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

that they are no better at the present time than they were then! A few of the corpses, however, possessed sufficient life to enable them to smoke and sip tea or coffee.

This outer court was the immediate vestibule to the bath, or stewing-room—if we may be allowed the name. There was no passing, as with us, from a private undressing-box, through a mild cooling room, and thence into the hot and the hottest rooms. The Moors were bold, hardy fellows. The step was at once made from the cooling into the hot room, or bath, and in taking the step it was necessary to pass over one of the open sewers of the town—to judge from the smell thereof. But this last was a mere accidental circumstance connected with the bath, not an essential part of it. Thus it will be seen there were but two apartments in the establishment, with an outer lobby.

When the two friends had unrobed and wrapped a piece of striped calico round their loins, they were led by a young Moor in similar costume towards the stewing-room.

“Don’ be frighted,” whispered Rais Ali; “it’s pretty hottish.”

“I’ll try to be aisy,” replied the seaman with a quiet smile, “an’ av I can’t be aisy I’ll be as aisy as I can.”

Although he treated the idea of being frightened with something of contempt, he was constrained to admit to himself that he was powerfully surprised when he stepped suddenly into a chamber heated to an extent that seemed equal to a baker’s oven.

The apartment was octagonal, and very high, with a dome-shaped roof, from which it was dimly lighted by four small and very dirty windows. Water trickled down the dirty dark-brown walls; water and soap-suds floated over the dirty marble floor. In the centre of the floor was a mass of masonry about three feet high and seven feet square. This was the core of the room, as it were—part of the heating apparatus. It was covered with smooth slabs of stone, on which there was no covering of any kind. There is no knowing how much lurid smoke and fire rolled beneath this giant stone ottoman.

It chanced that only two men were in the place at the time. They had advanced to a certain stage of the process, and were enjoying themselves, apparently lifeless, and in sprawling attitudes, on the hot sloppy floor. The attendant of one had left him for a time. The attendant of the other was lying not far from his temporary owner, sound asleep. One of the Moors was very short and fat, the other tail and unusually thin; both had top-tufts of hair on their shaven crowns, and both would have looked supremely ridiculous if it had not been for the horrible resemblance they bore to men who had been roasted alive on the hot ottoman, and flung carelessly aside to die by slow degrees.

“Do as I doos,” said Rais to Flaggan, as he stretched himself on his back on the ottoman.

“Surely,” acquiesced Ted, with a gasp, for he was beginning to feel the place rather suffocating. He would not have minded the heat so much, he thought, if there had only been a little fresh air!

Rais Ali’s bath-attendant lay down on the slab beside him. Flaggan’s attendant looked at him with a smile, and pointed to the ottoman.

“Och, surely,” said Ted again, as he sat down. Instantly he leaped up with a subdued howl.

“W’y, what wrong?” asked Rais, looking up.

“It’s red-hot,” replied Flaggan, rubbing himself.

“Nonsense!” returned Rais; “you lie down queek. Soon git use to him. Always feel hottish at fust.”

Resolved not to be beaten, the unfortunate Irishman sat down again, and again started up, but, feeling ashamed, suddenly flung himself flat on his back, held his breath, and ground his teeth together. He thought of gridirons; he thought of the rack; he thought of purgatory; he thought of the propriety of starting up and of tearing limb from limb the attendant, who, with a quiet smile, lay down beside him and shut his eyes; he thought of the impossibility of bearing it an instant longer; and then he suddenly thought that it felt a little easier. From this point he began to experience sensations that were slightly pleasurable, and a profuse perspiration broke out over his whole body.

Evidently his attendant was accustomed to deal occasionally with white men, for he watched his huge charge out of the corner of a wicked eye for some time. Seeing, however, that he lay still, the fellow went off into a peaceful slumber.

“’Tis an amazin’ place intirely,” observed Ted, who felt inclined to talk as he began to enjoy himself. “If it wasn’t so dirty that an Irish pig of proper breedin’ would object to come into it, I’d say it was raither agreeable.”

Rais Ali being in the height of enjoyment, declined to answer, but the seaman’s active mind was soon furnished with food for contemplation, when one of the attendants entered and quietly began, to all appearance, to put the tall thin Moor to the torture.

“Have I to go through that?” thought Flaggan; “well, well, niver say die, owld boy, it’s wan comfort that I’m biggish, an’ uncommon tough.”

It would be tedious to prolong the description of the Irishman’s bathe that morning. Suffice it to say that, after he had lain on the ottoman long enough to feel as if the greater part of him had melted away, he awoke his attendant, who led him into a corner, laid him on the sloppy floor, and subjected him to a series of surprises. He first laid Ted’s head on his naked thigh, and rubbed his face and neck tenderly, as though he had been an only son; he then straightened his limbs and baked them as though he had been trained to knead men into loaves from infancy; after that he turned him on his back and on his face; punched and pinched and twisted him; he drenched him with hot water, and soused him with soap-suds from head to foot, face and all, until the stout mariner resembled a huge mass of his native sea-foam; he stuck his hair up on end, and scratched his head with his ten nails; and tweaked his nose, and pulled his fingers and toes till they cracked again!

All this Ted Flaggan, being tough, bore with passing fortitude, frequently saying to the Moor, internally, for soap forbade the opening of his lips—

“Go ahead, me lad, an’ do yer worst!”

But although his tormentor utterly failed to move him by fair means, he knew of a foul method which proved successful. He crossed Ted’s arms over his breast, and attempted to draw them as far over as possible, with the view, apparently, of tying them into a knot.

“Pull away, me hearty!” thought Flaggan, purposely making himself as limp as possible.

The Moor did pull; and while his victim’s arms were stretched across each other to the uttermost, he suddenly fell upon them, thereby almost forcing the shoulder-joints out of their sockets.

“Och! ye spalpeen!” shouted Ted, flinging him off as if he had been a feather. Then, sinking back, he added, “Come on; you’ll not ketch me slaipin’ again, me honey!”

The amused Moor accepted the invitation, and returned to the charge. He punched him, baked him, boxed him, and battered him, and finally, drenching him with ice-cold water, swathed him in a sheet, twisted a white turban on his head, and turned him out like a piece of brand-new furniture, highly polished, into the drying-room.

“How yoos like it?” asked Rais Ali, as they lay in the Turkish-corpse stage of the process, calmly sipping tea.

“It’s plis’nt,” replied Ted, “uncommon plis’nt, but raither surprisin’.”

“Ha,” responded Rais.

At this point their attention was turned to the little fat Moor who had been their fellow-bather, and to whom Ted in his undivided attention to the thin Moor had paid little regard.

“Musha!” whispered Ted, “it’s the capting of the port.”

The captain of the port it was, and if that individual had known who it was that lay cooling within a few yards of him, he would probably have brought our nautical hero’s days to a speedy termination. But although he had seen Ted Flaggan frequently under the aspect of a British seaman, he had never before seen him in the character of a half-boiled Moor. Besides, having been thoroughly engrossed and lost in the enjoyment of his own bath, he had paid no attention to those around him.

“Turn yoos face well to de wall,” whispered Rais Ali. “He great hass; hims no see yoo.”

“Great ‘hass,’ indade; he’s not half such a ‘hass’ as I am for comin’ in here,” muttered the sailor, as he huddled on his Arab garments, keeping his face carefully turned away from the captain of the port, who lay with his eyes shut in a state of dreamy enjoyment.

In a few minutes the two friends paid for their bath, and went out.

“I feels for all the world like a bird or a balloon,” said Ted, as his companion hurried him along; “if I don’t git some ballast soon in the shape o’ grub, I’ll float away intirely.”

Rais Ali made no reply, but turned into a baker’s shop, where he purchased two rolls. Then hurrying on down several narrow streets, the houses of which met overhead, and excluded much of the light of day, he turned into a small Moorish coffee-house, which at first seemed to the sailor to be absolutely dark, but in a few minutes his eyes became accustomed to it, and he saw that there were several other customers present.

They were nearly all in Arab costume, and sat cross-legged on two benches which ran down either side of the narrow room. Each smoked a long pipe, and sipped black coffee out of a very diminutive cup, while the host, a half negro, stood beside a charcoal fire, in the darkness of the far interior, attending to an array of miniature tin coffee-pots, which exactly matched the cups in size. A young Moor, with a red fez, sat twanging a little guitar, the body of which was half a cocoa-nut, covered with parchment.

This musician produced very dismal tones from its two strings, but the Arabs seemed content, and sat in silent, not to say dignified, enjoyment of it.

“Eat away now,” whispered Rais to Flaggan, as they entered—“cross yoo legs, look solemn, an’ hold yoos tongue. Me goes git shave.”

Obedient to instructions—as British seamen always are—Ted took his place on one of the narrow benches, and, crossing his legs à la Turk, began with real zest to eat the rolls which his friend had provided for him, and to sip the cup, or thimbleful, of coffee which mine host silently, by order of the same friend, placed at his side.

Meanwhile, Rais Ali submitted himself to the hands of the host, who was also a barber, and had his head and face shaved without soap—though a little cold water was used.

During this operation a boy ran hastily into the café and made an announcement in Arabic, which had the surprising effect of startling the Arabs into undignified haste, and induced Rais Ali to overturn his coffee on the barber’s naked feet, while he seized a towel and dried himself violently.

“What’s to do, old feller?” demanded Flaggan, with a huge bite of bread almost stopping up his mouth.

“De British fleet am in sight!” shrieked Rais Ali.

“Ye don’t mean that?” cried Ted, in his turn becoming excited. “Then it’s time that I was out o’ the city!”

“Yis, away! go to yous cave! Only death for Breetish in Algiers—off! away!”

The Moor dashed out and hastened to his post on the ramparts, while Ted Flaggan, drawing his burnous well round him, made straight for the northern gate of the town, casting an uneasy glance at his now white legs, of which at least the ankles and beginning of the brawny calves were visible. We use the term “white” out of courtesy, and in reference to the distinct difference