The Pirate City: An Algerine Tale, R. M. Ballantyne [great novels of all time .TXT] 📗

are many who love you in the city. Escape over the terraces to the house of Jacob the Jew. He has many hiding-places, and will assuredly aid you.”

“I will try, for your sake, Ashweesha,” said Achmet, starting up; “I have little hope, it is true, for my enemies are too strong for me, but it were cowardly to fail for want of an effort. Allah bless thee, my wife!”

He kissed her, and immediately made for the staircase that led to the terrace.

Gaining the roof, he looked over the parapet, and the first glance was enough to convince him that he must bid adieu to hope. The palace was completely surrounded by the insurgents, who set up a fierce shout on observing him, and fired a volley of balls from many directions, all of which, however, passed harmlessly over his head.

“Thou seest, Ashweesha,” he said, with a sad smile, as the Sultana followed him to the terrace, “my time has come. It is fate. Allah has willed it so—there is therefore no possibility of averting it.”

“Say not so,” cried Ashweesha earnestly; “the terrace of Jacob is easily gained; once there you can descend to some of the back streets where no one looks for you.”

“I will make the attempt,” said the Dey, sternly casting his eyes over the city.

It was a sight that might well lull him with sad thoughts, for the roofs or terraces everywhere were covered with affrighted women—the houses of the Jews being especially distinguishable by the frantic manner in which the Jewesses wrung their hands, and otherwise displayed their grief and alarm.

A plank thrown from the parapet of his palace to that of the nearest house enabled Achmet to escape from those of his enemies who had gained an entrance below, but it was only a momentary respite; while they were searching for another plank to enable them to follow him, he attempted to cross over to the house of the Jew above mentioned. He was at once observed, on the frail bridge that supported him, and a shout of anger rose from the populace like a hoarse roar.

During the whole time in which the Dey was thus endeavouring to escape, his proud spirit fought against him, urging him to turn and dare his foes to do their worst. At the moment when their roar burst upon his ear, all desire to escape seemed to vanish. He stopped suddenly, drew himself up with his wonted look of dignified composure, and from his perilous and elevated position looked down almost reproachfully on those who had been wont to bow at his footstool.

The act was followed by another roar. A hundred muskets belched forth their deadly fire, and Achmet Dey fell headlong into the street.

The shattered body was instantly seized by the soldiers, and the head, severed from the trunk, was carried off to the palace, there to be presented as a trophy to Sidi Hamet, the new Dey of Algiers.

So soon as the green standard of the Prophet was run up on the flag-staff of the palace, announcing that a new ruler had seated himself on the throne, the period of recognised anarchy came to an end, and order began to be in some measure restored. Still, most of the wealthy inhabitants kept in close retirement, having, of course, hidden away most of their valuables and cash. The Jews, especially, were very chary of showing themselves in public, and those of them who had fled for refuge to the British consulate remained quiet, and were hospitably entertained for several days.

Among the first who fled to that shelter was the valiant Rais Ali. He entered with a trembling frame and pale visage about the time the incidents we have described were being enacted, and found Colonel Langley, with the aid of Ted Flaggan, engaged in preparing the various rooms of the building for the reception of those who, from past experience, he expected to require them.

“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