The Pirate City: An Algerine Tale

“Why, Rais! what ails you?” demanded Colonel Langley in surprise, not unmingled with anger, for he had, on leaving home, placed the interpreter in charge of his family in his suburban villa.

“Oh! mass’r,” said Ali piteously; “yous no know wat dangers me hab if de janissary cotch me. Life not wuth wone buttin.”

“Rascal!” exclaimed the Colonel, “did I not charge you to guard my household? How dare you forsake your post? Are you not under my protection?”

“Ah! yis, yis, mass’r; but—but—yous no know de greatness of me danger—”

“Go, scoundrel!” exclaimed the Colonel, losing all patience with him; “return to your duty as fast as your horse can carry you, else I shall hand you over to the janissaries.”

“You hears what yer master says, don’t ’ee?” said Ted Flaggan, who viewed the infidelity and cowardice of the interpreter with supreme disgust, as he seized him by the nape of the neck and thrust him towards the door. “Git out, ye white-livered spalpeen, or I’ll multiply every bone in yer body by two.”

Rais Ali went with extreme reluctance, but there was no resisting the persuasive violence of Ted’s powerful arm, nor the emphatic kick of the muscular leg with which he propelled his Moorish friend into the street. He did not wait, however, to remonstrate, but immediately drew forward the hood of his burnous and hurried away.

Just then Bacri entered, conducting a number of women and children who sought sanctuary there.

“Some of my people have need of the British arm to protect them,” said the Jew, with a sad smile.

“And they shall have it,” said the consul, taking Bacri by the hand.—“See them attended to, Flaggan,” he added, turning to the seaman.

“Ay, ay, sir.—This way, my dears,” said Ted, waving his hand with a fatherly air to the group of weeping women and children, and conducting them to one of the large chambers of the house, where Mrs Langley and Paulina had already spread out bedding, and made further preparations for a large party.

“Do you think, Bacri,” said the consul, as the other was about to depart, “that there is much chance of Hamet succeeding?”

“I do,” answered the Jew. “Achmet is now become very unpopular. He is too kind and generous to suit the tastes of the soldiers, and you are aware that the janissaries have it all their own way in this city.”

This was indeed the case. The Turkish soldiers were extremely insolent and overbearing, alike to Moors and Jews, one of the privileges they claimed being to enter the gardens of the inhabitants whenever they pleased—not excepting those of the consuls—and eat and destroy fruit and vegetables at will.

“Achmet’s party,” added Bacri, “is not strong, while that of Hamet is not only numerous but influential. I fear much that the sands of his glass are nearly run out.”

“It is a woeful state of things,” observed the Colonel, while a slight flush mantled on his cheek—possibly at the thought of his having, as the representative of a civilised power, to bow his head and recognise such barbarians. “And you, Bacri, will you not also stay here?”

“No. There are others of my people who require my aid. I go to join them. I trust that Hamet’s promise—if he succeeds—will sufficiently guard me from violence. It may be that they will respect my position. In any case I stay not here.—Farewell.”

When the Jew had left, the consul turned to superintend the arrangements of his house, which by this time had assumed the appearance of a hospital or prison—so numerous and varied were the people who had fled thither for refuge.

Chief among the busy ones there was the ebony damsel from beyond the Zahara, whose tendency to damage Master Jim and to alarm Jim’s mamma has already been remarked on more than once. Zubby’s energies were, at the time, devoted to Paulina, in whom she took a deep interest. She had made one little nest of a blanket for her baby Angelina, and another similar nest for Master Jim, whose head she had bumped against the wall in putting him into it—without awaking him, however, for Jim was a sound sleeper, and used to bumps. She was now tearfully regarding the meeting of Paulina with her sister Angela. The latter had been brought to the consulate by Bacri, along with her mistress and some other members of the Jew’s household, and the delight of the two sisters at this unexpected meeting afforded the susceptible Zubby inexpressible—we might almost say inconceivable—joy, as was evidenced by the rising of her black cheeks, the shutting of her blacker eyes, and the display of her gorgeous teeth—front and back—as well as her red gums.

“Oh! I’m so glad,” exclaimed Angela, sitting down on a mat beside her sister, and gazing through her tears.

“So am I, darling,” responded Paulina, “and so would baby be if she were awake and understood it.”

Zubby looked as if she were on the point of awaking baby in order to enable her to understand it; fortunately she thought better of this.

“But I’m so frightened,” added Angela, changing rather suddenly from a smile to a look of horror.

“Why, dearest?” asked Paulina.

“Oh! you’ve no idea what awful things I have heard since I went to live with the Jew, who is very kind to me, Paulina. They said they were going to kill the Dey.”

“Who said, dear?”

“The—the people—you know. Of course I don’t know who all the people are that come to see us, and I don’t like to ask; but some of them are bad—oh, so bad!” she looked appallingly solemn here—“and then Mariano—”

“Ah! what of Mariano and Francisco and Lucien?” asked Paulina with increasing interest, while Zubby became desperately intelligent.

“Oh, he was sent on such a dangerous expedition,” continued Angela, blushing slightly, and more than slightly crying, “and when he was coming back he was caught in the streets, and carried off to that dreadful Bagnio, about which he has told me such awful horrors. So Bacri told me on his return, for Bacri had tried to save him, but couldn’t, and was nearly lost himself.—But what is all the noise about outside, sister—and the shooting off of guns?”

The noise referred to by the pretty Sicilian was caused by a party of rioters who, returning from the slaughter of the Dey, were hurrying towards the house of Bacri, intent on plunder. They were led by one of those big blustering men, styled bullies, who, in all lands, have a talent for taking the lead and talking loud when danger is slight, and modestly retiring when it is great.

Waving a scimitar, which already dripped with blood, this man headed the rushing crowd, and was the first to thunder for admittance at the Jew’s door. But no one answered his demands.

Shouting for a beam, he ran to a neighbouring pile of timber, and, with the aid of some others, returned bearing a battering-ram, which would soon have dashed in the door, if it had not been opened by Bacri himself, who had returned just in time to attempt to save his house from being pillaged.

For a few seconds the rioters were checked by surprise at the cool, calm bearing of the Jew. Then they dropped the beam, uttered a yell of execration, and rushed upon him, but were unexpectedly checked by one of their own number suddenly turning round, and in a voice of stern authority ordering the crowd to stand back.

The young janissary who acted thus unexpectedly was a tall handsome man of resolute bearing, but with a frame that rather denoted activity than strength. As he held a glittering sword threateningly in his right hand, his order was obeyed for a few seconds, and then it was observed that he held in his left hand a rope, which was tied round the neck of a Christian slave. This slave was none other than our unfortunate friend Francisco Rimini.

“Who art thou that issues commands so bravely?” demanded the bully, stepping forward.

“You must be aware, comrades,” said the young soldier, addressing the crowd rather than his interrogator, “that Sidi Hamet—now Dey of Algiers—has given strict orders that the houses of the Jews are to be respected. I am here to see these orders carried out.”

“And who art thou? again I demand,” said the bully, observing that his comrades showed a tendency to waver, “that dost presume to—”

“I am one,” cried the young soldier, with a whirl of his gleaming blade so close to the man’s nose that he staggered back in alarm—“I am one who knows how to fulfil his duty. Perchance I may be one who shall even presume some day to mount the throne when Hamet Dey is tired of it—in which case I know of a bully whose head shall grace the highest spike on Bab-Azoun!”

The quiet smile with which the latter part of this speech was delivered, and the determined air of the youth, combined to make the soldiers laugh, so that the bully felt himself under the necessity of retiring.

Sheathing his sword with a business-like air, and rudely pushing his prisoner into the house, whither Bacri had already retired, the young soldier entered and shut the door.

“Lucien!” exclaimed Bacri in surprise, as he grasped the hand of the young janissary, “thou hast managed this business well, considering that thou art no Turk. How didst thou come to think of it?”

“I should never have thought of it, had not my worthy father suggested the idea,” replied Lucien, with a smile, as he removed the rope from the neck of his sire.—“Forgive me, father, if I have played my part too roughly—”

“Too roughly!” echoed the bluff merchant, with a laugh; “why, boy, dost think that thine old father has lost all his youthful vigour? I trow not.—You see, Signor Bacri, we have had information of what was impending for some days past, and although we could do nothing to avert the catastrophe, we thought it possible that we might manage to avoid the massacre at the palace. Knowing from report that the janissaries ran riot at such times, and being aware that my son Lucien—who is a noted linguist, Signor Bacri—spoke their language almost as well as a native, I suggested that he should procure a uniform and personate a janissary, while I should act the part of a runaway slave. Being a favourite with poor Achmet, as you know, Lucien had much influence among the domestics, and easily procured the disguise. The moment the insurrection took place we fled from the palace, and, as you see, here we are!”

“But why came you hither?” asked Bacri, with a troubled look.

“To whom else could we flee for shelter?” returned Lucien. “You are the only friend we have in the city—except, indeed, the Padre Giovanni, who has no power to save us.”

“Alas!” returned the Jew, leading his friends into the skiffa, and seating himself on the edge of the fountain that played there, “you lean on a broken reed. My power is not sufficient to protect myself. Even now the soldiers might have taken my life, and robbed my house with impunity, had it not been for your courage, Lucien. My predecessor was shot in cold blood by a man who for the murder was only transported. If he had slain the poorest Turk, or even a Moor, he would have been strangled. We are a despised as well as persecuted race, and our influence or power to protect you is very small. Indeed, if it were known that I had given you shelter, my life would be forfeited, as well as yours. I have already placed it in great jeopardy in order to save Mariano—”

“Mariano!” exclaimed Francisco, turning an anxious gaze on the Jew; “is he, then, in danger?”

“He is captured by the Turks,” replied Bacri, “and is now in the Bagnio.”

“Where they will doubtless bastinado him to death,” said Francisco, grinding his teeth and clenching his hands with suppressed passion. “Bacri, I feel that in me which makes me long to run a-muck among these Turks.”

“I understand you not,” said Bacri.

“Why, I will take the first opportunity that offers to cut the throats of as many of these fiends as possible before they manage to cut mine. They say that vengeance is sweet. I will taste it and try,” said the merchant, with a grim smile.

“‘Vengeance is mine, I will repay, saith the Lord,’” returned Bacri slowly; “says not your own Scripture so?”

“It may be so, but man’s power of endurance is limited,” retorted Francisco gloomily.

“But God’s power to aid and strengthen is not limited,” returned the Jew. “Believe me, no good ever came of violence—at least from revengeful violence. No doubt a violent assault at the right time and with a right motive has often carried the day; but violence given way to for the mere purpose of gratifying the feelings is not only useless, it is hurtful and childish.”

“Hast never given way to such thyself, Bacri?” demanded Francisco with some asperity.

“I have,” replied the Jew with humility, “and it is because I have done so that I am enabled to speak with some authority as to the results. Your desire, I suppose, is to save Mariano. If you would attain that end, you must learn to curb your passions and use the powers of judgment with which your Maker has endowed you.”

“Well, well, we will let that point hang on its peg in the meantime,” returned Francisco impatiently; “but what wouldst thou advise? we are at your mercy.”

“I will do what I can to prove that a Jew is not ungrateful,” answered Bacri. “If they leave us unmolested here till night-fall we may find a way of escape for you, at all events from the city, but it is only such as desperate men would choose to take.”

“We are desperate men,” said Lucien quietly.

“Once outside the walls,” continued the Jew, “you must keep perfectly close and still by day, for a diligent search will be made for you, and only at night will you be able to creep out from your place of hiding to steal what you can for food, and to attempt to gain the coast, where your only chance of escape lies in seizing one of the small feluccas in which the piracies of the Algerines are carried on, and putting off to sea without provisions,—with the certainty of being pursued, and the all but certainty of being overtaken.”

“Such risks are better than death or slavery,” answered Francisco. “We think not of danger. The only thing that gives me concern is how we are to get my poor son out of the Bagnio.”

“I will manage that for you,” said Bacri, “for my gold is at least powerful with menials; but in order to do this I shall have to leave the house for a time and must conceal you in a cellar.”

“Do as you will, Bacri,” said Francisco; “we are in your hands and place implicit confidence in you.”

“Well, follow me!” said the Jew.

Rising and leaving the skiffa, he conducted them down a staircase into a small cellar, which was almost too low to admit of their standing erect. Here he pointed out a shelf on which were a pot of water and a loaf, also a bundle of straw on which they might rest when so disposed. Having described carefully to them the manner of Mariano’s escape over the roof of the house and by the city wall, and having given them the rope that had been used on that occasion, he said—

“Now I leave you. I must lock the trap-door that leads to this dungeon, and carry away the key, because if rioters were to break in and find the key in it, they would at once discover your refuge.”

“And what if you be killed, Bacri, and we be left here without a soul in the world who knows of our whereabouts?” said Francisco, with a look of anxiety. “I’d rather be bastinadoed to death than be buried alive after all.”

“If it goes ill with me, as may well be the case,” answered the Jew, “you have only to make use of this crowbar and wrench off the lock of the door. But if rioters enter the house, be careful not to do it until some time after they are gone, and all is quiet. When free, you must use your own wisdom and discretion.—Farewell!”

Bacri ascended the trap-ladder and shut the door, leaving his friends in darkness which was made visible but not dispelled by a small lantern. They listened intently to his receding footsteps until the last faint echo left them in total silence.