The old pilgrim then turning to the three merchants, said—
“My friends, you have promised to take these Christian slaves to Swearah, where they might be redeemed. Are you bad men, who fear not God, that your promise should be thus broken?”
“We think that they have deceived us,” answered one of the merchants, “and we are afraid to carry them within the emperor’s dominions, where they might be taken from us without our receiving anything. We are poor men, and nearly all our merchandise has been given for these slaves. We cannot afford to lose them.”
“You will not lose the value of them,” rejoined the old man, “by taking them to Swearah. They belong to a country the Government of which will not allow its subjects to remain in bondage; and there is not an English merchant in Swearah that would not redeem them. Any one who should refuse to do so would scarce dare return to his own country again. You will make more by taking them to Swearah than anywhere else.”
“But they can give themselves up to the governor when they reach Swearah,” urged one of the merchants, “and we may be ordered out of the town without receiving a single dollar for them. Such has been done before. The good sheik here knows of an Arab merchant who was treated so. He lost all, while the governor got the ransom, and put it in his own pocket.”
This was an argument El Haji was unable to answer; but he was not long in finding a plan for removing the difficulty thus presented.
“Do not take them within the empire of Morocco,” said he, “until after you have been paid for them. Two of you can stay with them here, while the third goes on to Swearah with a letter from this young man to his friends. You have as yet no proof that he is trying to deceive you; and therefore, as true men, you have no excuse for breaking your promise to him. Take a letter to Swearah; and if the money be not paid, then do with them as you please, and the wrong will not rest upon your heads.”
Bo Muzem, the youngest of the merchants, immediately seconded the pilgrim’s proposal, and spoke energetically in its favour.
He observed they were but one day’s journey from Agadeer, a frontier town of Morocco; and that from there Swearah could be reached in three days.
The other two for a few minutes held consultation apart; and then one of them announced that they had resolved upon following El Haji’s advice. Bo Muzem might go to Swearah as the bearer of a letter from Harry to his uncle.
“Tell the young man,” said one of the merchants, addressing himself to the interpreter, “tell him from me, that if the ransom be not paid, he shall surely die on Bo Muzem’s return. Tell him that.”
The Krooman made the communication, and Harry without demur accepted the conditions.
A piece of dirty crumpled paper, a reed pen, and some ink, were then placed before Harry. While the letter was being written, Bo Muzem commenced making preparations for his journey.
Knowing that their only hope of liberty depended on their situation being made known to some countryman resident in Mogador, Harry took up the pen; and, with much difficulty, succeeded in scribbling the following words:—
“Sir,—Two midshipmen of H.M.S. — (cast away a few weeks ago near Cape Blanco), and two seamen, are now held in slavery at a small town one day’s journey from Agadeer. The bearer of this note is one of our masters. His business in Mogador is to learn if we will be ransomed; and if he be unsuccessful in finding any one who will pay the money to redeem us, the writer of this note is to be killed. If you cannot or will not pay the money they require (one hundred and fifty dollars for each) please direct the bearer to some one whom you think will do so.
“There is another midshipman from the same vessel, and an English sailor, one day’s journey south of this place.
“Perhaps the bearer of this note, Bo Muzem, may be induced to purchase them, so that they also may be ransomed.
“Henry Blount.”
This letter Harry folded, and directed to “Any English merchant in Mogador.”
By the time it was written, Bo Muzem had mounted and made himself ready for the road.
After receiving the letter, he wished Harry to be informed once more, that, should the journey to Swearah prove a fruitless one, nothing but his (Harry’s) life would compensate him (Bo Muzem) for the disappointment.
After promising to be back in eight days, and enjoining upon his partners to look well after their property during his absence, Bo Muzem took his departure for the port of Mogador.
* * *
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Chapter Seventy Six.
Bo Muzem’s Journey.
Although an Arab merchant, Bo Muzem was an honest man, one, who in all business transactions, told the truth, and expected to hear it from others.
Notwithstanding this, he pursued his journey towards Mogador with but a faint belief that the representations made by the young Englishman would prove true, and with the determination of taking the life of the latter should he find himself deceived. He placed more faith in the story told him by the sheik than in the mere hypothesis of the pilgrim, that the white slaves would certainly find some one to ransom them.
His journey was partly undertaken through a sense of duty. After the promise made to the slaves, he thought it but right to become fully convinced that they were not to be redeemed before the idea of taking them to Mogador could be honourably abandoned.
He pressed forward upon his journey with the perseverance and self-denial so peculiar to his race. After crossing the spurs of the Atlas Mountains he reached, on the evening of the third day, a small walled town, within three hours’ ride of the famed seaport of Mogador.
Here he stopped for the night, intending to proceed to the city early on the next morning. Immediately on entering the town, Bo Muzem met a person whose face wore a familiar look.
It was the grazier to whom, but a few days before, he had sold the two slaves, Terence and Jim.
“Ah my friend, you have ruined me!” exclaimed the grazier, after the first salutations had passed between them. “I have lost those two useless Christian dogs you sold me, and I am a ruined man.”
Bo Muzem requested him to explain himself.
“After your departure,” said the grazier, “I tried to get some work out of the infidels; but they would not obey me; and I believed they would have died before doing anything to make themselves useful. As I am a poor man, I could not afford to keep them in idleness; nor yet to kill them, which I had a strong inclination to do. The day after you left me, I received intelligence from Swearah, which commanded me to go there immediately no business of importance; and thinking that possibly some Christian fool in that place might give something for his infidel countrymen, I took the two dogs along with me.
“They promised that, if I would carry them to the English consul, he would pay a large price for their ransom. When we entered Mogador, and reached the consul’s house, the dogs told me that they were free; and defied me to take them out of the city. I could not get a piastre for my trouble and expense. The governor of Swearah and the Emperor of Morocco are on good terms with the infidels’ Government; and they also hate us Arabs of the desert. There is no justice in Mogador for such as we. If you take your slaves into the city, you will lose them.”
“I shall not bring them into the empire of Morocco,” replied Bo Muzem, “until I have first received the money for them.”
“You will never get it in Swearah. Their consul will not pay a dollar, but will try to have them liberated without giving you anything.”
“But I have a letter from one of the slaves to his uncle, a rich merchant in Swearah. The uncle will pay the money.”
“The slave has lied to you. He has no uncle there, and I can soon convince you that such is the case. There is now staying in this village a Mogador Jew, who is acquainted with every infidel merchant in the city, and he also understands the languages they speak. Let him see the letter.”
Anxious to be convinced of whether he was being deceived or not, Bo Muzem readily agreed to this proposition; and in company with the grazier, he repaired to the house where the Jew was residing.
The latter, on being shown Harry’s letter, and asked to whom it was addressed, replied—
“To any English merchant in Mogador.”
“Bismillah!” exclaimed Bo Muzem. “All English merchants cannot be uncles to the young dog who wrote this letter!”
“Tell me,” added he, “did you ever hear of an English merchant in Mogador named ‘For-God-sake-bias?’”
The Jew smiled, and with some difficulty restraining an inclination to laugh outright at the question, gave the Arab a translation of the words, “For God’s sake, buy us.”
Bo Muzem was now satisfied that he had been “sold.”
“I shall get no further,” said he, after they had parted with the Jew. “I shall return to my partners. We shall kill the Christian dog who wrote the letter and sell his two companions for what we can get for them.”
“That is your best plan,” rejoined the grazier. “They do not deserve freedom; and may Allah forbid that hereafter any true believer should try to help them to it!”
Early next morning Bo Muzem set out on his return journey, thankful for the good fortune that had enabled him so early to detect the imposture that was being practised upon him.
He was accompanied by the grazier, who chanced to be journeying in the same direction.
“The next Christian slaves I see for sale I intend buying,” remarked the latter, as they journeyed along.
“Bismillah!” exclaimed Bo Muzem; “that is strange. I thought you had had enough of them?”
“So I have,” assented the grazier; “but that’s just why I want more of them. I want revenge on the unbelieving dogs; and will buy them for the purpose of obtaining it. I will work them until they are too old for anything, and then let them die in a ditch.”
“Then buy the ones we have for sale,” proposed Bo Muzem. “We are willing to sell them cheap, all but one. The man who wrote this letter I must kill. I have sworn it by the Prophet’s beard.”
As both parties appeared anxious for a bargain, they soon came to an understanding as to the terms; and the grazier promised to give ten dollars in money and four heads of horses for each of the slaves that was for sale. He also agreed that one of his herdsmen should assist in driving the cattle to any settlement where a market might be found for them.
The simple Bo Muzem had now in reality been “sold”: for the story he had been told about the escape for the two slaves, Terence and Jim, was wholly and entirely false.
* * *
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Chapter Seventy Seven.
Rais Mourad.
Six days had passed, during which the white slaves were comparatively well treated, far better than at any other time since their shipwreck. They were not allowed to suffer from thirst, and were supplied with nearly as much food as they required.
On the sixth day after the departure of Bo Muzem, they were visited by their masters, accompanied by a stranger who was a Moor.
They were commanded to get up on their feet; and were then examined by the Moor in a manner that awakened suspicions that he was about to buy them.
The Moor wore a caftan richly embroidered on the breast and sleeves, and confined around the waist with a silken sash or girdle.
A pair of small yellow Morocco leather boots peeped out beneath trousers of great width made of the finest satin; and on his head was a turban of bright scarlet silk.
Judging from the respect shown to him by the merchants, he was an individual of much importance. This was also evident from the number of his followers, all of whom were mounted on beautiful Arabian horses.
The appearance of his whole retinue gave evidence that he was some personage of great wealth and influence.
After he had examined the slaves, he retired with the two merchants; and shortly afterwards the Krooman learnt from one of his followers that the white slaves had become the property of the wealthy Moor.
The bright anticipations of liberty that had filled their souls for the last few days vanished at this intelligence. Each felt a shock of pain, of hopeless despair, that for some moments stunned him almost to speechlessness.
Harry Blount was the first to awaken to the necessity of action.
“Where are our masters the merchants?” he exclaimed. “They cannot, they shall not sell us. Come, all of you! Follow me!”
Rushing forth from the penn, that had been allowed them for a residence, the young Englishman, followed by his companions, started towards the dwelling of the sheik, to which place the merchants and the Moor had retired.
All were now excited with disappointment and despair; and on reaching the sheik’s house, the two Arab merchants were called out to listen to a volley of reproaches.
“Why have you sold us?” asked the Krooman, as the merchants came forth. “Have you not promised that we should be taken to Swearah, and has not your partner gone there to obtain the money for our ransom?”
The two merchants were, at this moment, on good terms with themselves and all the world besides. They had made what they believed to be a good bargain, and were in the humour for being agreeable.
Moreover, they did not wish to be thought guilty of a wrong, even by Christian slaves; and they therefore condescended to give some explanation.
“Suppose,” said one of them, “that our partner Bo Muzem should find a man in Mogador who is willing to ransom you, how much are we to get for you?”
“One hundred dollars for me,” answered the Krooman, “and one hundred and fifty for each of the others.”
“True; and for that we should have to take you there, and be at the expense of maintaining you on the road?”
“Yes.”
“Well, Rais Mourad, this wealthy Moor, has paid us one hundred and fifty dollars for each of you; and should we not be fools to take you all the way to Mogador for less money? Besides, we might not get paid anything, whereas we have received it in cash from Rais Mourad. You are no longer our slaves, but his.”
When the Krooman had made this communication to the others, they saw that all further parley with the Arab merchants was useless; and that their destiny was now in the keeping of Rais Mourad.
At Harry’s request, the Krooman endeavoured to ascertain in what direction the Moor was going to take them; but the only information they received was that Rais Mourad knew his own business, and was not in the habit of conferring with his slaves as to what he should do with them.
Some of the followers of the Moor now came forward; and the slaves were ordered back to their penn, where they found some food awaiting them. They were commanded to eat it immediately, as they were soon to set forth upon a long journey.
Not one of them, after their cruel disappointment, had any appetite; and Sailor Bill doggedly declared that he would never taste food again.
“Don’t despair, Bill,” said Harry; “there is yet hope for us.”
