The Middy and the Moors Part 6

"I scarce know whether to take that as encouragement or otherwise,"

returned Foster, with the first laugh he had given vent to for a long time.

"Take it how you please, Geo'ge, as de doctor said to de dyin' man-- won't matter much in de long-run. But come 'long wid me an' let's hab a talk ober it all. Let's go to de bower."

In the bower the poor middy found some consolation by pouring his sorrows into the great black sympathetic breast of Peter the Great, though it must be confessed that Peter occasionally took a strange way to comfort him. One of the negro's perplexities lay in the difficulty he had to convince our mids.h.i.+pman of his great good-fortune in having fallen into the hands of a kind master, and having escaped the terrible fate of the many who had cruel tyrants as their owners, who were tortured and beaten when too ill to work, who had bad food to eat and not too much of it, and who were whipped to death sometimes when they rebelled. Although Foster listened and considered attentively, he failed to appreciate what his friend sought to impress, and continued in a state of almost overwhelming depression because of the simple fact that he was a slave--a bought and sold slave!

"Now, look yar, Geo'ge," said the negro, remonstratively, "you _is_ a slabe; das a fact, an' no application ob fut rule or compa.s.ses, or the mul'plication table, or any oder table, kin change dat. Dere you am--a slabe! But you ain't a 'bused slabe, a whacked slabe, a tortered slabe, a dead slabe. You're all alibe an' kickin', Geo'ge! So you cheer up, an' somet'ing sure to come ob it; an' if not'ing comes ob it, w'y, de cheerin' up hab come ob it anyhow."

Foster smiled faintly at this philosophical view of his case, and did make a brave effort to follow the advice of his friend.

"Das right, now, Geo'ge; you laugh an' grow fat. Moreober, you go to work now, for if ma.s.sa come an' find us here, he's bound to know de reason why! Go to work, Geo'ge, an' forgit your troubles. Das _my_ way--an' I's got a heap o' troubles, bress you!"

So saying, Peter the Great rose and left our forlorn mids.h.i.+pman sitting in the arbour, where he remained for some time ruminating on past, present, and future instead of going to work.

Apart from the fact of his being a slave, the youth's condition at the moment was by no means disagreeable, for he was seated in a garden which must have borne no little resemblance to the great original of Eden, in a climate that may well be described as heavenly, with a view before him of similar gardens which swept in all their rich luxuriance over the slopes in front of him until they terminated on the edge of the blue and sparkling sea.

While seated there, lost in reverie, he was startled by the sound of approaching footsteps--very different indeed from the heavy tread of his friend Peter. A guilty conscience made him glance round for a way of escape, but there was only one entrance to the bower. While he was hesitating how to act, an opening in the foliage afforded him a pa.s.sing glimpse of a female in the rich dress of a Moorish lady.

He was greatly surprised, being well aware of the jealousy with which Mohammedans guard their ladies from the eyes of men. The explanation might lie in this, that Ben-Ahmed, being eccentric in this as in most other matters, afforded the inmates of his harem unusual liberty.

Before he had time to think much on the subject, however, the lady in question turned into the arbour and stood before him.

If the word "thunderstruck" did justice in any degree to the state of mind which we wish to describe we would gladly use it, but it does not.

Every language, from Gaelic to Chinese, equally fails to furnish an adequate word. We therefore avoid the impossible and proceed, merely remarking that from the expression of both faces it was evident that each had met with a crus.h.i.+ng surprise.

We can understand somewhat the mids.h.i.+pman's state of mind, for the being who stood before him was--was--well, we are again nonplussed! Suffice it to say that she was a girl of fifteen summers--the other forty-five seasons being, of course, understood. Beauty of feature and complexion she had, but these were lost, as it were, and almost forgotten, in her beauty of expression--tenderness, gentleness, urbanity, simplicity, and benignity in a state of fusion! Now, do not run away, reader, with the idea of an Eastern princess, with gorgeous black eyes, raven hair, tall and graceful form, etcetera! This apparition was fair, blue-eyed, golden-haired, girlish, sylph-like. She was graceful, indeed, as the gazelle, but not tall, and with an air of suavity that was irresistibly attractive. She had a "good" face as well as a beautiful, and there was a slightly pitiful look about the eyebrows that seemed to want smoothing away.

How earnestly George Foster desired--with a gush of pity, or something of that sort--to smooth it away. But he had too much delicacy of feeling as well as common sense to offer his services just then.

"Oh, sir!" exclaimed the girl, in perfect English, as she hastily threw a thin gauze veil over her face, "forgive me! I did not know you were here--else--my veil--but why should _I_ mind such customs? You are an Englishman, I think?"

Foster did not feel quite sure at that moment whether he was English, Irish, Scotch, or Dutch, so he looked foolish and said--

"Y-yes."

"I knew it. I was sure of it! Oh! I am _so_ glad!" exclaimed the girl, clasping her delicate little hands together and bursting into tears.

This was such a very unexpected climax, and so closely resembled the conduct of a child, that it suddenly restored our mids.h.i.+pman to self-possession. Stepping quickly forward, he took one of the girl's hands in his, laid his other hand on her shoulder, and said--

"Don't cry, my poor child! If I can help you in any way, I'll be only too glad; but pray don't, _don't_ cry so."

"I--I--can't help it," sobbed the girl, pulling away her hand--not on account of propriety, by any means: that never entered her young head-- but for the purpose of searching for a kerchief in a pocket that was _always_ undiscoverable among bewildering folds. "If--if--you only knew how long, _long_ it is since I heard an English--(where _is_ that _thing_!)--an English voice, you would not wonder. And my father, my dear, dear, darling father--I have not heard of him for--for--"

Here the poor thing broke down again and sobbed aloud, while the mids.h.i.+pman looked on, imbecile and helpless. "Pray, _don't_ cry," said Foster again earnestly. "Who are you? where did you come from? Who and where is your father? Do tell me, and how I can help you, for we may be interrupted?"

This last remark did more to quiet the girl than anything else he had said.

"You are right," she replied, drying her eyes quickly. "And, do you know the danger you run if found conversing with me?"

"No--not great danger, I hope?"

"The danger of being scourged to death, perhaps," she replied.

"Then pray _do_ be quick, for I'd rather not get such a whipping--even for _your_ sake!"

"But our owner is not cruel," continued the girl. "He is kind--"

"Owner! Is he not, then, your husband?"

"Oh, no. He says he is keeping me for his son, who is away on a long voyage. I have never seen him--and--I have such a dread of his coming back!"

"But you are English, are you not?"

"Yes."

"And your father?"

"He is also English, and a slave. We have not met, nor have I heard of him, since we were parted on board s.h.i.+p many months ago. Listen!"

CHAPTER FIVE.

THE MAIDEN'S STORY--PETER THE GREAT AND THE MIDDY GO FOR A HOLIDAY AND SEE AWFUL THINGS.

During the conversation detailed in the last chapter the young English girl had spoken with her veil down. She now threw it carelessly back, and, sitting down on a bench opposite our mids.h.i.+pman, folded her hands in her lap and remained silent for a few seconds, during which George Foster said--not aloud, but very privately to himself, "Although your eyes are swelled and your little nose is red with crying, I never--no I never--did see such a dear, sweet, pretty little innocent face in all my life!"

All unconscious of his thoughts, and still giving vent now and then to an irresistible sob, the poor child--for she was little more--looked up and began her sad tale.

"About eight months ago my dear father, who is a merchant, resolved to take me with him on a voyage to some of the Mediterranean ports. My father's name is Hugh Sommers--"

"And yours?" asked Foster.

"Is Hester. We had only just entered the Mediterranean when one of those dreadful Algerine pirates took our vessel and made slaves of us all. My darling father, being a very big, strong, and brave man, fought like a tiger. Oh! I never imagined that his dear kind face _could_ have looked as it did that awful day. But although he knocked down and, I fear, killed many men, it was all of no use, they were so numerous and our men so few. The last I saw of my father was when they were lowering him into a boat in a state of insensibility, with an awful cut all down his brow and cheek, from which the blood was pouring in streams.

"I tried to get to him, but they held me back and took me down into the cabin. There I met our owner, who, when he saw me, threw a veil over my head and bade me sit still. I was too terrified and too despairing about my father to think of disobeying.

"I think Ben-Ahmed, our owner, must be a man of power, for everybody seemed to obey him that day as if he was the chief man, though he was not the captain of the s.h.i.+p. After a time he took my hand, put me into a small sailing boat, and took me ash.o.r.e. I looked eagerly for my father on landing, but he was nowhere to be seen, and--I have not seen him since."

"Nor heard of or from him?" asked Foster.

"No."

At this point, as there were symptoms of another breakdown, our middy became anxious, and entreated Hester to go on. With a strong effort she controlled her feelings.

"Well, then, Ben-Ahmed brought me here, and, introducing me to his wives--he has four of them, only think!--said he had brought home a little wife for his son Osman. Of course I thought they were joking, for you know girls of my age are never allowed to marry in England; but after a time I began to see that they meant it, and, d'you know--By the way, what is your name?"

"Foster--George Foster."