A SEVERE TRIAL--SECRET COMMUNICATION UNDER DIFFICULTIES, AND SUDDEN
FLIGHT.
The devotion of our middy to the fine arts was so satisfactory in its
results that Ben-Ahmed set him to work at various other apartments in
his dwelling when the first drawing was nearly finished.
We say nearly finished, because, owing to some unaccountable whim, the
Moor would not allow the first drawing to be completed. When Foster had
finished a painting of the central court, his master was so pleased with
the way in which he had drawn and coloured the various shrubs and
flowers which grew there, that he ordered him forthwith to commence a
series of drawings of the garden from various points of view. In one of
these Foster introduced such a life-like portrait of Peter the Great
that Ben-Ahmed was charmed, and immediately gave orders to have most of
his slaves portrayed while engaged in their various occupations.
In work of this kind many months were spent, for Foster was a
painstaking worker. He finished all his paintings with minute care,
having no capacity for off-hand or rapid sketching. During this period
the engrossing nature of his work--of which he was extremely fond--
tended to prevent his mind from dwelling too much on his condition of
slavery, but it was chiefly the knowledge that Hester Sommers was under
the same roof, and the expectation that at any moment he might encounter
her, which reconciled him to his fate, and even made him cheerful under
it.
But as week after week passed away, and month after month, without even
a flutter of her dress being seen by him, his heart failed him again,
and he began to fear that Ben-Ahmed's son Osman might have returned and
carried her off as his bride, or that she might have been sold to some
rich Moor--even to the Dey himself! Of course his black friend
comforted him with the assurance that Osman had not returned, and that
Ben-Ahmed was not the man to sell a slave he was fond of; but such
assurances did not afford him much comfort. His mind was also burdened
with anxiety about his mother and sister.
He was sitting one day while in this state at an angle of the garden
trying to devote his entire mind to the portrayal of a tree-fern, and
vainly endeavouring to prevent Hester Sommers from coming between him
and the paper, when he was summoned to attend upon Ben-Ahmed. As this
was an event of by no means uncommon occurrence, he listlessly gathered
up his materials and went into the house.
He found the Moor seated cross-legged on a carpet, smoking his hookah,
with only a negress in attendance. His easel, he found, was already
placed, and, to his surprise, he observed that the original drawing with
which his career as a painter had commenced was placed upon it.
"I wish you to finish that picture by introducing a figure," said
Ben-Ahmed, with solemn gravity.
He spoke in Lingua Franca, which Foster understood pretty well by that
time.
It now became evident to him why the drawing of the room had been left
unfinished, and he thought it probable that modesty--or, perhaps, a
difficulty in overcoming the Moslem's dislike to being transferred to
canvas at all--had caused the delay.
"In what attitude do you wish to be painted?" asked the middy, as he
moved the easel a little, and took a professional, head-on-one-side look
at his subject.
"In no attitude," returned the Moor gravely.
"Pardon me," said Foster in surprise. "Did you not say that--that--"
"I said that I wish you to finish the drawing by introducing a figure,"
returned Ben-Ahmed, taking a long draw at the hookah.
"Just so--and may I ask--"
"The figure," resumed the Moor, taking no notice of the interruption,
"is to be one of my women slaves."
Here he turned his head slightly and gave a brief order to the negress
in waiting, who retired by the door behind her.
The middy stood silent for a minute or so, lost in wonder and
expectation, when another door opened and a female entered. She was
gorgeously dressed, and closely veiled, so that her face was entirely
concealed; nevertheless, George Foster's heart seemed to bound into his
throat and half choke him, for he knew the size, air, and general effect
of that female as well as if she had been his own mother.
The Moor rose, led her to a cushion, and bade her sit down. She did so
with the grace of Venus, and then the Moor removed her veil--looking
fixedly at the painter as he did so.
But the middy had recovered self-possession by that time. He was
surprised as well as deeply concerned to observe that Hester's beautiful
face was very pale, and her eyes were red and swollen, as if from much
crying, but not a muscle in his stolid countenance betrayed the
slightest emotion. He put his head a little to one side, in the
orthodox manner, and looked steadily at her. Then he looked at his
painting and frowned, as if considering the best spot in which to place
this "figure." Then he began to work.
Meanwhile the Moor sat down to smoke in such a position that he could
see both painter and sitter.
It was a severe test of our middy's capacity to act the "hyperkrite!"
His heart was thumping at his ribs like a sledge-hammer anxious to get
out. His hand trembled so that he could scarcely draw a line, and he
was driven nearly mad with the necessity of presenting a calm,
thoughtful exterior when the effervescence within, as he afterwards
admitted, almost blew his head off like a champagne cork.
By degrees he calmed down, ceased breaking the point of his pencil, and
used his india-rubber less frequently. Then he took to colour and the
brush, and here the tide began to turn in his favour. _Such_ a subject
surely never before sat to painter since the world began! He became
engrossed in his work. The eyes became intent, the hand steady, the
heart regular, the whole man intense, while a tremendous frown and
compressed lips told that he "meant business!"
Not less intense was the attention of the Moor. Of course we cannot
tell what his thoughts were, but it seemed not improbable that his
eccentric recklessness in violating all his Mohammedan habits and
traditions as to the seclusion of women, by thus exposing Hester to the
gaze of a young infidel, had aroused feelings of jealousy and suspicion,
which were not natural to his kindly and un-Moorish cast of soul.
But while young Foster was employed in the application of his powers to
energetic labour, the old Moor was engaged in the devotion of _his_
powers to the consumption of smoke. The natural results followed.
While the painter became more and more absorbed, so as to forget all
around save his sitter and his work, the Moor became more and more
devoted to his hookah, till he forgot all around save the soporific
influences of smoke. An almost oppressive silence ensued, broken only
by the soft puffing of Ben-Ahmed's lips, and an occasional change in the
attitude of the painter. And oh! how earnestly did that painter wish
that Ben-Ahmed would retire--even for a minute--to give him a chance of
exchanging a word or two with his subject.
But the Moor was steady as a rock. Indeed he was too steady, for the
curtains of his eyes suddenly fell, and shut in the owlish glare with
which he had been regarding the middy. At the same moment a sharp click
and clatter sent an electric thrill to the hearts of all. The Moor's
mouthpiece had fallen on the marble floor! Ben-Ahmed picked it up and
replaced it with severe gravity, yet a faint flicker of red in his
cheek, and a very slight air of confusion, showed that even a
magnificent Moor objects to be caught napping by his slaves.
This incident turned Foster's thoughts into a new channel. If the Moor
should again succumb to the demands of nature--or the influence of
tobacco--how could he best make use of the opportunity? It was a
puzzling question. To speak--in a whisper or otherwise--was not to be
thought of. Detection would follow almost certainly. The dumb alphabet
would have been splendid, though dangerous, but neither he nor Hester
understood it. Signs might do. He would try signs, though he had never
tried them before. What then? Did not "Never venture, never win,"
"Faint heart never won," etcetera, and a host of similar proverbs assure
him that a midshipman, of all men, should "never say die."
A few minutes more gave him the chance. Again the mouthpiece fell, but
this time it dropped on the folds of the Moor's dress, and in another
minute steady breathing told that Ben-Ahmed was in the land of Nod--if
not of dreams.
A sort of lightning change took place in the expressions of the young
people. Hester's face beamed with intelligence. Foster's blazed with
mute interrogation. The little maid clasped her little hands, gazed
upwards anxiously, looked at the painter entreatingly, and glanced at
the Moor dubiously.
Foster tried hard to talk to her "only with his eyes." He even added
some amazing motions of the lips which were meant to convey--"What's the
matter with you?" but they conveyed nothing, for Hester only shook her
head and looked miserable.
A mild choke at that moment caused the maid to fall into statuesque
composure, and the painter to put his frowning head tremendously to one
side as he stepped back in order to make quite sure that the last touch
was really equal, if not superior, to Michael Angelo himself!
The Moor resumed his mouthpiece with a suspicious glance at both slaves,
and Foster, with the air of a man who feels that Michael was fairly
overthrown, stepped forward to continue his work. Truly, if Peter the
Great had been there at the time he might have felt that he also was
fairly eclipsed in his own particular line!
Foster now became desperate, and his active mind began to rush wildly
about in quest of useful ideas, while his steady hand pursued its labour
until the Moor smoked himself into another slumber.
Availing himself of the renewed opportunity, the middy wrapped a small
piece of pencil in a little bit of paper, and, with the reckless daring
of a man who had boarded a pirate single-handed, flung it at his
lady-love.
His aim was true--as that of a midshipman should be. The little bomb
struck Hester on the nose and fell into her lap. She unrolled it
quickly, and an expression of blank disappointment was the result, for
the paper was blank and she had expected a communication. She looked up
inquiringly, and beaming intelligence displaced the blank when she saw
that Foster made as though he were writing large text on his drawing.
She at once flattened the bit of paper on her knee--eyeing the Moor
anxiously the while--and scribbled a few words on the paper.
A loud cough from Foster, followed by a violent sneeze, caused her to
crush the paper in her hand and again become intensely statuesque.
Prompt though she was, this would not have saved her from detection if
the violence of Foster's sneeze had not drawn the Moor's first glance
away from her and towards himself.
"Pardon me," said the middy, with a deprecatory air, "a sneeze is
sometimes difficult to repress."
"Does painting give Englishmen colds?" asked the Moor sternly.
"Sometimes it does--especially if practised out of doors in bad
weather," returned Foster softly.
"H'm! That will do for to-day. You may return to your painting in the
garden. It will, perhaps, cure your cold. Go!" he added, turning to
Hester, who immediately rose, pushed the paper under the cushion on
which she had been sitting, and left the room with her eyes fixed on the
ground.
As the cat watches the mouse, Foster had watched the girl's every
movement while he bent over his paint-box. He saw where she put the
paper. In conveying his materials from the room, strange to say, he
slipped on the marble floor, close to the cushion, secured the paper as
he rose, and, picking up his scattered things with an air of
self-condemnation, retired humbly--yet elated--from the
presence-chamber.
Need we say that in the first convenient spot he could find he eagerly
unrolled the paper, and read--
"I am lost! Oh, save me! Osman has come! I have _seen_ him!
_Hateful_! He comes to-morrow to--"
The writing ended abruptly.
"My hideous sneeze did that!" growled Foster savagely. "But if I had
been a moment later Ben-Ahmed might have--well, well; no matter. She
_must_ be saved. She _shall_ be saved!"
Having said this, clenched his teeth and hands, and glared, he began to
wonder _how_ she was to be saved. Not being able to arrive at any
conclusion on this point, he went off in search of his friend Peter the
Great.
He found that worthy man busy mending a rake in a tool-house, and in a
few eager words explained how matters stood. At first the negro
listened with his wonted, cheerful smile and helpful look, which
hitherto had been a sort of beacon-light to the poor midshipman in his
troubles, but when he came to the piece of paper and read its contents
the smile vanished.
"Osman home!" he said. "If Osman come back it's a black look-out for
poor Hester! And the paper says to-morrow," cried Foster; "to take her
away and marry her, no doubt. Peter, I tell you, she must be saved
_to-night_! You and I must save her. If you won't aid me I will do it
alone--or die in the attempt."
"Geo'ge, if you was to die a t'ousan' times dat wouldn't sabe her. You
know de Kasba?"
"Yes, yes--go on!"
"Well, if you was to take dat on your shoulders an' pitch 'im into de
sea, _dat_ wouldn't sabe her."
"Yes it would, you faint-hearted nigger!" cried the middy, losing all
patience, "for if I could do that I'd be able to wring the neck of every
pirate in Algiers--and I'd do it too!"
"Now, Geo'ge, keep cool. I's on'y p'intin' out what you can't do; but
p'r'aps somet'ing may be done. Yes," (he struck his forehead with his
fist, as if to clinch a new idea),--"yes, I knows! I's hit it!"
"What!" cried Foster eagerly.
"Dat you's got nuffin to do wid," returned the negro decisively. "You
must know not'ing, understand not'ing, hear an' see not'ing, for if you
do you'll be whacked to deaf. Bery likely you'll be whacked anyhow, but
dat not so bad. You must just shut your eyes an' mout' an' trust all to
_me_. You understand, Geo'ge?"
"I think I do," said the relieved middy, seizing the negro's right hand
and wringing it gratefully. "Bless your black face! I trust you from
the bottom of my soul."
It was, indeed, a source of immense relief to poor Foster that his
friend not only took up the matter with energy, but spoke in such a
cheery, hopeful tone, for the more he thought of the subject the more
hopeless did the case of poor Hester Sommers appear. He could of course
die for her--and would, if need were--but this thought was always
followed by the depressing question, "What good would that do to _her_?"
Two hours after the foregoing conversation occurred Peter the Great was
seated in a dark little back court in a low coffee-house in one of the
darkest, narrowest, and most intricate streets of Algiers. He sat on an
empty packing-box. In front of him was seated a stout negress, in whom
an Ethiopian might have traced some family likeness to Peter himself.
"Now, Dinah," said he, continuing an earnest conversation which had
already lasted for some time, "you understand de case properly--eh?"
"Ob course I does," said Dinah.
"Well, den, you must go about it at once. Not a minute to lose. You'll
find me at de gardin door. I'll let you in. You know who you's got to
sabe, an' you must find out your own way to sabe her, an'--now, hol'
your tongue! You's just a-goin' to speak--I must know nuffin'. Don'
tell me one word about it. You's a cleber woman, Dinah."
"Yes, my brudder. I wasn't born yesterday--no, nor yet the day before."
"An', Samson, will you trust _him_?"
"My husband is as good as gold. I trust him wid eberyt'ing!" replied
this pattern wife.
"An' Youssef--what ob him?"
"He's more'n t'ree quarters blind. Kin see not'ing, an' understan's
less."
"Dinah, you's a good woman," remarked her appreciative brother, as he
rose to depart. "Now, remember, dis am de most important job you an' I
hab had to do since we was took by de pirits out ob de same ship. An' I
do t'ink de Lord hab bin bery good to us, for He's gi'n us good massas
at last, though we had some roughish ones at fust. Foller me as quick
as you can."
Dinah, being a warm-hearted woman, and very sympathetic, did not waste
time. She reached Ben-Ahmed's villa only half an hour later than her
brother, with a basket of groceries and other provisions that Peter had
purchased in town. Peter took care that the young negress, whom we have
already introduced as an attendant in the house, should be sent to
receive the basket, and Dinah took care that she should not return to
the house until she had received a bouquet of flowers to present to the
young English girl in the harem. Inside of this bouquet was a little
note written by Peter. It ran thus--
"Tri an git owt to de gardin soons yoo kan."
When Hester Sommers discovered this note, the first ray of hope entered
into her fluttering heart, and she resolved to profit by it.
Meanwhile, Dinah, instead of quitting the place after delivering her
basket, hid herself in the shrubbery. It was growing dark by that time,
and Peter made a noisy demonstration of sending one of the slaves to see
that the garden gate was locked for the night. Thereafter he remained
all the rest of the evening in his own apartments in pretty loud
conversation with the slaves.
Suddenly there was a cry raised, and several slaves belonging to the
inner household rushed into the outer house with glaring eyes, shouting
that the English girl could not be found.
"Not in de house?" cried Peter, starting up in wild excitement.
"No--nowhar in de house!"
"To de gardin, quick!" shouted Peter, leading the way, while Ben-Ahmed
himself, with undignified haste, joined in the pursuit.
Lanterns were lighted, and were soon flitting like fireflies all over
the garden, but no trace of the fugitive was found. Peter entered into
the search with profound interest, being as yet utterly ignorant of the
method of escape devised by his sister. Suddenly one of the slaves
discovered it. A pile of empty casks, laid against the wall in the form
of a giant staircase, showed how Hester had climbed, and a crushed bush
on the other side testified to her mode of descent.
Ben-Ahmed and Peter ran up to the spot together. "Dey can't hab gone
far, massa. You want de horses, eh?" asked the latter.
"Yes. Two horses, quick!"