The Pirate City: An Algerine Tale, R. M. Ballantyne [great novels of all time .TXT] 📗
- Author: R. M. Ballantyne
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The seaman mingled with the crowd and looked on.
Laying the man on the ground with his face downwards, the officers of justice sent away two of their number, who speedily returned with a blacksmith’s anvil and forehammer. On this they placed one of their victim’s ankles, and Flaggan now saw, with a sickening heart, that they were about to break it with the ponderous hammer. One blow sufficed to crush the bones in pieces, and drew from the man an appalling shriek of agony. Pushing his leg farther on the anvil, the executioner broke it again at the shin, while the other officials held the yelling victim down. A third blow was then delivered on the knee, but the shriek that followed was suddenly cut short in consequence of the man having fainted. Still the callous executioner went on with his horrible task, and, breaking the leg once more at the thigh, proceeded to go through the same process with the other leg, and also with the arms. When twelve blows had thus been delivered, the writhing of the wretched victim proved that he was still alive, though his labouring chest was now incapable of giving vent to his agony in shrieks.
We would not describe such a scene as this were it not certainly true; and we relate it, reader, not for the purpose of harrowing your feelings, but for the sake of showing what diabolical deeds we men are capable of, unless guarded therefrom by the loving and tender spirit of Jesus Christ. We say “spirit” advisedly, for we are well aware that false professors of that blessed name have, many a time, committed deeds even more horrible than that which we have just described.
Unable to bear the sight longer, the sailor turned and hurried away from the spot.
Fortunately he met Rais Ali just outside the crowd.
“Come, lad, come,” he cried, seizing that boastful man by the arm, in such a grasp that Rais turned pale with alarm. “I can’t stop here. Let’s git away. Sure it’s divls they must be, an’ not men!”
Blindly dragging the interpreter along by main force through several streets, Flaggan stopped suddenly at last to recover breath and to wipe the perspiration from his brow.
“Don’t ask me wot I’ve seen,” he said, to Ali’s inquiries, “I can’t a-bear to think on it. God help me! I wish I could wipe it out of me brain intirely. Come along, let’s finish our business, an’ git out o’ this cursed place.”
Proceeding rapidly and in silence towards the street at the base of the triangular town, which followed the line of ramparts that faced the sea, they discovered the great man of whom they were in search, Sidi Omar, walking up and down with the cadi, or chief judge, to whose daughter he was to be united on the following day.
“It won’t do to ’trupt ’em jus’ yit. Hold on a littil,” said Rais Ali to his companion.
Ted Flaggan had no objection to “hold on,” for the sight of the ocean with its fresh breezes cooled his brow, and tended to turn his mind away from the horrible thoughts that filled it.
While they are waiting, let you and me, reader, listen to the conclusion of the converse held between the bridegroom and father-in-law.
The cadi was a stern old Turk, with a long grey beard. The son-in-law elect was, as we have elsewhere said, an ill-favoured elderly man with only one eye. He did not look quite so happy as one would have expected in a bridegroom so near his wedding-day, but that was to be accounted for, to some extent, by the fact that he already possessed four wives, and was naturally somewhat used to weddings.
“No, no,” said he, in a cautious tone, to the judge; “it won’t do to be hasty about it, Achmet is too popular at present.”
“What has that to do with the question?” asked the cadi, in a tone of contempt. “If our party be strong enough we have only to strike; and I tell you that I believe it to be quite strong enough.”
“I know it,” returned Omar impatiently, “but I also know that my enemy, Sidi Hassan, is more than usually on the alert just now; I think it well to delay for a time. Besides,” he added, smiling, “you surely would not have me begin a revolution on the very eve of my marriage!”
“I would have you lose as little time as possible,” replied the cadi. “But see, if I mistake not, these two men are eyeing us rather narrowly.”
Seeing that they were observed, Rais Ali advanced, and, with a low salaam, delivered his message to Sidi Omar, who gave him the necessary reply, and dismissed him.
Resuming their conference, the two magnates turned to saunter along the street, when Omar observed a dark object like a dog, coiled up in an angle of the parapet. Poking it with his cane, he caused it to uncoil and display the vacant, features of a half-witted negro boy. The poor creature fell on his knees in alarm on seeing the well-known face of Sidi Omar, but sprang to his feet with alacrity, and ran off at full speed on being sternly told to “be gone.”
Meanwhile Rais Ali led his friend safely through the Bab-el-Oued gate, and, turning his face in the right direction said—
“Now, you git ’ome, fast. Keep ’er steady—a point morer to the westward—so, yoo can’t go wrong.”
Instead of obeying orders, Ted Flaggan turned, and, with an amused smile, watched the retreating figure of the interpreter. Then, after sauntering on some distance in a reverie, he stopped and gazed long and earnestly at the pirate city, whose white-washed domes and minarets gleamed in the sunshine like marble, contrasting beautifully with the bright green of the Sahel hills behind, and the intense blue of the sky and sea.
“A whited sepulchre!” muttered the seaman, with a frown, as he turned away and pushed forward at a rapid pace towards the residence of the British consul.
On the following morning Mrs Langley set out on horseback for the palace of the cadi, to attend the wedding of his daughter with Sidi Omar, and, true to her promise, turned aside on the way to pay a visit to the imprisoned bride of Rais Ali.
She was accompanied, of course, by the remarkable bridegroom himself, and also by her husband’s janissary, Sidi Hassan, as well as by her daughter Agnes, who rode a spirited Arab pony.
Immediately on entering the gate of the city, Rais and the ladies dismounted, and leaving their horses in charge of a groom, ascended on foot one of the narrow streets of the town. So steep was this street that it consisted of a flight of broad steps, which led ultimately to the casba, or citadel, at the upper part of the town. But before they had ascended it very far, the interpreter diverged into a cross street, which was much narrower. It terminated in a cul-de-sac, at the bottom of which stood the door of Rais Ali’s town residence.
And a remarkable door it was, made of thick oaken planks, studded with enormous nails, the heads of which were as large as a half-crown. Just above it there was a square hole grated with thick iron bars, which served to enlighten the gloomy passage within.
Applying the key before mentioned to this door, Rais threw it open and bade the visitors enter.
Having carefully shut and re-locked the door, the interpreter led them through a narrow passage, which terminated in the usual square court of Moorish houses. This was very small, and, like all such courts, had no roof, so that a pleasant gleam of sunshine flickered through the creepers which twined up its pillars and gleamed on the drops that fell from a tinkling fountain in the centre.
Entering an open doorway on the right of the court, the interpreter led the way up a flight of marble steps to the second storey of the house. A small gallery, such as one sees in public libraries in England, ran round the four sides of the building over the balustrade, of which one could look down on the leafy court with its ever singing jet d’eau. The windows of the several private, apartments opened upon this gallery.
In the centre of one side of the square was a large open doorway, in the form of a Moorish arch, by which entrance was obtained into a little extremely ornate apartment. The dome-shaped roof of this boudoir was lighted by four little holes filled with stained-glass, and the walls were covered with beautifully painted tiles. Rich ornaments of various Eastern and fanciful kinds were strewn about, and valuable Persian rugs covered the marble floor.
On an ottoman, in the centre of all, sat Rais Ali’s bride, cross-legged, and on a cushion before her lay the cat, her only companion.
She was clothed in garments of the richest description, which glittered with gold embroidery and jewels. Seated thus, stroking the cat, and with a self-satisfied smile on her fat pretty face, she seemed the very personification of contentment. Her soft brown neck was almost hidden with rows of pearls, and long rows of the same jewels depended from the high filigree cap which towered above her head. Her dress consisted of three open jackets or short caftans, one above the other, without sleeves. These were profusely garnished with gold lace, and fastened only at the waist. White linen trousers or drawers covered her limbs to the ankles, but these were so immensely wide as to bear more resemblance to female drapery than to the masculine appendages which their name suggests. A silken, gold-striped shawl was fastened by two corners round her waist, and hung down in front like an apron. Sleeves of fine embroidered muslin and of great width covered her arms. Her little feet and ankles were bare, but the latter were ornamented with several thick gold leglets. In each ear she wore five large round ear-rings, two of these fitting into two holes in the lower, and three into the upper part of the ear. One awkward result of this was that the upper ear-rings pulled the ears down, and made them pendent like those of a poodle!
The visitors having been introduced, Madam Rais Ali received them with a good-humoured stare, but said nothing. Mrs Langley then tried to engage her in conversation, but Mrs Ali continued to stare and smile without speaking, for the good reason that she understood neither French nor English. Requesting Ali to interpret, Mrs Langley then put one or two questions. The bride turned her large dark eyes on her husband while he was speaking, and then, instead of replying, turned them on her visitors and laughed. Whereupon little Agnes, unable to control herself, also laughed; this unhinged Mrs Langley, who laughed likewise, and Rais Ali followed suit from sympathy.
After this satisfactory ebullition, Mrs Langley again essayed to induce conversation, but beyond yes, no, and a laugh, she could draw forth nothing whatever from the bride, whose mind, in regard to all things terrestrial, with the exception of household affairs, was a perfect blank. Mohammedan females are treated by their lords like babies. They receive no education worthy of the name, and are therefore apt to be childish in their ideas.
After one or two fruitless attempts, the visitors took leave of the happy bride, who was thereupon locked up again by her jealous husband, and left to her own resources and the cat.
Returning to the place where their steeds had been left, the party re-mounted, and proceeded to the palace of the cadi.
This palace, being situated in one of the
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