Bacri, the chief of the Jews, proved as good as his word.
By means of a golden lever he moved some one, who moved some one else, who moved the Dey to make certain inquiries about the slaves in the Bagnio, which resulted in his making the discovery that Lucien Rimini was a first-rate linguist and an excellent scribe.
Immediately he was commanded to fill the office of scrivano to the Dey—that post being vacant in consequence of the previous secretary having given his master some offence, for which he had had his head cut off.
But Lucien’s elevation did not necessarily improve the condition of his father and brother. The Dey cared only for those slaves who made themselves useful to him; their relations he utterly ignored, unless they succeeded in gaining his regard. The Sicilians had too much common-sense to expect any great immediate advantage from the change, nevertheless, the slight hope which had been aroused by this event enabled the two who were left in the Bagnio to endure their lot with greater fortitude and resignation. As for Lucien, he resolved to win the Dey’s esteem in order to be able to influence him in favour of his father and brother.
“We must learn to submit, my son,” said Francisco, one evening, while he and Mariano were finishing the last crumbs of the black bread which constituted their morning and evening meals.
“I admit it, father,” said Mariano, with a long-drawn sigh. “Bacri was right; but it’s not easy to bear. For myself, I think I could stand their insults and their lash better if they would only spare you, but when I see the villains strike you as they did to-day—oh, father!”—Mariano flushed and clenched his hands—“it makes me so wild that I feel as though the blood would burst my veins. You cannot wonder that I find it impossible to submit.”
“God bless you, boy,” said Francisco, laying his hand on the youth’s shoulder; “I understand your feelings—nevertheless it were well that you learned to restrain them, for rebellion only works evil. You saw what was the consequence of your attacking the man who struck me to-day—you got knocked down and bastinadoed, and I—”
Francisco paused.
“Yes, go on, father, I know what you mean.”
“Well, I would not hurt your feelings by mentioning it—as you say, you know what I mean.”
“You mean,” said Mariano, “that in consequence of my violence they gave you an additional flogging. True, father, true; and that is the one thing that will now enable me to suffer in silence.”
At this point in the conversation they were interrupted by a deep groan from a young man in the cell opposite, which was prolonged into an appalling cry.
Most of the slaves in the foul den had finished their meagre meal and lain down on the hard floors to seek, in heavy slumber, the repose which was essential to fit them for the toils of the coming day.
Some of them awoke and raised themselves on their elbows, but sank back again on seeing that nothing particular had occurred. A few who had been rendered callous by their sufferings did not take the trouble to move, but Francisco and Mariano rose and hastened to the man, supposing him to have fallen into a fit. Mariano moved with difficulty owing to the chains, upwards of sixty pounds weight, which he wore as a punishment for his recent violence.
“Go—go back to your rest,” said the man, who lay with clenched teeth and hands, as Francisco kneeled beside him, “there is nothing the matter with me.”
“Nay, friend, you are mistaken,” said Francisco, taking his hand kindly; “your look, and that perspiration on your brow, tell me that something is the matter with you. Let me call our jailer, and—”
“Call our jailer!” exclaimed the young man, with a fierce laugh; “d’you think that he’d take any notice of a sick slave? No, when we get sick we are driven out to work till we get well. If we don’t get well, we are left to die.”
“Surely, surely not!” said Francisco.
“Surely not!” repeated the young man. “Look; look there!”
He pointed as he spoke to the old man who lay on his back at full length in the recess next to his own.
“See. He is a free man now! I knew he was to be released to-night. I have seen many and many a one set free thus since I came here.”
Francisco was horrified, on going to the place where the old man lay, to find that he was dead. He had observed him tottering and looking very feeble at his work in the stone-quarries that day, but in his own misery had forgotten him since returning to the Bagnio.
“Too true!” he said, returning to the young man; “his troubles are indeed ended; but tell me what is it that ails thyself.”
“’Tis memory,” said the young man, raising himself on his elbow, and gazing sadly into Francisco’s face. “Your conversation to-night for a moment aroused memories which I have long sought to stifle.—Lad,” he said, laying a hand impressively on Mariano’s arm, “take the advice that Bacri gave you. I was once as you are. I came here—years ago—with a father like thine; but he was an older and a feebler man. Like you, I fought against our fate with the ferocity of a wild beast, and they tortured me until my life hung by a thread, for I could not endure to see the old man beaten. As you said just now, ‘you cannot wonder that I found it impossible to submit,’ but they taught me to submit. Oh! they are clever devils in their cruelty. They saw that I cared not for my life, but they also saw that I suffered through my father, and at last when I became rebellious they beat him. That tamed me, and taught me submission. The old one who lies there was a friend and comrade in sorrow of the dear father who was set free a year ago. I lay thinking of them both to-night, and when I saw you two taking the first steps on the weary path which I have trod so long—and have now, methinks, well-nigh finished—I could not restrain myself. But go—get all the rest you can. We cannot afford to waste the hours in talk. Only be sure, lad, that you take the Jew’s advice—submit.”
Without replying, the father and son crept back to their hard couch. Had they been in more comfortable circumstances their thoughts might have caused them to toss in feverish restlessness, but sheer muscular exhaustion, acting on healthy frames, caused them to fall at once into a deep slumber, from which they were rudely aroused next morning at four o’clock to proceed to the Marina, where they were to be engaged that day on certain repairs connected with the bulwarks of the harbour.
On the way down they were joined by an old man in a semi-clerical costume, whose gentle demeanour appeared to modify even the cruel nature of their savage guards, for they ceased to crack their whips at his approach, and treated him with marked respect.
Some of the slaves appeared to brighten into new creatures on beholding him, and spoke to him in earnest tones, addressing him as Padre Giovanni.
The padre had a consoling word for all, and appeared to be well acquainted with the various languages in which they spoke.
Approaching Francisco and his son he walked beside them.
“Thou hast arrived but recently, methinks?” he said in a tone of commiseration, “and hast suffered much already.”
“Ay, we have suffered somewhat,” replied Francisco in an off-hand tone, not feeling much inclined to be communicative just then.
In a few minutes, however, Giovanni had ingratiated himself with the Sicilians to such an extent that they had related all their sad history to him, and already began to feel as if he were an old friend, before they had traversed the half-mile that lay between their nightly prison and the harbour.
Arrived at their place of toil—the artificial neck connecting the little light-house island with the mainland,—Mariano was ordered to convey large masses of stone for the supply of a gang of slaves who were building a new face to the breakwater, while his father was harnessed, with another gang, to the cart that conveyed the stones to their destination along a temporary tramway.
The severity of the labour consisted chiefly in the intense heat under which it was performed, and in the unremitting nature of it. It must not be imagined, however, that there was not a single touch of humanity in the breasts of the cruel slave-drivers. Hard task-masters though they undoubtedly were, some of them were wont to turn aside and look another way when any of the poor slaves sat down for a few minutes, overcome with exhaustion.
There was little opportunity allowed, however, for intercourse among the unfortunates. One or two who, judging from their faces, showed sympathetic leanings towards each other, were immediately observed and separated. This had the effect of hardening some, while it drove others to despair.
One of those whose spirit seemed to vacillate between despair and ferocity was the young man already referred to as being an inhabitant of Francisco’s part of the Bagnio. He was a Portuguese, named Castello. In carrying the stones to and fro, he and Mariano had to pass each other regularly every three or four minutes. The latter observed, after a time, that Castello glanced at him with peculiar intelligence. At first he was puzzled, but on next passing him he determined to give him a similar look. He did so. Next time that Castello passed he said, in a low tone, without looking up, and without in the least checking his pace—
“Better to die than this!”
Mariano was taken by surprise, and at first made no reply, for he recalled the man’s advice of the previous night, but, on passing the Portuguese again, he said, in the same low tone—
“Yes, much better!”
Curious to know what was meant by this—for the tones and glances of Castello were emphatic—Mariano kept on the alert as he repassed his comrade, expecting more. He was not disappointed, though the nature of the communication tended to increase his surprise.
“Fall and hurt yourself,” whispered Castello, and passed on.
Much perplexed, Mariano tried to conceive some reason for such a strange order, but failed. He was, however, one of those rare spirits who have the capacity, in certain circumstances, to sink themselves—not blindly, but intelligently—and place implicit confidence in others. Hastily reviewing the pros and cons while laying his stone on the breakwater, and feeling assured that no great harm could possibly come of compliance, he gave a nod to his comrade in passing.
“I want to speak to you,” muttered Castello briefly.
At once the reason flashed on Mariano’s mind. The delay consequent on the fall would afford opportunity for a few more sentences than it was possible to utter in passing.
On returning, therefore, with a huge stone on his shoulder, just as he passed his friend he fell with an admirable crash, and lay stunned on the ground.
Castello instantly kneeled by his side and raised his head.
“Ten of us,” he said quickly, “intend to make a dash for the Bab-el-Oued gate on the way back to-night: join us. It’s neck or nothing.”
“I will, if my father agrees,” said Mariano, still lying with closed eyes—unconscious!
“If he does, pull your hat on one side of your head as you—” A tremendous lash from a whip cut short the sentence, and caused Castello to spring up. “Rise, you dog!” cried the Turk who had bestowed it; “are Christians so delicate that they need to be nursed for every fall?”
Castello hurried back to his work without a word of reply, and Mariano, opportunely recovering, with a view to avoid a similar cut, staggered on with his stone; but the Turk quickened his movements by a sharp flip on the shoulder, which cut a hole in his shirt, and left a bright mark on his skin.
For one moment the gush of the old fierce spirit almost overcame the poor youth, but sudden reflection and certain tender sensations about the soles of his feet came to his aid, in time to prevent a catastrophe.
When the slaves were collecting together that evening on the breakwater, Mariano managed to get alongside of his father, who at first was very unwilling to run the risk proposed.
“It’s not that I’m afraid o’ my neck, lad,” said the bluff merchant, “but I fear there is no chance for us, and they might visit their wrath on poor Lucien.”
“No fear, father; I am convinced that the Dey has already found out his value. Besides, if we escape we shall be able to raise funds to ransom him.”
Francisco shook his head.
“And what,” said he, “are we to do when we get clear out of the Bab-el-Oued gate, supposing we are so far lucky?”
“Scatter, and make for the head of Frais Vallon,” whispered Castello as he passed. “A boat waits at Barbarossa’s Tower. Our signal is—”
Here the Portuguese gave a peculiar whistle, which was too low to be heard by the guards, who were busy marshalling the gang.
“You’ll agree, father?” urged Mariano, entreatingly.
The merchant replied by a stern “Yes” as the gang was ordered to move on.
Mariano instantly gave his straw hat a tremendous pull to one side, and walked along with a glow of enthusiasm in his countenance. One of the guards, noting this, stepped forward and walked beside him.
“So much the better,” thought Mariano; “there will be no time lost when we grapple.”
Traversing the passages of the mole, the gang passed into the town, and commenced to thread those narrow streets which, to the present day, spread in a labyrinth between the port and Bab-el-Oued.
As they passed through one of those streets which, being less frequented than most of the others, was unusually quiet, a low hiss was heard.
At the moment Mariano chanced to be passing an open doorway which led, by a flight of stairs, into a dark cellar. Without an instant’s hesitation he tripped up his guard and hurled him headlong into the cellar, where, to judge from the sounds, he fell among crockery and tin pans. At the same moment, Francisco hit a guard beside him such a blow on the chest with his fist, as laid him quite helpless on the ground.
The other ten, who had been selected and let into the intended plot by Castello on account of their superior physical powers, succeeded in knocking down the guards in their immediate neighbourhood, and then all of them dashed with headlong speed along the winding street.
There were one or two passengers and a few small shops in the street, but the thing had been done so suddenly and with so little noise, that the passengers and owners of the shops were not aware of what had occurred until they beheld the twelve captives rush past them like a torrent—each seizing, as he passed, a broom-handle, or any piece of timber that might form a handy weapon.
Of course the other guards, and such of the maltreated ones as retained consciousness, shouted loudly, but they did not dare to give chase, lest the other slaves should take it into their heads to follow their comrades. Poor creatures! most of them were incapable of making such an effort, and the few who might have joined had they known of the plot, saw that it was too late, and remained still.
Thus it happened that the fugitives reached the northern gate of the city before the alarm had been conveyed thither.
The sun had just set, and the warders were about to close the gates for the night, when the desperadoes, bursting suddenly round the corner of a neighbouring lane, bounded in perfect silence through the archway.
The sentinel on duty was for a few moments bereft of the power of action. Recovering himself, he discharged his musket, and gave the alarm. The whole guard turned out at once and gave chase, but the few moments lost by them had been well used by the fugitives; besides, Despair, Terror, and Hope are powerful stimulators. After running a short time together up the steep ascent of the Frais Vallon, or Fresh Valley, they scattered, according to arrangement, and each man shifted for himself—with the single exception of Mariano, who would not leave his father.
Seeing this, the Turks also scattered, but in this condition they began to waver—all the more that the short twilight of those regions was rapidly deepening into night. They reflected that the guarding of their gate was a prior duty to the hunting down of runaway slaves, and, one by one, dropped off, each supposing that the others would, no doubt, go on, so that the officer of the guard soon found himself alone with only one of his men.
Having observed that two of the fugitives kept together, these Turks resolved to keep them in view. This was not difficult, for they were both young and active, while Francisco was middle-aged and rather heavy.
“Stay a moment, boy,” cried the bluff padrone, as they tolled up the rather steep ascent of the valley.
Mariano stopped.
“Come on, father; they are overhauling us.”
“I know it, boy,” said Francisco, taking Mariano by the shoulders and kissing his forehead. “Go thou; run! It is all over with me. God bless thee, my son.”
“Father,” said the youth impressively, grasping a mass of timber which he had wrenched from a shop front in passing, “if you love me, keep moving on, I will stop these two, or—Farewell!”
Without waiting for a reply, the youth rushed impetuously down the hill, and was soon engaged in combat with the two Turks.
“Foolish boy!” muttered Francisco, hastening after him.
Mariano made short work of the soldier, hitting him such a blow on the turban that he fell as if he had been struck by a sledge-hammer. Unfortunately the blow also split up the piece of timber, and broke it short off at his hands. He was therefore at the mercy of the young officer, who, seeing the approach of Francisco, rushed swiftly at his foe, whirling a keen scimitar over his head.
Mariano’s great activity enabled him to avoid the first cut, and he was about to make a desperate attempt to close, when a large stone whizzed past his ear and hit his adversary full on the chest, sending him over on his back.
“Well aimed, father!” exclaimed Mariano, as the two turned and continued the ascent of the valley.
At its head Frais Vallon narrows into a rugged gorge, and is finally lost in the summit of the hills lying to the northward of Algiers. Here the panting pair arrived in half-an-hour, and here they found that all their comrades had arrived before them.
“Friends,” said Castello, who was tacitly regarded as the leader of the party, “we have got thus far in safety, thank God! We must now make haste to Pointe Pescade. It lies about three or four miles along the shore. There a negro friend of mine has a boat in readiness. He told me of it only an hour before I spoke to you to-night. If we reach it and get off to sea, we may escape; if not, we can but die! Follow me.”
Without waiting for a reply, Castello ran swiftly along a foot-path that crossed over the hills, and soon led his party down towards that wild and rocky part of the coast on which stand the ruins of a fort, said to have been the stronghold of the famous pirate Barbarossa in days of old.
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