He woke up eighteen hours later, at about noon—or so his neighbor told
him; it was impossible to distinguish night from day down there. The
hold was shallow and three parts full; this brought them within a few
feet of the deck beams and made the atmosphere so thick it was difficult
to breathe, congested as they were. Added to which, the rats and
cockroaches were very active and the stale bilge water, washing to and
fro under the floor, reeked abominably.
The other prisoners were not talkative. Now and again one would shout
across to a friend and a short conversation would ensue, but most of the
time they kept silence, as though steeped in melancholy. The majority
sounded like foreigners.
Ortho sat up, tried to stretch his legs, and found they were shackled to
a chain running fore and aft over the cargo.
His left-hand neighbor spoke: “Woke up, have you? Well, how d’you fancy
it?”
Ortho grunted.
“Oh, well, mayn’t be so bad. You’m a likely lad; you’ll fetch a good
price, mayhap, and get a good master. ’Tain’t the strong mule catches
the whip; ’tis the old uns—y’understan’? To-morrow’s the best day for
hard work over there and the climate’s prime; better nor England by a
long hawse, and that’s the Gospel truth, y’understan’?”
“How do you know?” Ortho inquired.
The man snorted. “Know? Ain’t I been there nine year?”
“In Sallee?”
“No—Algiers . . . but it’s the same, see what I mean? Nine years a
slave with old Abd-el-Hamri in Sidi-Okbar Street. Only exchanged last
summer, and now, dang my tripes, if I ain’t took again!”
“Where did they catch you?”
“Off Prawle Point on Tuesday in the _Harvest_, yawl of Brixham—I’m a
Brixham man, y’understan’? Puddicombe by name. I did swere and vow once
I was ashore I would never set foot afloat no more. Then my sister
Johanna’s George took sick with a flux and I went in his place just for
a day—and now here we are again—hey, hey!”
“Who are all these foreigners?” asked Ortho.
“Hollanders, took off a Dutch East Indiaman. This be her freight we’m
lyin’ on now, see what I mean? They got it split up between the three on
’em. There’s three on ’em, y’understan’; _was_ four, but the Hollander
sank one before she was carried, so they say, and tore up t’other two
cruel. The old _reis_—admiral that is—he’s lost his mainmast. You can
hear he banging away at night to keep his consorts close; scared,
y’understan’? Howsombeit they done well enough. Only been out two months
and they’ve got the cream of an Indies freight, not to speak of three or
four coasters and a couple of hundred poor sailors that should fetch
from thirty to fifty ducats apiece in the _soko_. And then there’s the
ransoms too, see what I mean?”
“Ransoms?” Ortho echoed. Was that a way home? Was it possible to be
ransomed? He had money.
“Aye, ransoms,” said Puddicombe. “You can thank your God on bended
knees, young man, you ain’t nothin’ but a poor fisher lad with no money
at your back, see what I mean?”
“No, I don’t—why?”
“Why—’cos the more they tortured you the more you’d squeal and the more
your family would pay to get you out of it, y’understan’? There was a
dozen fat Mynheer merchants took on that Indiaman, and if they poor
souls knew what they’re going through they’d take the first chance
overboard—sharks is a sweet death to what these heathen serve you. I’ve
seen some of it in Algiers city—see what I mean? Understan’?”
Ortho did not answer; he had suddenly realized that he had never told
Eli where the money was hidden—over seven hundred pounds—and how was
he ever going to tell him _now_? He lay back on the bales and abandoned
himself to unprofitable regrets.
Mr. Puddicombe, getting no response to his chatter, cracked his finger
joints, his method of whiling away the time. The afternoon wore on, wore
out. At sundown they were given a pittance of dry bread and stale water.
Later on a man came down, knocked Ortho’s shackles off and signed him to
follow.
“You’re to be questioned,” the ex-slave whispered. “Be careful now,
y’understan’?”
The Moors were at their evening meal, squatting, tight-packed round big
pots, dipping for morsels with their bare hands, gobbling and gabbling.
The galley was between decks, a brick structure built athwart-ship. As
Ortho passed he caught a glimpse of the interior. It was a blaze of
light from the fires before which a couple of negroes toiled, stripped
to the waist, stirring up steaming caldrons; the sweat glistened like
varnish on their muscular bodies.
His guide led him to the upper deck. The night breeze blew in his face,
deliciously chill after the foul air below. He filled his lungs with
draughts of it. On the port quarter tossed a galaxy of twinkling
lights—the admiral and the third ship. Below in their rat-run holds
were scores of people in no better plight than himself, Ortho reflected,
in some cases worse, for many of the Dutchmen were wounded. A merry
world!
His guide ran up the quarter-deck ladder. The officer of the watch, a
dark silhouette lounging against a swivel mounted on the poop, snapped
out a challenge in Arabic to which the guide replied. He opened the door
of the poop cabin and thrust Ortho within.
It was a small place, with the exception of a couple of brass-bound
chests, a table and a chair, quite unfurnished, but it was luxurious
after a fashion and, compared with the squalor of the hold, paradise.
Mattresses were laid on the floor all round the walls, and on these were
heaped a profusion of cushions, cushions of soft leather and of green
and crimson velvet. The walls were draped with hangings worked with the
same colors, and a lamp of fretted brass-work, with six burners, hung by
chains from the ceiling. The gigantic Moor who had called the crew to
prayers sat on the cushions in a corner, his feet drawn up under him, a
pyramid of snowy draperies. He was running a chain of beads through his
fingers, his lips moved in silence. More than ever did he look like a
Bible patriarch. On the port side a tall Berber lay outstretched, his
face to the wall; a watch-keeper taking his rest. At the table, his back
to the ornamented rudder-casing, sat a stout little man with a cropped
head, scarlet face and bright blue eyes. Ortho saw to his surprise that
he did not wear Moorish dress but the heavy blue sea-coat of an English
sailor, a canary muffler and knee-breeches.
The little man’s unflinching bright eyes ran all over him.
“Cornishman?” he inquired in perfect English.
“Yes, sir.”
“Fisherman?” apprising the boy’s canvas smock, apron and boots.
“Yes, sir.”
“Blown off-shore—eh?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where from? Isles of Scilly?”
“No, sir; Monks Cove.”
“Where’s that?”
“Sou’west corner of Mount’s Bay, sir, near Penzance.”
“Penzance, ah-ha! Penzance,” the captain repeated. “Now what do I know
of Penzance?” He screwed his eyes up, rubbed the back of his head,
puzzling. “Penzance!”
Then he banged his fist on the table. “Damme, of course!”
He turned to Ortho again. “Got any property in this Cove—houses, boats
or belike?”
“No, sir.”
“Father? . . . Brothers? . . . Relations?”
“Only a widowed mother, sir, and a brother.”
“They got any property?”
“No, sir.”
“What does your brother do?”
“Works on a farm, sir.”
“Hum, yes, thought as much; couple of nets and an old boat stopped up
with tar—huh! Never mind, you’re healthy; you’ll sell.”
He said something in Arabic to the old Moor, who wagged his flowing
beard and went on with his beads.
“You can go!” said the captain, motioning to the guide; then as Ortho
neared the door he called out, “Avast a minute!” Ortho turned about.
“You say you come from near Penzance. Well, did you run athwart a person
by the name of Gish by any chance? Captain Jeremiah Gish? He was a
Penzance man, I remember. Made a mint o’ money shipping ‘black-birds’ to
the Plate River and retired home to Penzance, or so I’ve heard. Gish is
the name, Jerry Gish.”
Ortho gaped. Gish—Captain Jerry—he should think he did know him. He
had been one of Teresa’s most ardent suitors at one time, and still hung
after her, admired her gift of vituperation; had been in the Star Inn
that night he had robbed her of the hundred pounds. Captain Jerry! They
were always meeting at races and such-like; had made several disastrous
bets with him. Old Jerry Gish! It sounded strange to hear that familiar
name here among all these wild infidels, gave him an acute twinge of
homesickness.
“Well,” said the corsair captain, “never heard of him, I suppose?”
Ortho recovered himself. “Indeed, sir, I know him very well.”
The captain sat up. “You do?” Then with a snap: “How?”
It flashed on Ortho that he must be careful. To disclose the
circumstances under which he had hob-nobbed with Jerry Gish would be to
give himself away.
“How?”
Ortho licked his lips. “He used to come to Cove a lot, sir. Was friendly
like with the inn-keeper there. Was very gentlemanly with his money of
an evening.”
The captain sank back, his suspicions lulled. He laughed.
“Free with the drink, mean you? Aye, I warrant old Jerry would be
that—ha, ha!” He sat smiling at recollections, drumming his short
fingers on the table.
Some flying spray heads rattled on the stern windows. The brass lamp
swung back and forth, its shadow swimming with it up and down the floor.
The watchkeeper muttered in his sleep. Outside the wind moaned. The
captain looked up. “Used to be a shipmate of mine, Jerry—when we were
boys. Many a game we’ve played. Did y’ ever hear him tell a story?”
“Often, sir.”
“You did, did you—spins a good yarn, Jerry—none better. Ever hear him
tell of what we did to that old nigger woman in Port o’ Spain?
MacBride’s my name, Ben MacBride. Ever hear it?”
“Yes, I believe I did, sir.”
“That’s a good yarn that, eh? My God, she screeched, ha, ha!” Tears
trickled out of his eyes at the memory.
“Told you a good few yarns, I expect?”
“Yes, sir, many.”
“Remember ’em?”
“I think so, sir.”
“Do you? Hum-hurr!” He looked at Ortho again, seemed to be considering.
“Do you?—ah, hem! Yes, very good. Well, you must go now. Time to snug
down. Ahmed!”
The guide stood to attention, received some instructions in Arabic and
led Ortho away. At the galley door he stopped, went inside, and came out
bearing a lump of meat and a small cake which he thrust on Ortho, and
made motions to show that it was by the captain’s orders.
Three minutes later he was shackled down again.
“How did you fare?” the Brixham man grunted drowsily.
“Not so bad,” said Ortho.
He waited till the other had gone to sleep, and then ate his cake and
meat; he was ravenous and didn’t want to share it.
* * * * *
Black day succeeded black night down in the hold, changing places
imperceptibly. Once every twenty-four hours the prisoners were taken on
deck for a few minutes; in the morning and evening they were fed.
Nothing else served to break the stifling monotony. It seemed to Ortho
that he had been chained up in blank gloom for untold years, gloom
peopled with disembodied voices that became loquacious only in sleep.
Courage gagged their waking hours, but when they slept, and no longer
had control of themselves, they talked, muttered, groaned and cried
aloud for lost places and lost loves. At night that hold was an inferno,
a dark cavern filled with damned souls wailing. Two Biscayners did
actually fight once, but they didn’t fight for long, hadn’t spirit
enough. It was over a few crumbs of bread that they fell out. The man on
Ortho’s right, an old German seaman, never uttered a word. One morning
when they came round with food he didn’t put his hand out for his
portion and they found that he was dead—a fact the rats had discovered
some hours before. The only person who was not depressed was Mr.
Puddicombe, late of Brixham and Algiers. He had the advantage of knowing
what he was called upon to face, combined with a strong strain of
natural philosophy.
England, viewed from Algiers, had seemed a green land of plenty, of
perennial beer and skittles. When he got home he found he had to work
harder than ever he had done in Africa and, after nine years of
sub-tropics, the northern winter had bitten him to the bone. Provided he
did not become a Government slave (which he thought unlikely, being too
old) he was not sure but that all was for the best. He was a good tailor
and carpenter and generally useful about the house, a valuable
possession in short. He would be well treated. He would try to get a
letter through to his old master, he said, and see if an exchange could
be worked. He had been quite happy in Sidi Okbar Street. The notary had
treated him more as a friend than a servant; they used to play “The
King’s Game” (a form of chess) together of an evening. He thought
Abd-el-Hamri, being a notary, a man of means, could easily effect the
exchange, and then, once comfortably settled down to slavery in Algiers,
nothing on earth should tempt him to take any more silly chances with
freedom, he assured Ortho. He also gave him a lot of advice concerning
his future conduct.
“I’ve taken a fancy to you, my lad,” he said one evening, “an’ I’m
givin’ you advice others would pay ducats and golden pistoles to get,
y’understan’?”
Ortho was duly grateful.
“Are you a professed Catholic by any chance?”
“No, Protestant.”
“Well, if you was a Catholic professed I should tell you to hold by it
for a bit and see if the Redemptionist Fathers could help you, but if
you be a Protestant nobody won’t do nothin’ for you, so you’d best turn
_Renegado_ and turn sharp—like I done; see what I mean?”
“_Renegado?_”
“Turn Moslem. Sing out night and mornin’ that there’s only one Allah and
nobody like him. After that they got to treat you kinder. If you’m a
_Kafir_—Christian, so to speak—they’re doin’ this here Allah a favor
by peltin’ stones at you. If you’re a Mohammedan you’re one of Allah’s
own and they got to love you; see what I mean? Mind you, there’s
drawbacks. You ain’t supposed to touch liquor, but that needn’t lie on
your mind. God knows when the corsairs came home full to the hatches and
business was brisk there was mighty few of us _Renegados_ in Algiers
city went sober to bed, y’understan’? Then there’s Ramadan. That means
you got to close-reef your belt from sunrise to sunset for thirty mortal
days. If they catch you as much as sucking a lemon they’ll beat your
innards out. I don’t say it can’t be done, but don’t let ’em catch you;
see what I mean? Leaving aside his views on liquor and this here
Ramadan, I ain’t got nothin’ against the Prophet.
“When you get as old and clever as me you’ll find that religions is much
like clo’es, wear what the others is wearin’ and you can do what you
like. You take my advice, my son, and as soon as you land holla out that
there’s only one Allah and keep on hollaing; understan’?”
Ortho understood and determined to do likewise; essentially an
opportunist, he would have cheerfully subscribed to devil worship had it
been fashionable.
One morning they were taken on deck and kept there till noon. Puddicombe
said the officers were in the hold valuing the cargo; they were nearing
the journey’s end.
It was clear weather, full of sunshine. Packs of chubby cloud trailed
across a sky of pale azure. The three ships were in close company, line
ahead, the lame flagship leading, her lateens wing and wing. The
gingerbread work on her high stern was one glitter of gilt and her
quarters were carved with stars and crescent moons interwoven with
Arabic scrolls. The ship astern was no less fancifully embellished. All
three were decked out as for holiday, flying long coach-whip pennants
from trucks and lateen peaks, and each had a big green banner at a
jack-staff on the poop.
No land was in sight, but there were signs of it. A multitude of gulls
swooped and cried among the rippling pennants; a bundle of cut bamboos
drifted by and a broken basket.
MacBride, a telescope under his arm, a fur cap cocked on the back of his
head, strutted the poop. Presently he came down the upper deck and
walked along the line of prisoners, inspecting them closely. He gave
Ortho no sign of recognition, but later on sent for him.
“Did Jerry Gish ever tell you the yarn of how him and me shaved that old
Jew junk dealer in Derry and then got him pressed?”
“No, sir.”
MacBride related the story and Ortho laughed with great heartiness.
“Good yarn, ain’t it?” said the captain.
Ortho vowed it was the best he had ever heard.
“Of course you knowing old Jerry would appreciate it—these others—!”
The captain made the gesture of one whose pearls of reminiscence have
been cast before swine.
Ortho took his courage in both hands and told a story of how Captain
Gish had got hold of a gypsy’s bear, dressed it up in a skirt, cloak and
bonnet and let it loose in the Quakers’ meeting house in Penzance. As a
matter of fact, it was not the inimitable Jerry who had done it at all,
but a party of young squires; however, it served Ortho’s purpose to
credit the exploit to Captain Gish. Captain Gish, as Ortho remembered
him, was a dull old gentleman with theories of his own on the lost
tribes of Israel which he was never tired of disclosing, but the Jerry
Gish that MacBride remembered and delighted in was evidently a very
different person—a spark, a blood, a devil of a fellow. Jeremiah must
be maintained in the latter rôle at all costs. Ever since his visit to
the cabin Ortho had been thinking of all boisterous jests he had ever
heard and tailoring them to fit Jerry against such a chance as this. His
repertoire was now extensive.
The captain laughed most heartily at the episode of “good old Jerry” and
the bear. Ortho knew how to tell a story; he had caught the trick from
Pyramus. Encouraged, he was on the point of relating another when there
came a long-drawn cry from aloft. The effect on the Arab crew was
magical.
“Moghreb!” they cried. “Moghreb!” and, dropping whatever they had in
hand, raced for the main ratlines. Captain MacBride, however, was before
them. He kicked one chocolate mariner in the stomach, planted his fist
in the face of another, whacked yet another over the knuckles with his
telescope, hoisted himself to the fife rail, and from that eminence
distributed scalding admonitions to all and sundry. That done, he went
hand over fist in a dignified manner up to the topgallant yard.
The prisoners were sent below, but to the tween-decks this time instead
of the hold.
Land was in sight, the Brixham man informed Ortho. They had hit the mark
off very neatly, at a town called Mehdia a few miles above Sallee, or so
he understood. If they could catch the tide they should be in by
evening. The admiral was lacing bonnets on. The gun ports being closed,
they could not see how they were progressing, but the Arabs were in a
high state of elation; cheer after cheer rang out from overhead as they
picked up familiar land-marks along the coast. Even the wounded men
dragged themselves to the upper deck. The afternoon drew on. Puddicombe
was of the opinion that they would miss the tide and anchor outside, in
which case they were in for another night’s pitching and rolling. Ortho
devoutly trusted not; what with the vermin and rats in that hold he was
nearly eaten alive. He was just beginning to give up hope when there
came a sudden bark of orders from above, the scamper of bare feet, the
chant of men hauling on braces and the creak of yards as they came over.
“She’s come up,” said he of Brixham. “They’re stowing the square sails
and going in under lateens. Whoop, there she goes! Over the bar!”
“Crash-oom!” went a gun. “Crash-oom!” went a second, a third and a
fourth.
“They’re firing at us!” said Ortho.
Puddicombe snorted. “Aye—powder! That’s rejoicements, that is. You
don’t know these Arabs; when the cow calves they fire a gun; that’s
their way o’ laughing. Why, I’ve seen the corsairs come home to Algiers
with all the forts blazin’ like as if there was a bombardment on. You
wait, we’ll open up in a minute. Ah, there you are!”
“Crash-oom!” bellowed the flagship ahead. “Zang! Zang!” thundered their
own bow-chasers. “Crash-oom!” roared the ship astern, and the forts on
either hand replied with deafening volleys. “Crack-wang! Crack-wang!”
sang the little swivels. “Pop-pop-pop!” snapped the muskets ashore. In
the lull came the noise of far cheering and the throb of drums and then
the stunning explosions of the guns again.
“They’ve dowsed the mizzen,” said Puddicombe. “Foresail next and let go.
We’m most there, son; see what I mean?”
They were taken off at dusk in a ferry float. The three ships were
moored head and stern in a small river with walled towns on either hand,
a town built upon red cliffs to the south, a town built upon a flat
shore to the north. To the east lay marshes and low hills beyond, with
the full moon rising over them.
The xebecs were surrounded by a mob of skiffs full of natives, all
yelling and laughing and occasionally letting off a musket. One grossly
overloaded boat, suddenly feeling its burden too great to bear, sank
with all hands.
Its occupants did not mind in the least; they splashed about, bubbling
with laughter, baled the craft out and climbed in again. The ferry
deposited its freight of captives on the spit to the north, where they
were joined by the prisoners from the other ships, including some women
taken on the Dutch Indiaman. They were then marched over the sand flats
towards the town, and all the way the native women alternately shrieked
for joy or cursed them. They lined the track up to the town, shapeless
bundles of white drapery, and hurled sand and abuse. One old hag left
her long nail marks down Ortho’s cheek, another lifted her veil for a
second and sprayed him with spittle.
“_Kafir-b-Illah was rasool!_” they screamed at the hated Christians.
Then: “_Zahrit! Zahrit! Zahrit!_” would go the shrill joy cries.
Small boys with shorn heads and pigtails gamboled alongside, poking them
with canes and egging their curs on to bite them, and in front of the
procession a naked black wild man of the mountains went leaping, shaking
his long hair, whooping and banging a goat-skin tambourine.
They passed under a big horseshoe arch and were within the walls. Ortho
got an impression of huddled flat houses gleaming white under the moon;
of men and women in flowing white; donkeys, camels, children, naked
negroes and renegade seamen jostling together in clamorous alleys; of
muskets popping, tom-toms thumping, pipes squeaking; of laughter,
singing and screams, while in his nostrils two predominant scents
struggled for mastery—dung and orange blossom.