into his broad black bosom!
The shock was tremendous, for the Dey was by no means a light weight, and Peter the Great went down before it in the dust, while the great man arose, shaken indeed, and confused, but unhurt by the accident.
Ben-Ahmed also arose uninjured, but Peter lay still where he had fallen.
“W’en I come-to to myself,” continued Peter, on reaching this point in his narrative, “de fus’ t’ing I t’ink was dat I’d been bu’sted. Den I look up, an’ I sees our black cook. She’s a nigger, like myself, only a she one.
“‘Hallo, Angelica!’ says I; ‘wass de matter?’
“‘Matter!’ says she; ‘you’s dead—a’most, an’ dey lef’ you here wid me, wid strik orders to take care ob you.’
“‘Das good,’ says I; ‘an’ you better look out an’ obey your orders, else de bowstring bery soon go round your pritty little neck. But tell me, Angelica, who brought me here?’
“‘De Dey ob Algiers an’ all his court,’ says she, wid a larf dat shut up her eyes an’ showed what a enormous mout’ she hab.
“‘Is he all safe, Angelica,’ says I—‘massa, I mean?’
“‘Oh, I t’ought you meant de Dey!’ says she. ‘Oh yes; massa’s all right; nuffin’ll kill massa, he’s tough. And de Dey, he’s all right too.’
“‘Das good, Angelica,’ says I, feelin’ quite sweet, for I was beginnin’ to remember what had took place.
“‘Yes, das is good,’ says she; ‘an’, Peter, your fortin’s made!’
“‘Das awk’ard,’ says I, ‘for I ain’t got no chest or strong box ready to put it in. But now tell me, Angelica, if my fortin’s made, will you marry me, an’ help to spend it?’
“‘Yes, I will,’ says she.
“I was so took by surprise, Geo’ge, when she say dat, I sprung up on one elber, an’ felled down agin wid a howl, for two o’ my ribs had been broke.
“‘Neber mind de yells, Angelica,’ says I, ‘it’s only my leetle ways. But tell me why you allers refuse me before an’ accep’ me now. Is it—de—de fortin?’ Oh, you should have seen her pout w’en I ax dat. Her mout’ came out about two inch from her face. I could hab kissed it—but for de broken ribs.
“‘No, Peter, for shame!’ says she, wid rijeous indignation. ‘De fortin hab nuffin to do wid it, but your own noble self-scarifyin’ bravery in presentin’ your buzzum to de Dey ob Algiers.’
“‘T’ank you, Angelica,’ says I. ‘Das all comfrably settled. You’s a good gall, kiss me now, an’ go away.’
“So she gib me a kiss an’ I turn round an’ went sweetly to sleep on de back ob dat—for I was awrful tired, an’ de ribs was creakin’ badly.”
“Did you marry Angelica?” asked our middy, with sympathetic interest.
“Marry her! ob course I did. Two year ago. Don’ you know it’s her as cooks all our wittles?”
“How could I know, Peter, for you never call her anything but ‘cook?’ But I’m glad you have told me, for I’ll regard her now with increased respect from this day forth.”
“Das right, Geo’ge. You can’t pay ’er too much respec’. Now we’ll go an’ look at de works.”
The part of the wall which the slaves were repairing was built of great blocks of artificial stone or concrete, which were previously cast in wooden moulds, left to harden, and then put into their assigned places by slave-labour. As Foster was watching the conveyance of these blocks, it suddenly occurred to him that Hester Sommers’s father might be amongst them, and he scanned every face keenly as the slaves passed to and fro, but saw no one who answered to the description given him by the daughter.
From this scrutiny he was suddenly turned by a sharp cry drawn from one of a group who were slowly carrying a heavy stone to its place. The cry was drawn forth by the infliction of a cruel lash on the shoulders of a slave. He was a thin delicate youth with evidences of fatal consumption upon him. He had become faint from over-exertion, and one of the drivers had applied the whip by way of stimulus. The effect on the poor youth was to cause him to stumble, and instead of making him lift better, made him rest his weight on the stone, thus overbalancing it, and bringing it down. In falling the block caught the ankle of the youth, who fell with a piercing shriek to the ground, where he lay in a state of insensibility.
At this a tall bearded man, with heavy fetters on his strong limbs, sprang to the young man’s side, went down on his knees, and seized his hand.
“Oh! Henri, my son,” he cried, in French; but before he could say more a whip touched his back with a report like a pistol-shot, and the torn cotton shirt that he wore was instantly crimsoned with his blood!
The man rose, and, making no more account of his fetters than if they had been straws, sprang like a tiger at the throat of his driver. He caught it, and the eyes and tongue of the cruel monster were protruding from his head before the enraged Frenchman could be torn away by four powerful janissaries. As it was, they had to bind him hand and foot ere they were able to carry him off—to torture, and probably to death. At the same time the poor, helpless form of Henri was borne from the place by two of his fellow-slaves.
Of course a scene like this could not be witnessed unmoved by our midshipman. Indeed he would infallibly have rushed to the rescue of the bearded Frenchman if Peter’s powerful grip on his shoulder had not restrained him.
“Don’t be a fool, Geo’ge,” he whispered. “Remember, we must submit!”
Fortunately for George, the guards around were too much interested in watching the struggle to observe his state of mind, and it is doubtful whether he would have been held back even by the negro if his attention had not at the moment been attracted by a tall man who came on the scene just then with another gang of slaves.
One glance sufficed to tell who the tall man was. Hester Sommers’s portrait had been a true one—tall, handsome, strong; and even in the haggard, worn, and profoundly sad face, there shone a little of the “sweetness” which his daughter had emphasised. There were also the large grey eyes, the Roman nose, the iron-grey hair, moustache, and beard, and the large mouth, although the “smile” had fled from the face and the “lovingness” from the eyes. Foster was so sure of the man that, as he drew near to the place where he stood, he stepped forward and whispered “Sommers.”
The man started and turned pale as he looked keenly at our hero’s face.
“No time to explain,” said the middy quickly. “Hester is well and safe! See you again! Hope on!”
“What are you saying there?” thundered one of the drivers in Arabic.
“What you say to dat feller? you raskil! you white slabe! Come ’long home!” cried Peter the Great, seizing Foster by the collar and dragging him forcibly away, at the same time administering several kicks so violent that his entire frame seemed to be dislocated, while the janissaries burst into a laugh at the big negro’s seeming fury.
“Oh! Geo’ge, Geo’ge,” continued Peter, as he dragged the middy along, shaking him from time to time, “you’ll be de deaf ob me, an’ ob yourself too, if you don’t larn to submit. An’ see, too, what a hyperkrite you make me! I’s ’bliged to kick hard, or dey wouldn’t b’lieve me in arnist.”
“Well, well, Peter,” returned our hero, who at once understood his friend’s ruse to disarm suspicion, and get him away safely, “you need not call yourself a hypocrite this time, at all events, for your kicks and shakings have been uncommonly real—much too real for comfort.”
“Didn’t I say I was ’bleeged to do it?” retorted Peter, with a pout that might have emulated that of his wife on the occasion of their engagement. “D’you s’pose dem raskils don’ know a real kick from a sham one? I was marciful too, for if I’d kicked as I could, dere wouldn’t be a whole bone in your carcass at dis momint! You’s got to larn to be grateful, Geo’ge. Come along.”
Conversing thus pleasantly, the white slave and the black left the Kasba together and descended into the town.