The Middy and the Moors - Robert Michael Ballantyne (best biographies to read .txt) 📗

from the Moor’s lips as he turned, and said gravely—

“It is well, young man, that you confess to the true and only source of all help. You Christians, as you call yourselves, have ever seemed to me unwilling to mention the name of God save when cursing your fellows, and then you misuse it glibly enough. Yet there are some among you who are more consistent in their professions. Go, fulfil your commission. I will trust you.”

“Thank you, Ben-Ahmed,” returned the middy; “but remember, if I never return, you will understand that I have not broken my word of honour.”

The Moor bowed his head in acquiescence, and took a long pull at his pipe as the midshipman went away.

George Foster was half-way to the town before he recovered from his astonishment at the strange and unexpected way in which Ben-Ahmed had received his very plain speaking. He had expected that chains and the bastinado, if not worse, would certainly follow, but he had made up his mind to go through with it—if need be to die—for Hester’s sake. To find himself, therefore, free to go where he pleased, and to help Hester to escape if the opportunity to do so should come in his way, was an amazing state of things which he could scarcely bring himself to believe.

Of course, our hero had not the slightest expectation of encountering Hester that day, when he thus freed himself from his parole, and we need scarcely add that, even if he had met her, he could not have devised any sudden scheme for her deliverance. Nevertheless, the mere fact that he was at liberty to act as he pleased in her behalf had such an effect on him that he entered the town with a lighter heart than he had possessed for many a day. Humming a nautical air as he walked along, and almost if not quite, for the moment, oblivious of the fact of his condition of slavery, he became keenly interested in all that he saw as he passed through the crowded streets, now stopping to admire a picturesque group of figures with jars and pitchers, awaiting their turn to draw water from a public fountain, or pausing in front of a turner’s shop to observe with curiosity and interest the deft way in which the workman used his toes as well as his fingers in the operations of his trade.

He was thus engaged, in calm contemplation with his back to the street, when he was very slightly jostled by a passer-by. He scarcely noticed the incident, but if he had known who it was that touched him he would not have remained so placid, for it was Hester herself, in company with Peter the Great, on their way to the city walls.

As Hester’s eyes were fixed on the ground and her thoughts on her father, while Foster’s attention was concentrated on the turner’s toes, neither observed the other, but Peter’s sharp eyes had noted the middy, and he hurried past to prevent a recognition, which might be awkward, if not dangerous, at the moment.

Presently Foster’s attention was attracted by a Moor who was riding along the street, sitting side-wise as was the wont of Algerines of the trading-class. What struck Foster particularly about this man and his donkey was that the latter was trotting very fast, although it was a very small animal, and the man on its back a very large one. He also observed that the donkey tossed its head and put back its ears as if it were suffering pain. As the Moor’s hand rested on the donkey’s haunch, the reason at once occurred to Foster, for he had noticed the same thing before. It was the practice, among cruel men, to create, and keep open, a small sore on the haunch of each animal, by irritating which with a little bit of stick they managed to make their donkeys go in a way that a spur or a thick stick could not accomplish!

Now, our middy possessed a tender heart, which shrank sensitively from the idea of giving pain to any living creature, and which almost exploded with indignation at the sight of wanton cruelty to dumb animals.

When, therefore, the Moor came alongside of him, Foster gave him a look of tremendous indignation, at the same time exclaiming, “Shame on you!”

The Moor turned on him a look of mingled surprise and scorn. At the same time muttering, “Christian dog!” he brought a stick smartly down on the middy’s shoulders.

This was too much to bear meekly. The boiling blood in the youth’s heart boiled over into his face. He leaped forward, seized the donkey’s rein with one hand, caught the man’s left leg with the other, and hurled the rider backward to the ground.

The bump with which the Moor’s head came down had the effect of keeping it low, but the spectators of the incident, who were numerous, rushed upon the poor middy, seized him, and carried him straight to a court of justice.

They had a summary method of transacting business in those courts, especially in simple cases like that of which we treat. The investigation was rapid; the evidence of the witnesses emphatic. Almost before he had recovered breath our hero was thrown down, his feet were raised by two strong attendants, his shoes plucked off, and the soles of his feet made to tingle as if they had been set on fire.

After a few strokes, which he bore in silence, he was led to the common prison, thrust into it, and left to his meditations.

Meanwhile, Peter the Great conducted Hester to that part of the city wall where her father was at work among the other slaves. It chanced to be the hour when the wretched creatures were allowed to cease work for a brief space in order to rest and eat.

Poor Hugh Sommers chanced to have seated himself a little apart from the others, so as to get the benefit of a large stone for a seat. His figure was, therefore, prominent, as he sat there worn, weary, and dejected, consuming his allowance of black bread. Peter the Great knew him at once, having already, as the reader knows, seen him in his slave garb; but Hester’s anxious eyes failed for a few moments to pick out the emaciated frame and strangely clad, ragged figure which represented her once jovial, stalwart, and well-clothed father.

“Das him,” whispered Peter, as he loosely grasped the girl’s arm by way of precaution.

“Where—oh, where?” asked the poor creature, glancing round among the slaves.

“Now, ’member your promise. Spoil eberyt’ing if you screech or run to him. Look, dis way! De man what’s settin’ on de stone!”

“Yes, yes, I see! Oh—”

She stopped abruptly and trembled, for at the moment her father turned his woe-begone face unconsciously towards her. Even the much-increased grey tinge in the hair and beard, the lines of despair on the brow, and the hollow cheeks could not disguise the face that she loved so well. A sharp cry burst from her, and she made an attempt to rush towards him, but the iron grip of Peter restrained her.

“It’s a dead man he’ll be if you do!” he said, in a stern but low tone. “Don’t you see de janissary? Your promise—”

“Yes, yes! I’ll restrain myself now, Peter. Do let me stay a minute—just to look—”

“No, no! Come ’long wid you—idle t’ing!” he exclaimed, with sudden severity, and apparent though not real violence, for at the moment his watchful eye had observed one of the slave guards approaching them.

As the two went hurriedly past the place where Hugh Sommers was sitting, he looked up with an expression of pity.

“Poor thing!” he said. “The black scoundrel is cruel to you, and I am powerless to kick him!”

He clinked the fetters on his legs significantly as he spoke.

The mingled pathos and indignation of the loved voice was too much for poor Hester. She was on the point of exclaiming “Father!” when Peter’s great black paw extinguished her mouth, and was not removed till they were out of danger.

“You’s like all de rest ob de womans,” said the negro, as they hurried through the streets; “awrful dif’cult to manidge. Come ’long, we’ll go home and hab a talk ober it.”

Hester was too miserable to reply. She did not again speak till they were both safe in the boudoir.

There she sat down on the bed, laid her face in her hands, and burst into a passion of tears, while Peter stood looking on, his head nearly touching the low ceiling, his bulky frame filling half the remainder of the little room, and two mighty unbidden tears in his great eyes.

“Das right, Geo’giana,” he said, in a soft voice; “cry away, it’ll do you good. Nuffin like cryin’ w’en you’s fit to bust! An’ w’en you’s got it ober we’ll talk all about it.”

“Oh, Peter!” cried Hester, drying her eyes somewhat impatiently; “how could you be so cruel? Why—why could you not have waited just one minute to let me look at him?”

“Because, my dear, de man wid de whip was comin’, an’ he’d bery soon hab laid it across my back,” replied the negro gently.

“And what if he had done so?” demanded Hester, with a slight touch of indignation; “could you not have suffered a little whipping for my sake?”

“Yes, Geo’giana,” returned Peter, with much humility, “I could suffer great deal more’n dat for your sake; but dere’s no sich t’ings as little whippin’s know’d ob in dis yar town. W’en de lash am goin’ he usu’lly makes de hair fly. Moreober, dey whip womans as well as mans, an’ if he was to took de bit out ob your pretty shoulder, I couldn’t suffer dat, you know. Likewise,” continued Peter, becoming more argumentative in his manner, “you was just a-goin’ to took de bit in your teef; an’ if you’d bin allowed to frow your arms round your fadder’s neck an’ rub all de black ober his face what would hab bin de consikence?”

Peter felt his position so strong at this point that he put the question almost triumphantly, and Hester was constrained to acknowledge that he had acted wisely after all.

“But,” continued she, with still a little of reproach in her tone, “what was the use of taking me to see my darling father at all, if this is all that is to come of it?”

“You’s a leetle obstropolous in you’ fancies, Geo’giana. Dis am not all what’s to come ob it. You see, I has pity on your poo’ heart, so I t’ink you might go ebery oder day an’ hab a good look at your fadder; but how kin you go if you not know whar he works? So I tooked you to show you de way. But I’s a’most sorry I did now, for you’s got no self-’straint, an’ if you goes by you’self you’ll git took up for sartin’, an’ dey’ll whip your fadder till he’s dead, or frow him on de hooks, or skin him alive, or—”

“Oh, horrible! Don’t say such dreadful things, Peter!” exclaimed Hester, covering her face with her hands.

Feeling that he had said quite enough to impress the poor girl with the absolute necessity of being careful, he promised earnestly never again to allude to such dreadful things.

“But, Geo’giana,” he added impressively, “you mus’ promise me on your word ob honour, w’ich Geo’ge Foster says English gen’lemans neber break—an’ I s’pose he’s right.”

“Yes, quite right, Peter; true gentlemen never break their word.”

“An’ I s’pose female gen’lemans am de same.”

“Of course! Go on,” replied the girl, with a faint smile.

“Well, as I was ’bout to say, you mus’ promise me on your word ob honour, dat you’ll neber go alone to see your fadder, but allers in company wid Sally; dat you neber, neber speak to him, an’ dat you neber make you’self know’d to him till de right time comes.”

“These are hard conditions, Peter, but I see the reasonableness of them