ISRAEL IN PRISON
Short as the time was--some three months and odd days--since the prison
at Shawan had been emptied by order of the warrant which Israel had
sealed without authority in the name of Ben Aboo, it was now occupied
by other prisoners. The remoteness of the town in the territory of
the Akhmas, and the wild fanaticism of the Shawanis, had made the
old fortress a favourite place of banishment to such Kaids of other
provinces as looked for heavier ransoms from the relatives of victims,
because the locality of their imprisonment was unknown or the danger
of approaching it was terrible. And thus it happened that some fifty or
more men and boys from near and far were already living in the dungeon
from which Israel and Ali together had set the other prisoners free.
This was the prison to which Israel was taken when he was torn from
Naomi and the simple home that he had made for himself near Semsa.
“Ya Allah! Let the dog eat the crust which he thought too hard for his
pups!” said Ben Aboo, as he sealed the warrant which consigned Israel to
the Kaid of Shawan.
Israel was taken to the prison afoot, and reached it on the morning of
the second day after his arrest. The sun was shining as he approached
the rude old block of masonry and entered the passage that led down
to the dungeon. In a little court at the door of the place the Kaid el
habs, the jailer, was sitting on a mattress, which served him for chair
by day and bed by night. He was amusing himself with a ginbri, playing
loud and low according as the tumult was great or little which came from
the other side of a barred and knotted doorway behind him, some four
feet high, and having a round peephole in the upper part of it. On the
wall above hung leather thongs, and a long Reefian flintlock stood in
the corner.
At Israel's approach there were some facetious comments between the
jailer and the guard. Why the ginbri? Was he practising for the fires
of Jehinnum? Was he to fiddle for the Jinoon? Well, what was a man to do
while the dogs inside were snarling? Were the thongs for the correction
of persons lacking understanding? Why, yes; everybody knew their old
saying, “A hint to the wise, a blow to the fool.”
A bunch of great keys rattled, the low doorway was thrown open, Israel
stooped and went in, the door closed behind him, the footsteps of the
guard died away, and the twang of the ginbri began again.
The prison was dark and noisome, some sixty feet long by half as many
broad, supported by arches resting on rotten pillars, lighted only by
narrow clefts at either hand, exuding damp from its walls, dropping
moisture from its roof, its air full of vermin, and its floor reeking of
filth. And only less horrible than the prison itself was the condition
of the prisoners. Nearly all wore iron fetters on their legs, and some
were shackled to the pillars. At one side a little group of them--they
were Shereefs from Wazzan--were conversing eagerly and gesticulating
wildly; and at the other side a larger company--they were Jews from
Fez--were languidly twisting palmetto leaves into the shape of baskets.
Four Berbers at the farther end were playing cards, and two Arabs that
were chained to a column near the door squatted on the ground with a
battered old draughtboard between them. From both groups of players
came loud shouts and laughter and a running fire of expostulation and
of indignant and sarcastic comment. Down went the cards with triumphant
bangs, and the moves of the “dogs” were like lightning. First a mocking
voice: “_You_ call yourself a player! There!--there!--there!” Then a
meek, piping tone: “So--so--verily, you are my master. Well, let us
praise Allah for your wisdom.” But soon a wild burst of irony: “You are
like him who killed the dog and fell into the river. See! thus I teach
you to boast over your betters! I shave your beard! There!--there!--and
there!”
In the middle of the reeking floor, so placed that the thin shaft of
light from the clefts at the ends might fall on them--a barber-doctor
was bleeding a youth from a vein in the arm. “We're all having it done,”
he was saying. “It's good for the internals. I did it to a shipload of
pilgrims once.” A wild-looking creature sat in a corner--he was a saint,
a madman, of the sect of the Darkaoa--rocking himself to and fro, and
crying “Allah! All-lah! All-l-lah! All-l-l-lah!” Near to this person
a haggard old man of the Grega sect was shaking and dancing at his
prayers. And not far from either a Mukaddam, a high-priest of the Aissa,
brotherhood--a juggler who had travelled through the country with a lion
by a halter--was singing a frantic mockery of a Christian hymn to a tune
that he had heard on the coast.
Such was the scene of Israel's imprisonment, and such were the
companions that were to share it. There had been a moment's pause in
the clamour of their babel as the door opened and Israel entered. The
prisoners knew him, and they were aghast. Every eye looked up and every
mouth was agape. Israel stood for a time with the closed door behind
him. He looked around, made a step forward, hesitated, seemed to peer
vainly through the darkness for bed or mattress, and then sat down
helplessly by a pillar on the ground.
A young negro in a coarse jellab went up to him and offered a bit of
bread. “Hungry, brother? No?” said the youth. “Cheer up, Sidi! No good
letting the donkey ride on your head!”
This person was the Irishman of the company--a happy, reckless,
facetious dog, who had lost little save his liberty and cared nothing
for his life, but laughed and cheated and joked and made doggerel songs
on every disaster that befell them. He made one song on himself--
El Arby was a black man
They called him “'Larby Kosk:”
He loved the wives of the Kasbah,
And stole slippers in the Mosque.
Israel was stunned. Since his arrest he had scarcely spoken. “Stay
here,” he had said to Naomi when the first outburst of her grief was
quelled; “never leave this place. Whatever they say, stay here. I will
come back.” After that he had been like a man who was dumb. Neither
insult nor tyranny had availed to force a word or a cry out of him.
He had walked on in silence doggedly, hardly once glancing up into the
faces of his guard, and never breaking his fast save with a draught of
water by the way.
At Shawan, as elsewhere in Barbary, the prisoners were supported by
their own relatives and friends, and on the day after Israel's arrival a
number of women and children came to the prison with provisions. It was
a wild and gruesome scene that followed. First, the frantic search of
the prisoners for their wives and sons and daughters, and their wild
shouts as each one found his own. “Blessed be God! She's here! here!”
Then the maddening cries of the prisoners whose relatives had not come.
“My Ayesha! Where is she? Curses on her mother! Why isn't she here?”
After that the shrieks of despair from such as learned that their
breadwinners were dying off one by one. “Dead, you say?” “Dead!” “No,
no!” “Yes, yes!” “No, no, I say!” “I say yes! God forgive me! died
last week. But don't you die too. Here take this bag of zummetta.” Then
inquiries after absent children. “Little Selam, where is he?” “Begging
in Tetuan.” “Poor boy! poor boy! And pretty M'barka, what of her?”
“Alas! M'barka's a public woman now in Hoolia's house at Marrakesh. No,
don't curse her, Jellali; the poor child was driven to it. What were we
to do with the children crying for bread? And then there was nothing to
fetch you this journey, Jellali.” “I'll not eat it now it's brought. My
boy a beggar and my girl a harlot? By Allah! May the Kaid that keeps me
here roast alive in the fires of hell!” Then, apart in one quiet corner,
a young Moor of Tangier eating rice out of the lap of his beautiful
young wife. “You'll not be long coming again, dearest?” he whispers. She
wipes her eyes and stammers, “No--that is--well--” “What's amiss?” “Ali,
I must tell you--” “Well?” “Old Aaron Zaggoory says I must marry him, or
he'll see that both of us starve.” “Allah! And you--_you_?” “Don't look
at me like that, Ali; the hunger is on me, and whatever happens I--I can
love nobody else.” “Curses on Aaron Zaggoory! Curses on you! Curses on
everybody!”
No one had come with food for Israel, and seeing this 'Larby the negro
swaggered up to him, singing a snatch and offering a round cake of
bread--
Rusks are good and kiks are sweet
And kesksoo is both meat and drink;
It's this for now, and that for then,
But khalia still for married men.
“You're like me, Sidi,” he said, “you want nothing,” and he made an
upward movement of his forefinger to indicate his trust in Providence.
That was the gay rascal's way of saying that he stole from the bags of
his comrades while they slept.
“No? Fasting yet?” he said, and went off singing as he came--
It will make your ladies love you;
It will make them coo and kiss--
“What?” he shouted to some one across the prison “eating khalia in the
bird-cage? Bad, bad, bad!”
All this came to Israel's mind through thick waves of
half-consciousness, but with his heart he heard nothing, or the very air
of the place must have poisoned him. He sat by the pillar at which he
had first placed himself, and hardly ever rose from it. With great slow
eyes he gazed at everything, but nothing did he see. Sometimes he had
the look of one who listens, but never did he hear. Thus in silence and
languor he passed from day to day, and from night to night, scarcely
sleeping, rarely eating, and seeming always to be waiting, waiting,
waiting.
Fresh prisoners came at short intervals, and then only was Israel's
interest awakened. One question he asked of all. “Where from?” If they
answered from Fez, from Wazzan, from Mequinez, or from Marrakesh, Israel
turned aside and left them without more words. Then to his fellows they
might pour out their woes in loud wails and curses, but Israel would
hear no more.
Strangers from Europe travelling through the country were allowed to
look into the prison through the round peephole of the door kept by the
Kaid el habs, who played the ginbri. The Jews who made baskets took this
opportunity to offer their work for sale; and so that he might see the
visitors and speak with them Israel would snatch up something and hang
it out. Always his question was the same. “Where from last?” he would
say in English, or Spanish, or French, or Moorish. Sometimes it chanced
that the strangers knew him. But he showed no shame. Never did their
answers satisfy him. He would turn back to his pillar with a sigh.
Thus weeks went on, and Israel's face grew worn and tired. His fellow
prisoners began to show him deference in their own rude way. When he
came among them at the first they had grinned and laughed a little.
To do that was always the impulse of the poor souls, so miserably
imprisoned, when a new comrade joined him. But the majesty and the
suffering in Israel's face told on their hearts at last. He was a great
man fallen, he had nothing left to him; not even bread to eat or water
to drink. So they gathered about him and hit on a way to make him share
their food. Bringing their sacks to his pillar, they stacked them about
it, and asked him to serve out provisions to all, day by day, share and
share alike. He was honest, he was a master, no one would steal from
him, it was best, the stuff would last longest. It was a touching sight.
Still the old eagerness betrayed itself in Israel's weary manner as
often as the door opened and fresh prisoners arrived. Once it happened
that before he uttered his usual question he saw that the newcomers
were from Tetuan, and then his restlessness was feverish. “When--were
you--have you been of late--” he stammered, and seemed unable to go
farther.
But the Tetawanis knew and understood him. “No,” said one in answer to
the unspoken question; “Nor I,” said another; “Nor I,” said a third,
“Nor I neither,” said a fourth, as Israel's rapid eyes passed down the
line of them.
He turned away without a word more, sat down by the pillar and looked
vacantly before him while the new prisoners told their story. Ben Aboo
was a villain. The people of Tetuan had found him out. His wife was a
harlot whose heart was a deep pit. Between them they were demoralising
the entire bashalic. The town was worse than Sodom. Hardly a child in
the streets was safe, and no woman, whether wife or daughter, whom God
had made comely, dare show herself on the roofs. Their own women
had been carried off to the palace at the Kasbah. That was why they
themselves were there in prison.
This was about a month after the coming of Israel to Shawan. Then his
reason began to unsettle. It was pitiful to see that he was conscious of
the change that was befalling him. He wrestled with madness with all the
strength of a strong man. If it should fall upon him, where then would
be his hope and outlook? His day would be done, his night would be
closed in, he would be no more than a helpless log, rolling in an
ice-bound sea, and when the thaw came--if it ever came--he would be
only a broken, rudderless, sailless wreck. Sometimes he would swear at
nothing and fling out his arms wildly, and then with a look of shame
hang down his head and mutter, “No, no, Israel; no, no, no!”
Other prisoners arrived from Tetuan, and all told the same story. Israel
listened to them with a stupid look, seeming hardly to hear the tale
they told him. But one morning, as life began again for the day in that
slimy eddy of life's ocean, every one became aware that an awful change
had come to pass. Israel's face had been worn and tired before, but now
it looked very old and faded. His black hair had been sprinkled with
grey, and now it was white; and white also was his dark beard, which
had grown long and ragged. But his eye glistened, and his teeth were
aglitter in his open mouth. He was laughing at everything, yet not
wildly, not recklessly, not without meaning or intention, but with the
cheer of a happy and contented man.
Israel was mad, and his madness was a moving thing to look upon. He
thought he was back at home and a rich man still, as he had been in
earlier days, but a generous man also, as he was in later ones. With
liberal hand he was dispensing his charities.
“Take what you need; eat, drink, do not stint; there is more where this
has come from; it is not mine; God has lent it me for the good of all.”
With such words, graciously spoken, he served out the provisions
according to his habit, and only departed from his daily custom in
piling the measures higher, and in saluting the people by titles--Sid,
Sidi, Mulai, and the like--in degree as their clothes were poor and
ragged. It was a mad heart that spoke so, but also it was a big one.
From that time forward he looked upon the prisoners as his guests, and
when fresh prisoners came to the prison he always welcomed them as if
he were host there and they were friends who visited him. “Welcome!” he
would say; “you are very welcome. The place is your own. Take all. What
you don't see, believe we have not got it. A thousand thousand welcomes
home!” It was grim and painful irony.
Israel's comrades began to lose sense of their own suffering in
observing the depth of his, and they laid their heads together to
discover the cause of his madness. The most part of them concluded
that he was repining for the loss of his former state. And when one
day another prisoner came from Tetuan with further tales of the Basha's
tyranny, and of the people's shame at thought of how they had dealt by
Israel, the prisoners led the man back to where Israel was standing in
the accustomed act of dispensing bounty, that he might tell his story
into the rightful ears.
“They're always crying for you,” said the Tetawani; “'Israel ben Oliel!
Israel ben Oliel!' that's what you hear in the mosques and the streets
everywhere.' Shame on us for casting him out, shame on us! He was our
father!' Jews and Muslimeen, they're all saying so.”
It was useless. The glad tidings could not find their way. That black
page of Israel's life which told of the people's ingratitude was sealed
in the book of memory. Israel laughed. What could his good friend mean?
Behold! was he not rich? Had he not troops of comrades and guests about
him?
The prisoners turned aside, baffled and done. At length one man--it was
no other than 'Larby the wastrel--drew some of them apart and said, “You
are all wrong. It's not his former state that he's thinking of. _I_ know
what it is--who knows so well as I? Listen! you hear his laughter! Well,
he must weep, or he will be mad for ever. He must be _made_ to weep.
Yes, by Allah! and I must do it.”
That same night, when darkness fell over the dark place, and the
prisoners tied up their cotton headkerchiefs and lay down to sleep,
'Larby sat beside Israel's place with sighs and moans and other symptoms
of a dejected air.
“Sidi, master,” he faltered, “I had a little brother once, and he was
blind. Born blind, Sidi, my own mother's son. But you wouldn't think how
happy he was for all that? You see, Sidi he never missed anything, and
so his little face was like laughing water! By Allah! I loved that boy
better than all the world! Women? Why--well, never mind! He was six and
I was eighteen, and he used to ride on my back! Black curls all over,
Sidi, and big white eyes that looked at you for all they couldn't see.
Well a bleeder came from Soos--curse his great-grandfather! Looked at
little Hosain--'Scales!' said he--burn his father! Bleed him and he'll
see! So they bled him, and he did see. By Allah! yes, for a minute--half
a minute! 'Oh, 'Larby,' he cried--I was holding him; then he--he--'
'Larby,' he cried faint, like a lamb that's lost in the mountains--and
then--and then--'Oh, oh, 'Larby,' he moaned Sidi, Sidi, I _paid_ that
bleeder--there and then--_this_ way! That's why I'm here!”
It was a lie, but 'Larby acted it so well that his voice broke in his
throat, and great drops fell from his eyes on to Israel's hand.
The effect on Israel himself was strange and even startling. While
'Larby was speaking, he was beating his forehead and mumbling: “Where?
When? Naomi!” as if grappling for lost treasures in an ebbing sea.
And when 'Larby finished, he fell on him with reproaches. “And you are
weeping for that?” he cried. “You think it much that the sweet child is
dead--God rest him! So it is to the like of you, but look at me!”
His voice betrayed a grim pride in his miseries. “Look at me! Am
I weeping? No; I would scorn to weep. But I have more cause a
thousandfold. Listen! Once I was rich; but what were riches without
children? Hard bread with no water for sop. I asked God for a child. He
gave me a daughter; but she was born blind and dumb and deaf. I asked
God to take my riches and give her hearing. He gave her hearing; but
what was hearing without speech? I asked God to take all I had and give
her speech. He gave her speech, but what was speech without sight?
I asked God to take my place from me and give her sight. He gave her
sight, and I was cast out of the town like a beggar. What matter? She
had all, and I was forgiven. But when I was happy, when I was content,
when she filled my heart with sunshine, God snatched me away from her.
And where is she now? Yonder, alone, friendless, a child new-born into
the world at the mercy of liars and libertines. And where am I? Here,
like a beast in a trap, uttering abortive groans, toothless, stupid,
powerless, mad. No, no, not mad, either! Tell me, boy, I am not mad!”
In the breaking waters of his madness he was struggling like a drowning
man. “Yet I do not weep,” he cried in a thick voice. “God has a right to
do as He will. He gave her to me for seventeen years. If she dies she'll
be mine again soon. Only if she lives--only if she falls into evil
hands--Tell me, _have_ I been mad?”
He gave no time for an answer. “Naomi!” he cried, and the name broke
in his throat. “Where are you now? What has--who have--your father
is thinking of you--he is--No, I will not weep. You see I have a good
cause, but I tell you I will never weep. God has a right--Naomi!--Na--”
The name thickened to a sob as he repeated it, and then suddenly he rose
and cried in an awful voice, “Oh, I'm a fool! God has done nothing for
me. Why should I do anything for God? He has taken all I had. He has
taken my child. I have nothing more to give Him but my life. Let Him
take that too. Take it, I beseech Thee!” he cried--the vault of the
prison rang--“Take it, and set me free!”
But at the next moment he had fallen back to his place, and was sobbing
like a little child. The other prisoners had risen in their amazement,
and 'Larby, who was shedding hot tears over his cold ones, was capering
down the floor, and singing, “El Arby was a black man.”
Then there was a rattling of keys, and suddenly a flood of light shot
into the dark place. The Kaid el habs was bringing a courier, who
carried an order for Israel's release. Abd er-Rahman, the Sultan, was to
keep the feast of the Moolood at Tetuan, and Ben Aboo, to celebrate the
visit, had pardoned Israel.
It was coals of fire on Israel's head. “God is good,” he muttered. “I
shall see her again. Yes, God has a right to do as He will. I shall see
her soon. God is wise beyond all wisdom. I must lose no time. Jailer
can I leave the town to-night? I wish to start on my journey.
To-night?--yes, to-night! Are the gates open? No? You will open them?
You are very good. Everybody is very good. God is good. God is mighty.”
Then half in shame, and partly as apology for his late intemperate
outburst, with a simpleness that was almost childish, he said, “A man's
a fool when he loses his only child. I don't mean by death. Time heals
that. But the living child--oh, it's an unending pain! You would never
think how happy we were. Her pretty ways were all my joy. Yes, for her
voice was music, and her breath was like the dawn. Do you know, I was
very fond of the little one--I was quite miserable if I lost sight
of her for an hour. And then to be wrenched away! . . . . But I must
hasten back. The little one will be waiting. Yes, I know quite well
she'll be looking out from the door in the sunshine when she awakes in
the morning. It's always the way of these tender creatures, is it not?
So we must humour them. Yes, yes, that's so that's so.”
His fellow-prisoners stood around him each in his night-headkerchief
knotted under his chin--gaunt, hooded figures, in the shifting light of
the jailer's lantern.
“Farewell, brothers!” he cried; and one by one they touched his hand and
brought it to their breasts.
“Farewell, master!” “Peace, Sidi!” “Farewell!” “Peace!” “Farewell!”
The light shot out; the door clasped back; there were footsteps
dying away outside; two loud bangs as of a closing gate, and then
silence--empty and ghostly.
In the darkness the hooded figures stood a moment listening, and then a
croaking, breaking, husky, merry voice began to sing--
El Arby was a black man,
They called him “'Larby Kosk;”
He loved the wives of the Kasbah,
And stole slippers in the Mosque.