When we had finished up the stereotyped sights of Gibraltar and had
thrown overboard a New Jersey insurance agent for criminally mentioning
"Dryden's Hole," that bewhiskered "chestnut," in connection with the
time-honored "Rock," we steamed across the Mediterranean to Algiers,
some four hundred and ten miles away. Algeria has a water front of six
hundred miles, and extends back two hundred and fifty from the shore.
It was conquered by the Romans in 46 B.C.; subsequently the coast of
Barbary became the dread of every ship that sailed the sea. With
varying success, many nations, including Spain, France, England and the
United States (fleet commanded by Commodore Decatur), took a hand in
trying to tame the horde of cut-throat pirates who for centuries
committed unspeakable atrocities and cruelties. It is hard to realize
that only seventy-five years ago these sanguinary pirates held complete
sway on the Mediterranean, and that England alone had six thousand of
her subjects captured and enslaved by them in 1674. It is estimated
that six hundred thousand from all the nations were captured and worked
to death in chains. This spot is the "chamber of horrors" in all human
history. To the French belongs the honor of finally taming these
wretches and drawing their claws. Algeria is now a French colony, is
well ordered and quite safe for the visitor.
This people is made up of many breeds: we saw thin, bandy-legged Arabs,
fat, burly Turks, ramrod-like Bedouins; Kalougis, with a complexion
suggesting old sole leather; Greeks, with frilled petticoats; Romans,
of course with the toga; Kabeles, with black hair and wearing a robe
like a big gas-bag; Moors, with the Duke's nose and spindle shanks;
Mohammedans, carrying bannocks with holes in them; and dragomans, with
"_bakshish_" stamped on every department of their anatomy. But beneath
the furtive glance and in the wicked eyes you see the cut-throat still
lurking, awaiting the first opportunity to embark again in the trade
that is close to their hearts, although the only active pirates here
now are the cab drivers.
Every breed has its own outlandish costume with a large range of
startling colors in robes, turbans and slippers, but their shanks are
bare, thin and brick red, an easy mark for flies. A considerable
percentage of their time is devoted to stamping their feet to shake off
these pests, which somehow do not seem to know they are not wanted and
keep the lazy rascals busy, thus preventing them from devoting the
entire day to sleep and the worship of Allah.
To round out the picture we must not forget the French Zouave
regiment--fine-looking men, with their elaborately frogged jackets, and
trousers like big red bags, large enough to make balloons if filled
with gas, and the whole topped off with a scarlet, "swagger" fez with a
tassel hanging down to the waist.
Algeria has a population of about 5,000,000, while the town of Algiers
contains 140,000 people. The climate is tropical with plenty of rain.
Oranges, lemons, pineapples, dates, figs, cocoanuts and spices are seen
everywhere. There is a fine, tropical, public garden-park, and the
Governor's Palace with its grounds makes a handsome showing in flowers
and fruits. French officialdom strikes a gay and festive note
everywhere, and the very latest Parisian novelties are seen on the
streets. They have motor cars, but it must be confessed that these do
not as yet class with a Studebaker "Limousine."
The passengers slept on the _Cork_ at the wharf. They tried one meal
at the hotel, with the ship's stewards assisting, but did not essay a
second. Seven hundred in two relays would have tested the ability of
Mr. Boldt, but still when the battle was over we had all had enough; in
fact, the management came out with flying colors in this severe test.
Perhaps at this point it might be interesting to report on the progress
that the Alley had made since it was last mentioned. The development
of ship characters takes time, and the big men and women do not pop at
once into the lime-light. There were other alleys and some of them
contained hidden stars. It was our business to lasso these (just as
base-ball players are "signed"), and annex them to the Alley, so with
this in mind and hat in hand we approached the haughty but accomplished
Purser (with a big P), the man who is covered with gold lace and
clothed with vast responsibility; who, in fact, holds the destinies of
the ship in the hollow of his hand. We laid our case before him and
said we wanted "Gassigaloopi" from Alley No. 9, the two "Condensed
Milkmaids" with their chaperon from the midship flats, and "Fumigalli,"
who bunked near the condenser. The great man of course frowned and
pulled his "walrus"--the kind that has hanging, hairy selvages on it,
such as serve as warnings for "low bridge" on the railroads--smote his
desk firmly, and said it would never do! However, we could clearly see
that beneath the mask of his importance he was jubilant over the
knowledge of his power, and that if we could only pull some other
string we would gain our object; so we inveigled the queen of the
poop-deck into joining hands with us, and the day was won without
further effort. Then with joy and gladness we informed the new people
whom we had delighted to honor of their social elevation, and with
willing hands we carried their belongings down in triumph to Harp
Alley. Two of the staterooms had been vacated at Gibraltar, and so all
difficulties connected with the transfer were easily overcome.
"Gassigaloopi" was a tower of strength in himself; he was a retired
Italian politician and spoke so many languages that when he got excited
he mixed them thoroughly, utterly routing all contestants in any
arguments that might come up. He was a human geyser, and when his
linguistic power got under full headway he fairly tore up all the
tongues by their roots and trampled them under foot in the rush of his
stinging invective. Although of Italian origin, "Gassy" was born near
the site of the Tower of Babel, and its propinquity and influence gave
him that varied volubility in expressing fine shades of meaning in many
languages that made him the pride of the profession of which he was a
distinguished light. His ebullitions were frequently hurled at the
"boots" for neglecting his oxfords, placed outside his stateroom door,
but soon afterward he became himself again, much to the general joy of
the Alley.
[Illustration: THE ABDICATION OF THE SULTAN, ABDUL HAMID II.--HIS LAST
RIDE THROUGH THE STREETS OF CONSTANTINOPLE]
"Fumigalli" smoked so much that he gave all his time to thought, and we
used him to plan future triumphs for us. Though he thought much he
produced but little. We all knew that he was evolving great projects
mentally, but somehow he could not get them out in front of the
spot-light. His one great achievement was calling a meeting of protest
against the Señor's boredom in the smoking-room. The meeting was held
and two resolutions were drafted to be read at dinner in the saloon;
but somehow no one liked to hurt the Señor's feelings, and they were
never read.
The "Condensed Milkmaids" were a pair of small, temperamental, clever
girls, so trim and smart that one would think they had just left the
Trianon Dairy Farm in Versailles Park, after having milked a pint of
cream for the Queen, or for the royal favorite, Comtesse Du Barry.
They wore Louis the XIV. (Street) high-heeled slippers, and were purely
decorative. Having no part in the executive management they knew their
place and kept it.
A young lady and her mother from New England (both members), gave the
Alley a boost at the last concert. The daughter played a violin solo,
accompanied by her mother, with such attack, feeling and technique that
if Paganini had been on earth he would have taken off his hat to her.
It is perhaps true that the Alley had no tremendous personages in its
membership, but its innate strength lay in this weakness for it
represented the very embodiment of what is known as the concrete social
spirit, "one for all, all for one," and with this motto it might
have--and really did--stand against the entire ship. Neither the
Purser, the Captain nor the crew dared oppose its opinions or wishes;
in fact, the Alley thought of running down to Zanzibar and taking a
whack at the lions before "Bwana Tumbo" even saw them. We don't like
to brag, but one of our members could, with one eye shut, hit any
button on the metal man's coat in the shooting gallery, and with both
shut could bring down a wildebeeste. The mission of the Alley and its
fate now lie in the "womb of time," and we must not hustle its destiny
but calmly await developments.