The Middy and the Moors: An Algerine Story by R. M. Ballantyne (lightest ebook reader txt) 📕

been by that time so much accustomed to witness acts of cruelty that the incident gave him little concern. He passed doggedly onward to his thankless, unremitting toil, which had been rendered all the more severe of late in consequence of his despairing violence having compelled his drivers to put the heavy irons on his limbs.

Meanwhile Sally, having made Hester pick up some of the oranges, seized her by an arm and hurried her away. Nor did she desist scolding until she had her fairly down in the back regions of their cellar-home.

“I will never forgive you!” exclaimed Hester, with flashing eyes, doubling up her small fists, and apparently wishing that at least for one quarter of an hour she might be transformed into a female Samson.

“Oh yes, you will,” returned the negress coolly; “you’ll forgib me when I tells you dat I hab sab’ your fadder’s life, an’ p’r’aps your own too!”

“How? What do you mean?” demanded Hester, relaxing her little fists slightly, though still coruscating in the region of the eyes.

“I means dat if you got hold ob yer fadder dat time, he bery likely grip you tight an’ refuse to part wid you at no price ebermore; so den, ob course, dey tear him away, an’ he kick up a shindy an’ try to kill somebody—p’r’aps do it! Oh, its’s allers de way. I’s oftin seen it wid the big strong men—an’ your fadder am big. Dat was him, wasn’t it, wid de broad shoulders an’ de nice face—a leetle wild-like, p’r’aps, but no wonder—an’ de grey beard?”

“Yes; that was him—my darling father!”

“Well, ob course dey take him away an’ bastinado him till he die, or strangle him, or frow him on de hooks; an’ dey take you right away back to Osman, or wuss. I doo’d it for de best, Geo’giana.”

“Oh! Sally, dear, dear Sally, forgive me! But it was such an awful disappointment to be hurried away so, just as I saw him. I—I—am very wicked, Sally, will you forgive me?” said poor little Hester, bursting suddenly into tears, throwing her arms round her friend’s neck and kissing her.

“Forgib you, Geo’giana! Das not difficult to do, but I’ll neber forgib you if you go slobberin’ like dat, an’ dirtyin’ my face wid your black cheeks. Dar now, I’s got to polish you up again!”

This “polishing up,” it may be remarked, was a duty which Sally was called on to perform rather frequently, in consequence of Hester’s inveterate tendency to think of her father and shed tears! But her sable friend, whose stolid exterior concealed a wealth of affection, rather enjoyed the process of “polishing up,” and while engaged in it broke out into quite eloquent dissertations as to the impropriety of washing one’s face with tears when there was plenty of soap and water: coupled with earnest exhortations to “keep up heart,” and recommendations not to “gib in,” “neber to say die,” and the like.

On this particular occasion the sympathetic Sally gave her friend inexpressible comfort by assuring her that, having at last seen her father and the gang to which he belonged, she could now easily follow them up and find out where they were set to work. “And so, Geo’giana,” said she, in conclusion, “somet’ing may come ob dis meetin’, p’r’aps more’n you t’ink.”

Something certainly did come of it, as we shall see presently; but just now we must turn to another danger which threatened our English slave, and in regard to which the previous testing of her powers of self-restraint was but a trifle.

One morning Hester was seated in the usual corner, busily engaged with her embroidery, and with her mind still more busily employed in devising all sorts of impossible schemes for the deliverance of her father—for Sally had discovered the exact spot on the fortifications where Hugh Sommers was at work, and only prevented Hester from rushing out at once to see him by resolutely refusing for a time to tell where that spot was.

Mrs Lilly and Hester were alone at the time we refer to, Sally having gone out to the market.

“Dearie, I ’spec’s Peter de Great dis arternoon,” said Mrs Lilly, raising herself from a culinary pot to which she had been devoting her attention. “Dis am about de time he or’nar’ly comes to see you and tell you how de land lies. Now dat he knows you’s seed your fadder, he’ll likely hab somet’ing ’tickler to say to you.”

“God grant that he may have something hopeful to suggest,” said Hester, without looking up from her work.

“You may be sure dat prayer is answered, dearie, for you trust de Lord, an’ no one does dat in vain.”

As the woman spoke, the familiar voice was heard outside, “Hi, Missis Lilly! how’s you all git along down dar?” At the same moment the opening to the street was darkened by Peter’s bulky form as he descended the narrow stair.

Shaking hands with Hester, who rose eagerly to greet him, the negro was about to begin an earnest talk with her as to how she should act in regard to her father if she should again meet him, when a voice was heard that sent a deadly chill alike to the hearts of Hester and the negro.

“Is the cellar far from this?” asked the voice, which was that of Osman.

“No; here it is! Guard your feet; the second step is broken, and the place is rather dark,” replied the owner of the house.

“Osman!” whispered Peter, glaring and clenching his fists in an agony of uncertainty how to act.

Mrs Lilly, however, black-woman-like, rose to the occasion.

“Go down dar, you black wretch!” she cried, thrusting Hester quickly down into the coffee-hole; “how you s’pose massa git his dollars if you not work? Go to work, or I’ll skin you!”

Truly those negroes, male and female, seemed to possess most effective capacity for, and original methods of, coming to the rescue of their friends in moments of danger!

As Mrs Lilly uttered the last words the two visitors stood in the cellar. At the same instant the thud of the great pestle began, and so intelligently did Hester perform her part that the familiar gasp of Sally—admirably imitated—came up with every blow.

“What, Peter the Great! You here!” cried Osman, in extreme surprise.

“Yes, massa, I’s here on a little bit ob business wid Missis Lilly. She’s a fri’nd ob my sister Dinah,” answered Peter humbly.

“Oh, indeed! With my father’s permission, I suppose?”

“Yes, Massa Osman. I neber dar to come in de town widout your fadder’s purmission.”

Osman turned and addressed a few words in an undertone to the master of the house, who thereupon turned to Mrs Lilly.

“You are a wise woman, Lilly,” he said, “so I have come to consult you. It seems that one of the slaves belonging to Ben-Ahmed of Mustapha has made her escape, and it is rumoured that she has taken refuge with some one in this very street, or in one not far from it. Now, as you are well acquainted with almost every one in the neighbourhood, I thought it best to come in the first place to you to ask your advice about the matter.”

The gasp that came from the coffee-hole when this speech was made had something very real in it, and immediately afterwards the pounding was redoubled.

“Was the slabe white or black?” asked Mrs Lilly, with childlike simplicity, and more for the purpose of gaining time to think than anything else.

“She was white,” interposed Osman, “and very beautiful,—in fact, one of the ladies of the harem.”

On hearing this Mrs Lilly looked inquiringly upwards, as if she expected inspiration to flow from the bricks that formed the vaulted ceiling. Then she looked suddenly at Peter the Great, and said—

“Das mus’ be de lady you was tole me about, Peter,—Ister—Hister—w’at you call ’er?”

“Yes—Hester! Das so. De same as I tole you all about her ’scape,” answered Peter, quaking with anxiety and astonishment at the woman’s calm boldness, yet ready to fall in with any plan that her words might suggest. At the same time the gasping in the hole became more and more genuine, and the pounding more and more emphatic.

“No, massa, I don’ know of no white slabe as hab took refuge wid any ob our neighbours. Indeed I’s kite sure dat none ob de neighbours knows not’ing at all about dis Is—Es—w’at you call her? Ester! Das so, Peter?”

“Yes, das so, Missis Lilly.”

“Stop that horrible noise in the hole there! What is it?” said Osman impatiently.

“It is only one of my negro slaves,” said the master of the house. “Call her up, Lilly, and set her to something quieter until we go.”

Rendered desperate now, Peter the Great started forward with glaring eyes. “Massa,” he said, “an idea hab just struck me. Will you come out a momint? I wants to tell you somet’ing bery hard.”

The appearance, not less than the earnestness, of the negro, inclined Osman to comply with his request; but, hesitating, he said—

“Why not tell me here, Peter? We are all friends, you know.”

“Oh yes, I know dat, Massa Osman; but womans can never be trusted wid t’ings ob importance, ’specially black womans! But ob course if you not ’fraid ob Missis Lilly, I a’n’t ’fraid ob her lettin’ de secret out. I darsay she’s as good a creetur as de best ob ’um.”

This readiness to give in was a politic stroke. Osman agreed to go outside with the negro, and while the latter was ascending the short stair to the street, he was making superhuman efforts to invent something, for, as yet, he had not the faintest idea what his intended communication should be. But Peter the Great was a genius, and it is one of the characteristics of genius to be bold even to recklessness.

Trusting to some sort of inspiration, he began, with looks and tones of the deepest solemnity, “I s’pose you guess, Massa Osman, dat I’ve been inwestigatin’ that coorious business ob de English gal what runned away?”

“No, I did not guess that,” answered the Moor shortly.

“Oh! but it’s true!” said Peter. “Eber since she flooed away I’s bin goin’ about dem suspekid places, lookin’ arter her, and, do you know, Massa Osman, dat at last,” (here he dropped his voice and looked unutterable things),—“at last I’s found—”

“Well—found what?” asked the Moor eagerly.

“Found her fadder!”

“Bah! What do I care for her father, you fool?”

“Das troo, massa; but don’t you t’ink dat p’r’aps she’d be likely to try for find her fadder; an’ if she find ’im she’d be likely to remain wid her fadder? An’ so all dat we’d hab to do would be to find her fadder too. Ob course I don’t say she’s doo’d all dat; but suppose, for de sake ob argiment, dat she hab doo’d it all, won’t we—won’t we—we— No, I’s lost de t’read ob my discoorse. I’ll begin again fro’ de beginning. Das de on’y way I kin—”

“Is that all you had to tell me?” interrupted the Moor, in rising wrath.

“No—not kite all,” returned Peter humbly. “Dey do say dat de fadder is at work on de for’fications on de sout’ side ob de Kasba.”

“Well, you are a greater fool than I took you for,” said Osman, in whom contempt was quickly taking the place of anger.

“I s’pose I is, massa. An’ I s’pose it am part ob my foolishness to be lookin’ arter dis yar gal—but den, you see, I lubs Ben-Ahmed, so—”

“Well, well, Peter, I believe you mean well—”

“I’s sure I does, Massa Osman!”

“Don’t interrupt me, you black villain! Can’t you see that if Hester’s father is a Bagnio slave there is no chance of her having found refuge with him?”

“Das true, massa. I do s’pose you’s right. I’s a born ijit altogidder. But, you know, when a man gits off de scent ob a t’ing, anyt’ing dat looks de least bit like a clue should be follered up. An’ dere’s no sayin’ what might come ob seein’ de fadder—for we’s off de scent entirely