The Middy and the Moors by Robert Michael Ballantyne (free e books to read .txt) 📕

Threading his way carefully through the badly lighted streets, our middy went straight to the Kasba, and, rapping boldly at the gate, demanded admittance.

“Show me to the guard-room. I wish to speak with the officer in command,” he said, in the tone of one accustomed to obedience.

The soldier who admitted him introduced him to the officer in charge for the night.

“I come, sir,” said Foster, with quiet gentlemanly assurance, “to demand an escort for slaves.”

“By whose orders?” asked the officer.

“The order of his Highness the Dey,” answered Foster, producing the ring.

The officer examined it, touched his forehead with it in token of submission, and asked how many men were required.

“Six will do,” returned the middy, in a slow, meditative manner, as if a little uncertain on the point—“yes, six will suffice. I only wish their escort beyond the gates. Friends might attempt a rescue in the town. When I have them a short distance beyond the gates I can manage without assistance.”

He touched, as he spoke, the handle of a silver-mounted pistol which he carried in his belt. Of course, as he spoke Lingua Franca, the officer of the guard knew quite well that he was a foreigner, but as the notables and Deys of Algiers were in the habit of using all kinds of trusted messengers and agents to do their work, he saw nothing unusual in the circumstance. Six armed soldiers were at once turned out, and with these obedient, unquestioning slaves he marched down the tortuous streets to the Bagnio.

The ring procured him admittance at once, and the same talisman converted the head jailer into an obsequious servant.

“I have come for one of your slaves,” said the middy, walking smartly into the court where most of the miserable creatures had already forgotten their wretchedness in the profound sleep of the weary. The tramp of the soldiers on the stone pavement and the clang of their arms awoke some of them. “The name of the man I want is Hugh Sommers.”

On hearing this one of the slaves was observed to reach out his hand and shake another slave who still slumbered.

“Rouse up, Sommers! You are wanted, my poor friend.”

“What say you, Laronde?” exclaimed the merchant, starting up and rubbing his eyes.

“Get up and follow me,” said Foster, in a stern commanding tone.

“And who are you, that orders me as if I were a dog?” fiercely returned Sommers, who, since the day of the unsuccessful mutiny, had again become desperate, and was in consequence heavily ironed.

“The Dey of Algiers gives the order through me,” replied Foster, pointing to the soldiers, “and it will be your highest wisdom to obey without question. Knock off his irons,” he added, turning abruptly to the chief jailer.

The air of insolent authority which our ‘hipperkritical’ middy assumed was so effective that even Sommers was slightly overawed. While the irons were being removed, the unhappy Frenchman, Edouard Laronde, sought to console him.

“I told you it would soon come to this,” he said in English. “I only wish I was going to die with you.”

“Knock off this man’s irons also,” said the middy, to whom a new idea had suddenly occurred, and who was glad to find that his altered costume and bearing proved such a complete disguise that his old comrade in sorrow did not recognise him.

“I thought,” said the jailer, “that you said only one slave was wanted.”

“I say two slaves are wanted,” growled the midshipman, with a look so fierce that the jailer promptly ordered the removal of Laronde’s fetters.

“Did I not often tell you,” muttered Hugh Sommers, “that your unguarded tongue would bring you to grief?”

“It matters not. I submit, and am ready,” returned the Frenchman in a sad tone. “If it were not for my poor wife and child, the world would be well rid of such a useless rebel as I.”

When the two slaves were ready, Foster demanded a piece of rope with which he fastened the left and right wrists of the two men together. Then, placing them in the midst of the soldiers, he led them out of the prison and along the main street in the direction of the western gate of the city. Passing through this the little party advanced into the suburbs until they reached a part of the road beyond which pedestrians usually found it convenient not to travel after dark. Here Foster called a halt.

“I thank you,” he said to the leader of the soldiers, at the same time giving him a piece of money. “There is no further occasion for your services, all danger of rescue being past. I can now take care of them myself, being armed, as you see, while they are bound. Convey my thanks and compliments to your commanding officer.”

The soldier acknowledged the piece of money with a grave inclination of the head, ordered his men to right-about-face, and marched back to the Kasba, leaving the three slaves standing not far from the seashore, and gazing at each other in silence.

“You seem to have forgotten me, friends,” said the middy in English, pulling a clasp-knife out of his pocket. “Yet you have both met me before when we were slaves.”

“Were slaves!” repeated the Frenchman, who was the first to recover from his astonishment, “are we not still slaves?” he asked, glancing at the cords that bound their wrists.

“Not now,” said Foster, cutting the cords with his knife—“at least we shall soon be free if we make good use of our opportunities.”

“Free!” exclaimed both men together, with the energy of a sudden and almost overwhelming hope.

“Ay, free! But this is no time for explanation. Follow me closely, and in silence.”

Scarcely crediting their senses, and more than half disposed to believe that the whole affair was one of their too familiar dreams, yet strangely convinced at the same time that it was a reality, the two men followed their young leader with alacrity.

The reader will remember that before parting from Foster that day Peter the Great had taken special care to ascertain that he knew the whereabouts of the rocks where the boat belonging to Brown and his friends was concealed. As Foster walked along in the dark he thought a good deal about this, and felt convinced that Peter must have had some idea of the event that was likely to follow from his mission to the Bagnio. But he was much perplexed in attempting to account for his reticence in the matter. Altogether, there was mystery about it which he could not see through, so he wisely gave up thinking about it, and braced his energies to the carrying out of his own little plot. This was, to lead Hugh Sommers to his daughter and assist them to escape in the boat, along with Brown the sailor and his companions—intending, of course, to escape along with them! His taking advantage of the opportunity to free Edouard Laronde was the result of a sudden inspiration—a mere afterthought!

The distance to the spot for which they were making was considerable, and at first the fugitives proceeded with caution and in silence, but as their distance from the pirate city increased, and the danger of pursuit diminished, the middy relaxed a little, gave his companions interjectional scraps of information, and finally revealed to them all that he knew and purposed.

Suddenly their conversation was interrupted by the sight of something moving at the side of the road. It looked too small for a man, yet its movements seemed too intelligent for a dog or a stray donkey.

“Stay here, I will soon find out,” whispered Foster, drawing his pistol, and bounding towards the object in question.

It ran from him, but our middy was swift of foot. He quickly overtook it, and seized firmly by the arm what in the dark he thought to be a boy.

A slight scream undeceived him, and at the same time caused his heart to bound.

“Oh, you hurt me!” exclaimed a well-remembered voice.

“Hester!” cried the youth, and next moment, folding her in his arms, he kissed her—quite unintentionally, but irresistibly.

Thrusting him away with indignation, the maiden said, with flashing eyes, “You forget yourself, sir, and take advantage of my defenceless position.”

“No—no, indeed! I did not intend to frighten you, dear child,” (in his desperation the middy assumed the paternal rôle). “Pray forgive me, it was only my joy at the prospect of reuniting you to your father, and—”

“My father!” cried Hester, forgetting her offended dignity. “Where is he? You are alone! Peter the Great sent me here to meet him, but he did not say I should meet you.”

“Peter the Great sent you here—and alone!” exclaimed Foster, in amazement.

“Yes; he went out first to make sure that my father was coming, and then sent me to meet him that we might be alone. But Peter is close at hand.”

“Ho, yis! bery close at hand, Geo’ge!” said Peter himself, suddenly emerging from a place of concealment. “Now you come along wid me, sar, an’ let dat poo’ chile meet her fadder in private.”

“But she cannot do that, Peter, for Edouard Laronde is with him.”

“Who’n all de wurld’s Eddard Larongd?”

Before Foster could reply Hester had bounded from his side, and next moment was locked in her father’s arms.

“Come away, Geo’ge—an’ you too, Eddard La—La-whatever-it-is!” cried the negro, grasping the latter by the arm and hurrying him along the road in the direction of the seashore, while the reunited father and child knelt down together and poured out their gratitude to God.

“Dey’ll foller us in a minnit or two,” continued the negro. “What kep’ you so long, Geo’ge?”

“Couldn’t manage it sooner. But can you guess, Peter, why Ben-Ahmed behaved in the strange way he has done? He got into a rage when I attempted to tell him honestly, that I did not intend to go back to him, or to take Sommers to his house, and that I’d try to escape along with him if I could, but he would not listen or let me say a word.”

“Did you t’ink ob tellin’ him all dat?” asked Peter.

“I certainly did.”

“Well, you’re not half such a hipperkrite as I t’ink you was.”

“I’m glad to hear you say so, for I don’t like to play the part of a hypocrite, Peter; I like to be all fair and above-board.”

“Was it all fair an’ above-board, Geo’ge, to kiss dat leetle gal when she was all alone and unpurtected? Was it all fair an’ above-board to call her you dear chile, as if you was her fadder?”

“Come, come, Peter, ‘everything is fair,’ you know, ‘in love and war.’ But that’s not the point. Can you guess, I ask, Ben-Ahmed’s motive for acting so oddly?”

“Oh! yis, Geo’ge, I kin guess a’most anybody’s motives, zough, p’r’aps, I mightn’t guess right. I shouldn’t wonder, now, if Ben-Ahmed will hab to account to do Dey for de tottle disappearance of Hugh Sommers—to say not’ing ob Eddard La—La—what’s-’is-name—an’ p’r’aps he’d like to be able to say he’d no notion o’ what de man he sent to fetch de slabe was goin’ to do. Now he couldn’t hab say dat, you know, if he let you tell him all about it—like a goose as you was. So he let you go