He woke up eighteen hours later, at about noon—or so his neighbor told him; it was impossible to distinguish night from day down there. The hold was shallow and three parts full; this brought them within a few feet of the deck beams and made the atmosphere so thick it was difficult to breathe, congested as they were. Added to which, the rats and cockroaches were very active and the stale bilge water, washing to and fro under the floor, reeked abominably. The other prisoners were not talkative. Now and again one would shout across to a friend and a short conversation would ensue, but most of the time they kept silence, as though steeped in melancholy. The majority sounded like foreigners.
Ortho sat up, tried to stretch his legs, and found they were shackled to a chain running fore and aft over the cargo.
His left-hand neighbor spoke: “Woke up, have you? Well, how d’you fancy it?”
Ortho grunted.
“Oh, well, mayn’t be so bad. You’m a likely lad; you’ll fetch a good price, mayhap, and get a good master. ’Tain’t the strong mule catches the whip; ’tis the old uns—y’understan’? To-morrow’s the best day for hard work over there and the climate’s prime; better nor England by a long hawse, and that’s the Gospel truth, y’understan’?”
“How do you know?” Ortho inquired.
The man snorted. “Know? Ain’t I been there nine year?”
“In Sallee?”
“No—Algiers . . . but it’s the same, see what I mean? Nine years a slave with old Abd-el-Hamri in Sidi-Okbar Street. Only exchanged last summer, and now, dang my tripes, if I ain’t took again!”
“Where did they catch you?”
“Off Prawle Point on Tuesday in the Harvest, yawl of Brixham—I’m a Brixham man, y’understan’? Puddicombe by name. I did swere and vow once I was ashore I would never set foot afloat no more. Then my sister Johanna’s George took sick with a flux and I went in his place just for a day—and now here we are again—hey, hey!”
“Who are all these foreigners?” asked Ortho.
“Hollanders, took off a Dutch East Indiaman. This be her freight we’m lyin’ on now, see what I mean? They got it split up between the three on ’em. There’s three on ’em, y’understan’; was four, but the Hollander sank one before she was carried, so they say, and tore up t’other two cruel. The old reis—admiral that is—he’s lost his mainmast. You can hear he banging away at night to keep his consorts close; scared, y’understan’? Howsombeit they done well enough. Only been out two months and they’ve got the cream of an Indies freight, not to speak of three or four coasters and a couple of hundred poor sailors that should fetch from thirty to fifty ducats apiece in the soko. And then there’s the ransoms too, see what I mean?”
“Ransoms?” Ortho echoed. Was that a way home? Was it possible to be ransomed? He had money.
“Aye, ransoms,” said Puddicombe. “You can thank your God on bended knees, young man, you ain’t nothin’ but a poor fisher lad with no money at your back, see what I mean?”
“No, I don’t—why?”
“Why—’cos the more they tortured you the more you’d squeal and the more your family would pay to get you out of it, y’understan’? There was a dozen fat Mynheer merchants took on that Indiaman, and if they poor souls knew what they’re going through they’d take the first chance overboard—sharks is a sweet death to what these heathen serve you. I’ve seen some of it in Algiers city—see what I mean? Understan’?”
Ortho did not answer; he had suddenly realized that he had never told Eli where the money was hidden—over seven hundred pounds—and how was he ever going to tell him now? He lay back on the bales and abandoned himself to unprofitable regrets.
Mr. Puddicombe, getting no response to his chatter, cracked his finger joints, his method of whiling away the time. The afternoon wore on, wore out. At sundown they were given a pittance of dry bread and stale water. Later on a man came down, knocked Ortho’s shackles off and signed him to follow.
“You’re to be questioned,” the ex-slave whispered. “Be careful now, y’understan’?”
The Moors were at their evening meal, squatting, tight-packed round big pots, dipping for morsels with their bare hands, gobbling and gabbling. The galley was between decks, a brick structure built athwart-ship. As Ortho passed he caught a glimpse of the interior. It was a blaze of light from the fires before which a couple of negroes toiled, stripped to the waist, stirring up steaming caldrons; the sweat glistened like varnish on their muscular bodies.
His guide led him to the upper deck. The night breeze blew in his face, deliciously chill after the foul air below. He filled his lungs with draughts of it. On the port quarter tossed a galaxy of twinkling lights—the admiral and the third ship. Below in their rat-run holds were scores of people in no better plight than himself, Ortho reflected, in some cases worse, for many of the Dutchmen were wounded. A merry world!
His guide ran up the quarter-deck ladder. The officer of the watch, a dark silhouette lounging against a swivel mounted on the poop, snapped out a challenge in Arabic to which the guide replied. He opened the door of the poop cabin and thrust Ortho within.
It was a small place, with the exception of a couple of brass-bound chests, a table and a chair, quite unfurnished, but it was luxurious after a fashion and, compared with the squalor of the hold, paradise.
Mattresses were laid on the floor all round the walls, and on these were heaped a profusion of cushions, cushions of soft leather and of green and crimson velvet. The walls were draped with hangings worked with the same colors, and a lamp of fretted brass-work, with six burners, hung by chains from the ceiling. The gigantic Moor who had called the crew to prayers sat on the cushions in a corner, his feet drawn up under him, a pyramid of snowy draperies. He was running a chain of beads through his fingers, his lips moved in silence. More than ever did he look like a Bible patriarch. On the port side a tall Berber lay outstretched, his face to the wall; a watch-keeper taking his rest. At the table, his back to the ornamented rudder-casing, sat a stout little man with a cropped head, scarlet face and bright blue eyes. Ortho saw to his surprise that he did not wear Moorish dress but the heavy blue sea-coat of an English sailor, a canary muffler and knee-breeches.
The little man’s unflinching bright eyes ran all over him.
“Cornishman?” he inquired in perfect English.
“Yes, sir.”
“Fisherman?” apprising the boy’s canvas smock, apron and boots.
“Yes, sir.”
“Blown off-shore—eh?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where from? Isles of Scilly?”
“No, sir; Monks Cove.”
“Where’s that?”
“Sou’west corner of Mount’s Bay, sir, near Penzance.”
“Penzance, ah-ha! Penzance,” the captain repeated. “Now what do I know of Penzance?” He screwed his eyes up, rubbed the back of his head, puzzling. “Penzance!”
Then he banged his fist on the table. “Damme, of course!”
He turned to Ortho again. “Got any property in this Cove—houses, boats or belike?”
“No, sir.”
“Father? . . . Brothers? . . . Relations?”
“Only a widowed mother, sir, and a brother.”
“They got any property?”
“No, sir.”
“What does your brother do?”
“Works on a farm, sir.”
“Hum, yes, thought as much; couple of nets and an old boat stopped up with tar—huh! Never mind, you’re healthy; you’ll sell.”
He said something in Arabic to the old Moor, who wagged his flowing beard and went on with his beads.
“You can go!” said the captain, motioning to the guide; then as Ortho neared the door he called out, “Avast a minute!” Ortho turned about.
“You say you come from near Penzance. Well, did you run athwart a person by the name of Gish by any chance? Captain Jeremiah Gish? He was a Penzance man, I remember. Made a mint o’ money shipping ‘black-birds’ to the Plate River and retired home to Penzance, or so I’ve heard. Gish is the name, Jerry Gish.”
Ortho gaped. Gish—Captain Jerry—he should think he did know him. He had been one of Teresa’s most ardent suitors at one time, and still hung after her, admired her gift of vituperation; had been in the Star Inn that night he had robbed her of the hundred pounds. Captain Jerry! They were always meeting at races and such-like; had made several disastrous bets with him. Old Jerry Gish! It sounded strange to hear that familiar name here among all these wild infidels, gave him an acute twinge of homesickness.
“Well,” said the corsair captain, “never heard of him, I suppose?”
Ortho recovered himself. “Indeed, sir, I know him very well.”
The captain sat up. “You do?” Then with a snap: “How?”
It flashed on Ortho that he must be careful. To disclose the circumstances under which he had hob-nobbed with Jerry Gish would be to give himself away.
“How?”
Ortho licked his lips. “He used to come to Cove a lot, sir. Was friendly like with the inn-keeper there. Was very gentlemanly with his money of an evening.”
The captain sank back, his suspicions lulled. He laughed.
“Free with the drink, mean you? Aye, I warrant old Jerry would be that—ha, ha!” He sat smiling at recollections, drumming his short fingers on the table.
Some flying spray heads rattled on the stern windows. The brass lamp swung back and forth, its shadow swimming with it up and down the floor. The watchkeeper muttered in his sleep. Outside the wind moaned. The captain looked up. “Used to be a shipmate of mine, Jerry—when we were boys. Many a game we’ve played. Did y’ ever hear him tell a story?”
“Often, sir.”
“You did, did you—spins a good yarn, Jerry—none better. Ever hear him tell of what we did to that old nigger woman in Port o’ Spain? MacBride’s my name, Ben MacBride. Ever hear it?”
“Yes, I believe I did, sir.”
“That’s a good yarn that, eh? My God, she screeched, ha, ha!” Tears trickled out of his eyes at the memory.
“Told you a good few yarns, I expect?”
“Yes, sir, many.”
“Remember ’em?”
“I think so, sir.”
“Do you? Hum-hurr!” He looked at Ortho again, seemed to be considering.
“Do you?—ah, hem! Yes, very good. Well, you must go now. Time to snug down. Ahmed!”
The guide stood to attention, received some instructions in Arabic and led Ortho away. At the galley door he stopped, went inside, and came out bearing a lump of meat and a small cake which he thrust on Ortho, and made motions to show that it was by the captain’s orders.
Three minutes later he was shackled down again.
“How did you fare?” the Brixham man grunted drowsily.
“Not so bad,” said Ortho.
He waited till the other had gone to sleep, and then ate his cake and meat; he was ravenous and didn’t want to share it.
Black day succeeded black night down in the hold, changing places imperceptibly. Once every twenty-four hours the prisoners were taken on deck for a few minutes; in the morning and evening they were fed. Nothing else served to break the stifling monotony. It seemed to Ortho that he had been chained up in blank gloom for untold years, gl............