The Middy and the Moors: An Algerine Story, R. M. Ballantyne [most difficult books to read .TXT] 📗

“No, sar, you’s not in haste. Dere’s lots ob time.” (He pulled out a watch of the warming-pan type and consulted it.) “De coach don’t start till one o’clock; it’s now eleben; so dere’s no hurry. You jest lie down on de bed an’ I’ll pack de bag.”

Instead of lying down the poor Frenchman fell on his knees beside the bed and laid his face in his hands.

“Yes—das better. Dere’s some sense in dat,” muttered the negro as he quietly continued to pack the valise.

Two hours later and Laronde was dashing across country as fast as four good horses could take him, with George Foster on one side, Peter the Great on the other, and Brown on the box-seat—the fo’c’sl, he called it—beside the red-coated driver.

Whatever may be true of your modern forty-mile-an-hour iron horse, there can be no question that the ten-mile-an-hour of those days, behind a spanking team with clattering wheels, and swaying springs, and cracking whip, and sounding horn, felt uncommonly swift and satisfactory. Laronde shut his eyes and enjoyed it at first. But the strength engendered by excitement soon began to fail. The long weary journey helped to make things worse, and when at last they arrived at the journey’s end, and went with Miss Love and Minnie to the lodging, poor Laronde had scarcely strength left to totter to his wife’s bedside. This was fortunate, however, for he was the better able to restrain his feelings.

“She has had a long satisfactory sleep—is still sleeping—and is much better,” was the nurse’s report as they entered. The daughter looked with surprise at the weak worn man who was led forward. Laronde did not observe her. His eyes were fixed on the bed where the pale thin figure lay. One of Marie’s hands lay outside the blanket. The husband knelt, took it gently and laid his cheek on it. Then he began to stroke it softly. The action awoke the sleeper, but she did not open her eyes.

“Go on,” she murmured gently; “you always used to do that when I was ill or tired—don’t stop it yet, as you always do now, and go away.”

The sound of her own voice seemed to awake her. She turned her head and her eyes opened wide while she gazed in his face with a steady stare. Uttering a sharp cry she seized him round the neck, exclaiming, “Praise the Lord!”

“Yes, Marie—my own! Praise the Lord, for He has been merciful to me—a sinner.”

The unbeliever, whom lash, torture, toil, and woe could not soften, was broken now, for “the goodness of the Lord had led him to repentance.”

Did the middy, after all, marry Hester, alias Geo’giana Sommers? No, of course, he did not! He was a full-fledged lieutenant in his Majesty’s navy when he did that! But it was not long—only a couple of years after his return from slavery—when he threw little Hester into a state of tremendous consternation one day by abruptly proposing that they should get spliced immediately, and thenceforward sail the sea of life in company. Hester said timidly she couldn’t think of it. George said boldly he didn’t want her to think of it, but to do it!

This was putting the subject in quite a new light, so she smiled, blushed, and hurriedly hid her face on his shoulder!

Of course all the fugitive slaves were at the wedding. There was likewise a large quantity of dark-blue cloth, gold lace, and brass buttons at it.

Peter the Great came out strong upon that occasion. Although he consented to do menial work, he utterly refused to accept a menial position. Indeed he claimed as much right to, and interest in, the bride as her own radiant “fadder,” for had he not been the chief instrument in “sabing dem bof from de Moors?”

As no one ventured to deny the claim, Peter retired to the privacy of the back kitchen, put his arm round Angelica’s neck, told her that he had got a gift of enough money to “ransom his sister Dinah,” laid his woolly head on her shoulder, and absolutely howled for joy.

It may be well to remark, in conclusion, that Peter the Great finally agreed to become Mrs Foster’s gardener, as being the surest way of seeing “Geo’ge” during his periodical visits home. For much the same reason Hugh Sommers settled down in a small house near them. Laronde obtained a situation as French master in an academy not far off, and his wife and daughter soon gave evidence that joy is indeed a wonderful medicine!

As for George Foster himself, he rose to the top of his profession. How could it be otherwise with such an experience—and such a wife? And when, in after years, his sons and daughters clamoured, as they were often wont to do, for “stories from father,” he would invariably send for Peter the Great, in order that he might listen and corroborate or correct what he related of his wonderful adventures when he was a Middy among the Moors.