Down the Coast of Barbary/Chapter 11

HE little town of Adjerud, at the mouth of the Tafna River, was enjoying a brief heyday of prosperity. Upon an eminence behind the village was camped the great Pasha Ripperda with his personal troops; he kept the roads busy with messengers to the camps at Oran in the east and Ceuta in the west. He had been here a week, and illness held him fast.

Below the village, and by the deposition of fate camped between Ripperda and the shore, were a thousand wild Berber horsemen, come from Morocco to join the armies. Ripperda was holding them here, uncertain as yet where they were most needed.

In the tiny port lay two ships. One was a small brigantine of Tetuan, Ripperda’s personal ship, manned by renegades like himself. On this ship, said rumor, were kept great treasures; Pasha Ripperda never knew when he was to be sent a wandering once more. The other ship was a battered hulk, brought in by a Salee rover to be repaired. Great crowds thronged the beach to watch her. She had come from a far country, and under her stern were the strange words, “Boston Lass.”

Aboard her were a score or more infidel captives hard at work. Each night they were brought ashore and kept guarded in a fishing shed on the beach. Among them was Patrick Spence, turned over to the fate of a slave, working under the lash with his fellow American seamen.

In a separate tent adjoining that of Ripperda remained Mistress Betty and her two slave women. She was closely guarded, for her own sake; when she left the tent, it was usually at night. From her women she knew of Spence’s fate, and knew that her own would be no better.

Upon the evening of Friday, “the day of the congregation,” she was summoned to the tent of Ripperda. He sat propped among pillows, his swathed feet upon two stools. His harried features bore such a blaze of exultation that she knew instantly some great thing had happened. Messengers had come from Oran by land, and from Ceuta by sea.

“Good evening, lady,” said Ripperda courteously. “Is not the horoscope finished?”

“At this time tomorrow night I will present it to you,” responded the girl quietly.

“Ah! And does it tell of success or failure?”

“Only one failure have I seen so far, my lord, and that is death. But there are evil influences in the south, and I fear tomorrow may tell another story.”

“Know you what has chanced today?” Ripperda gave a vibrant laugh. “Hear, then! The fleet and army of Algiers have joined my forces before Oran. A victory has been won at Ceuta. The Sultan of Egypt has joined me. And last—read this, which just came from Oran, from the hand of Admiral Perez himself!”

He extended a paper, a letter in Spanish. The girl read:

“Now,” cried Ripperda proudly, “let us see if your horoscope forecasts what must happen! The Spaniard driven from Africa—and what then? Finish your labors, fair lady!”

“Tomorrow night they shall be finished, my lord. And forget not your promise to me!”

“I renew the promise—you shall have one of the captured Spanish ships at Oran, to go whither you will!”

The girl left the tent trembling, for she feared the man and his purposes. For a space she stood gazing over the camp-crowded shore below, and the little bay where the ship lights glimmered. Sadness was upon her, the load of despair grew more hopeless each hour. All her hopes had crashed down.

Now she was aware that a dark-clad Moor approached the man who guarded her. They talked softly, there was the chink of money, then the Moor came forward and addressed her in Spanish:

“Señorita, I come from Udjde. I have a letter for you, another for Captain Spence.”

Mistress Betty started violently. She took the paper extended to her.

“He is among the slaves yonder,” she said, despairing. “You cannot reach him.”

The Moor laughed quietly.

“Aye, we knew that ere I left. My master, the governor, has word daily by pigeon. I am told to bid you hope, and despair not. Adios!”

Crushing the note in her hand the girl turned to her own tent. In a fever of eagerness, she dismissed her slaves and bent above the lamp. She opened the paper and read:

Tears brimmed the girl’s eyes. Rescue! Good Dr. Shaw alive and well. Mulai Ali alive! Whether she could be plucked from Ripperda’s hand was a large query. Spence was another matter; she felt sure that Mulai Ali’s emissary would rescue him. That Moor must have many friends, men of Ali’s party, enemies of the pasha. Was Shaw preparing some deadly blow against Ripperda, here in this place? Undoubtedly!

Exultation burned in the girl’s eyes as she turned to the horoscope.

“Mulai Ali wins!” she murmured, her eyes wide in rapt thought. “Though Ripperda slay me for it I shall drive home one blow to his face—such a blow as he shall rue bitterly! The man means to play me false, break his promise; I read it in his eyes. Well, then, here is a weapon that shall strike home to him!”

She seized quill and ink horn, and fell to work.

The following day was quiet. Ripperda looked hourly for fresh dispatches from Oran, but none came. His gout was worse; in her tent, Mistress Betty could hear the deep groans from his quarters. Only his renegades were encamped here on the hill, for he would trust no others.

Late in the afternoon, from her tent, the girl saw the arrival of a dozen horsemen from the south. Their leader wore a black burnoose, and at sight of him the girl shrank. Gholam Mahmoud! What new evil did his presence foretell? Had the man come to warn Ripperda?

The girl’s fears might have been both lightened and increased had she followed Gholam Mahmoud into Ripperda’s tent. He swaggered in, saluted Ripperda, and laid down a bundle.

“You have it there?” Ripperda started up, eagerly.

“Aye,” said Gholam Mahmoud. “As I thought, Captain Spence flung it into the river. Well, here it is! Being sewn in canvas, it has probably suffered little damage. It is unopened.”

Ripperda seized on the bundle with trembling fingers, ripped away the canvas, took a knife and cut the stiffened leather around the lock. Opening the box he found a number of small packages wrapped in oiled silk. A long breath of relief came from him, and he relaxed amid his cushions. Gholam Mahmoud regarded him with sardonic gaze.

“And my reward?”

“Ah!” Ripperda started. “Wait until tonight. The girl is casting my horoscope. Remain, hear the reading of it—and take her. Are you content?”

“It is well, master. I shall go and rest until night.”

The heel of the afternoon passed into sunset. As the daylight waned, the sail of a fast little sloop was seen speeding up the harbor toward the village.

It was now that Ripperda sent for Mistress Betty.

Starry-eyed she entered the tent, holding against the bosom of her white robe the scroll which was to foretell the doom of Pasha Ripperda. He sat among the cushions, smiling that weary smile of his. To one side sat Gholam Mahmoud, puffing at a water pipe; save for them, and the guard at the door, the pavilion was empty.

“The labor is done?” Ripperda’s tone was silky. “And did you obey my request?”

“I did,” said the girl. “My lord, your entire fate is written here.”

“Then read it, read it!” Ripperda’s interest quickened. “Tell first of the things I most want to know—the issue of my undertakings! I can study the whole horoscope later. Does everything go well?”

“Not so, my lord.”

The girl’s tone was grave; the gaze that she bent upon Ripperda was steady.

“If you desire flattery, I might give it; but what I have written here is the truth.”

Ripperda leaned back, a dry smile upon his lips.

“Let us know the worst, mistress! When shall the infidel be driven from Africa?”

“Never.” Mistress Betty unrolled the paper and read. “Your star has waned, my lord. The war against Spain is doomed to failure—nay, has already failed! Mulai Ali is alive and has been proclaimed sherif. You yourself have not a fortnight longer to enjoy life—”

An oath ripped from pasha’s lips. He sat upright, fury in his eyes.

“What madness is this?” he cried out. “Why, this—”

A cry from the door; into the pavilion rushed a panting man, waving a paper. The guard at the door called in to Ripperda.

“A boat from Oran, lord! This message has just come! From the admiral!”

Ripperda seized the paper, tore at the seals. Within, he found only a few hasty lines:

From Ripperda burst a hollow groan. His features became ghastly, and for a moment he sat as though paralyzed. The paper fell from his nerveless fingers; Gholam Mahmoud, leaning forward, read the message in silence.

In this dread silence came another cry from the guard at the door.

“A courier from the south, with urgent news!”

“Admit him,” said Ripperda in a dead voice.

“In the name of God!” cried the dust-white man, flinging himself on his face at the entrance. “Mulai Ali is not dead, but alive, has been proclaimed sherif, is marching on Fez with all the Zenete tribes behind him. Also, an hour ago I met two Spahis from the army at Ceuta, who told me that the infidels have raised the siege there, and that a great fleet of Spanish ships has passed on the way to Oran—”

From Ripperda broke one choking cry. He rose, swayed, his face purpled with a rush of blood. Guards rushed into the tent, caught him in their arms. He could utter only one terrible word—

“Tetuan!” he gasped, and again: “Tetuan!”

He fell forward in their arms. Well, they knew that it was the signal to flee with him to his one refuge—Tetuan, on the coast. The captain of the bodyguard came running in hastily.

“There is mad tumult in the camp—by Allah! What has happened here?”

“Disaster,” said Gholam Mahmoud coolly. “The armies at Oran and Ceuta destroyed, Mulai Ali alive and proclaimed sherif! The master says to flee to Tetuan at once. Take the ship.”

“Listen!” shouted a renegade from the doorway. “Listen!”

From the camp below came rising a great chorus of voices, while muskets banged. “Ras Ripperda!” clamored a shrill, deadly yell, and the name of Mulai Ali rose high.

“They’ll have his head; sure enough.” Gholam Mahmoud gestured toward the unconscious Ripperda. “Get him away! You are cut off from the ship; you can’t gain it now. To horse!”

“By Allah, that is the truth!” cried the captain of the guard. “We cannot reach the shore. Bring him out, comrades—to horse, to horse!”

A rush of excited men. The tent emptied, save for the girl shrinking to one side—and Gholam Mahmoud. The latter brought a whistle to his lips, blew a shrill blast. The next moment a dozen men—his own men—were crowding into the pavilion. A mad tumult was rolling up from the camp.

“Loot everything!” cried Gholam Mahmoud. “Get aboard Ripperda’s ship—take her and her treasures for ourselves. Quickly! Scatter and meet at the shore!”

He turned upon Mistress Betty. One cry broke from her, but too late. A shawl was about her head, and he lifted her in his arms.

A moment afterward the rush of maddened Berbers, yelling the name of Mulai Ali and shrieking for the head of Ripperda, burst over the group of tents. These were empty. Only a hard-riding group of horsemen under the starlight showed that some few men had been faithful to the fallen pasha—faithful enough to flee with him.