第 十六 章 · II. “To arms! to arms”

. II. “To arms! to arms”

ONLY the arrival, not a foundering.

The Zouave was just gliding into the roadstead--a fine one of black,

deep water, but dull and still, almost deserted. On elevated ground

ahead rose Algiers, the White City, with its little houses of a dead

cream-colour huddling against one another lest they slid into the sea.

It was like Meudon slope with a laundress’s washing hung out to dry.

Over it a vast blue satin sky--and such a blue!

A little restored from his fright, the illustrious Tartarin gazed on

the landscape, and listened with respect to the Montenegrin prince, who

stood by his side, as he named the different parts of the capital, the

Kasbah, the upper town, and the Rue Bab-Azoon. A very finely-brought-up

prince was this Montenegrin; moreover, knowing Algeria thoroughly, and

fluently speaking Arabic. Hence Tartarin thought of cultivating his

acquaintance.

All at once, along the bulwark against which they were leaning, the

Tarasconian perceived a row of large black hands clinging to it from

over the side. Almost instantly a Negro’s woolly head shot up before

him, and, ere he had time to open his mouth, the deck was overwhelmed

on every side by a hundred black or yellow desperadoes, half naked,

hideous, and fearsome. Tartarin knew who these pirates were--“they,” of

course, the celebrated “they” who had too often been hunted after by him

in the by-ways of Tarascon. At last they had decided to meet him face to

face. At the outset surprise nailed him to the spot. But when he saw

the outlaws fall upon the luggage, tear off the tarpaulin covering, and

actually commence the pillage of the ship, then the hero awoke. Whipping

out his hunting-sword, “To arms! to arms!” he roared to the passengers;

and away he flew, the foremost of all, upon the buccaneers. “Ques

aco? What’s the stir? What’s the matter with you?” exclaimed Captain

Barbassou, coming out of the ‘tweendecks.

“About time you did turn up, captain! Quick, quick, arm your men!”

“Eh, what for? dash it all!”

“Why, can’t you see?”

“See what?”

“There, before you, the corsairs”

Captain Barbassou stared, bewildered. At this juncture a tall blackamoor

tore by with our hero’s medicine-chest upon his back.

“You cut-throat! just wait for me!” yelled the Tarasconer as he ran

after, with the knife uplifted.

But Barbassou caught him in the spring, and holding him by the

waist-sash, bade him be quiet.

“Tron de ler! by the throne on high! they’re no pirates. It’s long since

there were any pirates hereabout. Those dark porters are light porters.

Ha, ha!”

“P--p-porters?”

“Rather, only come after the luggage to carry it ashore. So put up

your cook’s galley knife, give me your ticket, and walk off behind that

nigger--an honest dog, who will see you to land, and even into a hotel,

if you like.”

A little abashed, Tartarin handed over his ticket, and falling in

behind the representative of the Dark Continent, clambered down by the

hanging-ladder into a big skiff dancing alongside. All his effects were

already there--boxes, trunks, gun-cases, tinned food,--so cramming up

the boat that there was no need to wait for any other passengers. The

African scrambled upon the boxes, and squatted there like a baboon,

with his knees clutched by his hands. Another Negro took the oars. Both

laughingly eyed Tartarin, and showed their white teeth.

Standing in the stern-sheets, making that terrifying face which had

daunted his fellow-countrymen, the great Tarasconian feverishly fumbled

with his hunting-knife haft; for, despite what Barbassou had told

him, he was only half at ease as regarded the intention of these

ebony-skinned porters, who so little resembled their honest mates of

Tarascon.

Five minutes afterwards the skiff landed Tartarin, and he set foot upon

the little Barbary wharf, where, three hundred years before, a Spanish

galley-slave yclept Miguel Cervantes devised, under the cane of the

Algerian taskmaster, a sublime romance which was to bear the title of

“Don Quixote.”