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!"