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 Superieur. 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.