The Pirate City: An Algerine Tale by R. M. Ballantyne (best novels ever .txt) 📕

betokened it the wealthy merchant’s study or office,—indeed, it might have been styled either with equal propriety, for Bacri, besides being an able man of business, was learned in Arabic literature—of which the town possessed, and still possesses, a valuable library,—and was a diligent student of the Hebrew Scriptures.

“You are aware,” said the Colonel, “that I am, at your request, about to use my influence with the Dey in behalf of certain friends of yours. Now, there is an old saying—and I have great respect for many old sayings,—that ‘one good turn deserves another.’ May I, then, ask you to do me a favour?”

“Certainly,” said the Jew. “Name it.”

“You must know, then, that the Dey has been pleased to send me a pretty Portuguese girl as a slave, along with her infant child.”

“I know it,” said Bacri.

“You do? Well, this poor girl turns out to be a very sweet creature, and my wife, although somewhat annoyed at first by the unexpected gift, and puzzled what to do with her, is now so fond of her, and finds her so gentle as well as useful, that she has set her heart on having Paulina Ruffini—that is her name—freed and sent home. This, however, is not the point. Paulina has a sister named—”

“Angela Diego,” interrupted the Jew.

“Oh! you know that too?” said the Colonel, with some surprise. “You seem to know everything that goes on in this curious city! Indeed, it is a belief in this general knowledge of yours that brings me here. Well, poor Paulina is naturally in great anxiety about her sister’s fate, not having heard of her since the day they were cruelly separated by Sidi Hassan. The latter is now my janissary, and tells me that he sold Angela to a Jew in the public market, and does not know where she is. Believing that you can find this out for me, I have come hither this morning on my way to the palace. Do you think you can?”

“I think I can,” said the Jew, opening a door and beckoning to some one without. “Come hither, Angela. A gentleman wishes to see you.”

“What! is this Paulina’s sister?” said the consul in surprise, as a pretty bright-eyed girl obeyed the summons.

“Speak, fair one,” said the Jew. “Dost know of one Paulina Ruffini, and her infant Angelina?”

We need scarcely add that Angela admitted, with a look of surprise, that she did, and was overwhelmed with joy on finding that her sister was a happy inmate of the consul’s villa, and that in a short time she would be permitted to see her.

Leaving the Jew’s house, well satisfied with his unlooked-for success in this matter, the consul proceeded to the palace, and was at once admitted into the audience-chamber.

According to custom, the Dey was seated on a sort of throne, with the huge lion-pup serving as a footstool. We have said before that this lion had a decided antipathy to the British consul. Not being able to speak, it could not give the reason why! Perhaps, although unable to speak, it might have been able to understand what was said, and, possibly, had taken offence at the straightforward manner in which the consul had more than once remonstrated with the Dey for allowing so old a pup to be at large. Be this as it may, certain it is that, on the present occasion, the lion raised its head when the consul was announced. On seeing his hated scarlet uniform, it uttered a savage growl, sprang up, and ran out of the room by another door, with its tail between its legs. In springing up, the brute had forgotten its temporary character of footstool. The result was that the Dey was tilted violently backwards, and fell off his throne in a confused and most undignified heap!

Fortunately for the lion—perchance also for the consul—Achmet possessed too much native dignity and common-sense to allow such an accident to ruffle his temper. He rose and resumed his seat with a hearty laugh, as he said—

“You see, Monsieur le Consul, that even lions are afraid of the English uniform!”

“Your highness is pleased to be complimentary,” replied the consul, with a bow; “and that emboldens me to observe that a Dey should not retain the services of one who is capable of showing fear.”

“Perhaps you are right,” returned Achmet, with a smile; “especially one who has had the audacity to dethrone me.—And now, what demand have you to make of me to-day? Not, I trust, that old one—the liberation of slaves!”

“No, not exactly that,” replied the consul. “Nevertheless,” he added earnestly, “I do come to make an appeal in behalf of slaves.”

The Dey’s countenance became grave.

“I refer,” continued the consul, “to those unfortunate slaves who recently attempted to escape, and are now lying in chains condemned to be bastinadoed, thrown on the hooks, and otherwise tortured to death.”

“How!” exclaimed the Dey, frowning darkly, while a flush of anger covered his face, “can you plead for slaves who have not only rebelled and fled, but who have disabled two of my janissaries, and some of whom—especially their leader Castello and the young Sicilian Mariano—are so turbulent as to be an absolute nuisance to their guards?”

“Your highness is aware,” answered the consul respectfully, “that British ideas in regard to slavery and all connected with it are widely different from those entertained by Algerines, and I do not presume to pass an opinion on the sentences pronounced on men who are held guilty of having violated your laws. I merely plead that you will extend to them the royal prerogative of mercy—especially to two of their number, Francisco and Mariano.”

“On what ground do you ask mercy for these?” demanded Achmet sternly.

“On the ground that courageous and worthy men, although tempted to rebel in order to regain their liberty, are not deserving of death; that the Portuguese girl your Highness was so generous as to send me, and who was captured along with them, has interested me deeply in their history, and also on the ground that one is the father and the other the brother of your scrivano Lucien Rimini.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed the Dey in surprise, “Lucien never told me that, although his own hand made out the order for their execution!”

“That,” answered the consul, with a smile, “is because I advised him to leave the pleading of their cause to me.”

“Believing, no doubt,” returned the Dey, with a laugh, “that your powers of persuasion are superior to his. Well, Monsieur le Consul, you may be right; nevertheless, let me tell you that short though the time be in which Lucien has been my scrivano, there is that in his modest air and ready will, as well as his talent, which constitutes a sufficient plea to induce me to pardon his relations.”

“It rejoices me,” said the consul, “to find that, as I expected, your highness’s—”

“Yes, yes; say no more on that head,” interrupted the Dey. “Here! Lucien,” he added, calling aloud to his secretary, who, clad in superb Oriental costume, appeared at the door which led into his office, “make out an order to cancel the sentence against your father and brother, and let them be sent to the palace immediately. I will speak with thee again on the matter.—Meanwhile, will Monsieur le Consul come and behold the present which I am preparing for my royal master the Sublime Porte?”

There was a touch of sarcasm in the tone in which he used the words “royal master,” which the consul understood well enough, for he was aware that although nominally subject to Turkey, Algiers was to all intents and purposes an independent power, and that the present referred to was almost all the benefit derived by the Sultan from his piratical vassal.

It was costly enough, no doubt, viewed simply in the light of a gift, and afforded a subject of great interest to the consul when permitted to survey it—an honour, by the way, which the Dey would not have conferred on the consul of any of the other nations represented at the Algerine court, for the British consul at that time was, as we have said, a special favourite. It consisted of two magnificent milk-white Arab horses, richly caparisoned; their saddles and bridles being profusely ornamented with diamonds and other gems, and their shoes being made of pure gold; several boxes of rare and costly jewels; six women-slaves with skins of the most beautiful ebony tint; a number of black-maned lions, several parrots, and a few monkeys.

“Your highness is resolved to please the Sultan by means of variety,” observed the consul, with a smile, after commenting on the gift in detail.

“That,” replied Achmet, “would have little power to please if the jewels were not numerous and costly. But happily our treasury can afford it, although we have not been very successful in war of late.”

He looked at the consul with a sly smile as he spoke, but the latter deemed it wise to be lost in admiration of some of the jewels in question.

After examining the “present,” the consul retired, and Achmet went to his private apartments to enjoy a cup of coffee and a pipe.

The room in which he sat was similar to that already described as being the reception-room of the bridal party, only the decorations were if possible more elaborate and sumptuous. Here, seated on rich cushions, with, not his most beautiful, but his wisest wife beside him, Achmet—once a petty officer of janissaries—gave himself up to the enjoyment of the hour. Christian slaves—once the happy butterflies of European and other lands—attended on him, filled his pipe, brought him hot coffee, and watched his every movement. They were richly dressed, more richly and gaily, perchance, than they had ever been in the days of freedom, when they had been wont to chat and laugh with careless hilarity. But they were mute enough now. A few of them had tasted the bastinado and been tamed; most of them had been wise enough to tame themselves. If Shakespeare had been a Turk he would probably have written a very different version of the Taming of the Shrew!

When coffee was finished, the Dey ordered the attendants to withdraw, and then settling himself comfortably on the cushions, and puffing two white streams of smoke slowly through his nose, in order to gather the fullest enjoyment therefrom, he thus addressed himself to his better-proportion—we had almost said “half,” but forgot for the moment that there were several Sultanas!

“Ashweesha, thou art a wise woman. I might almost style thee my guardian angel, for not only hast thou often guided me on the right road, but sometimes thou hast prevented me from straying into the wrong.”

Ashweesha, who was a sweet and passably good-looking woman of about thirty, raised her large dark eyes to the face of Achmet with a look of gratitude, but did not reply. Indeed, her husband did not seem to expect an answer, for he continued to smoke for some time in silence, with his eyes fixed abstractedly on a tame gazelle—the kitten of the harem—which tried to attract his attention.

“Thou art sad, or anxious, to-night,” said Ashweesha, at length breaking silence.

“Both sad and anxious,” replied the Dey slowly. “My position is indeed one of power, but not of comfort or safety.”

A shade rested for a moment like a flitting cloud on the face of Ashweesha. Gladly would she have exchanged her high estate, with all its costly and gorgeous array, for a life of humble toil accompanied with peace and security—for she was of gentle nature—but this was denied her.

“Listen,” said the Dey, laying aside his pipe and talking earnestly; “it may well chance, as it has happened before, that thy counsel may lighten my care. I am sad because two of my chief officers are snakes in the grass. They are venomous too, and their bite will prove deadly if it be not avoided. Canst thou guess their names, Ashweesha?”

“Sidi Omar and Sidi Hassan,” said Ashweesha.

Achmet looked surprised.

“Thou