Chatterbox, 1906 Part 28

'Captive among the Moors.' These words used once to account for many a sad gap in the families of southern Europe. We, in these days, can hardly realise the dread in which those pirate vessels were held for hundreds of years, and we find it difficult to believe that not a century ago Christian captives were wearing out their lives in suffering and exile, and the bitterness of hope deferred, in the Moorish stronghold of Algiers.

And it seemed specially hard when a company of Spanish soldiers, who had done great things in the sea fight at Lepanto, were attacked on their homeward journey and carried captive by the very infidels they had so lately conquered.

Arrived at the port of Algiers, the prisoners were awarded to different masters, the poorer ones, from whose friends there was little hope of ransom, being set to the hardest tasks and often cruelly ill-treated, while those of higher rank had an easier service, unless, indeed, the captors considered that the report of their sufferings might bring money to redeem them. The only means of escape from slavery was to embrace the Mohammedan religion, and the renegades who denied their faith often became the most cruel persecutors of their countrymen.

There were two brothers among these Spanish soldiers, sons of a poor though well-born gentleman of Alcara. The younger of these was to make his name, Miguel de Cervantes, famous throughout the world. He had distinguished himself in the wars, and had lost the use of his left hand 'for the greater glory of the right,' as he was wont to say in his joking fashion. But a letter from his great leader, Don John of Austria, which was found about him, convinced his captors that he was a person of importance, and his ransom was fixed at a sum which he knew his father could never pay. After a while, however, his family, by tremendous efforts, sc.r.a.ped together a sum sufficient for the redemption of one brother, and Roderigo, the elder, returned to Spain, Miguel remaining to endure five years' captivity which would have broken any spirit less gallant than his.

The captives dwelt in cells opening upon an oblong courtyard; they were all Christians, and they had at least the comfort of their own services held in one of the little chambers, which was set apart as a church.

'How good it is in this place to say "Our Father which art in Heaven,"'

Cervantes makes a little captive boy say in the drama in which he afterwards describes his life in Algiers, and we can see there how the suffering of the children went to the heart of the gallant soldier, who encouraged many a tempted little one to hold firm to his faith. And now and then a strange sight would be seen in the prisoners' quarters, nothing less than a play in rhyme acted by some of the captives, and stage-managed (as we should call it) by Cervantes, who had invented this device to turn the thoughts of his companions for a little while from the miseries of their lot.

But this high-spirited prisoner was not content with merely enlivening his own and his friends' captivity--day and night that active brain of his was plotting escape. One attempt to get away by land failed at once, but with him a failure only meant a fresh start, and he was soon at work again with those bold enough to join him. A slave named Juan, gardener to Ha.s.san Pasha, the Viceroy of Algiers, was induced to contrive a hiding-place in his master's grounds where any of the captives who could contrive to escape so far might conceal themselves until the arrival of a friendly boat on the coast. A cave was hollowed out, all unsuspected by the owner of the garden, large enough to contain fourteen men, and thither one after another of the Christian slaves contrived to make his way. From February to September fugitives were hiding there, fed by stealth by the contrivance of Cervantes, who succeeded in sending information to some of the vessels visiting the port either with merchandise or to treat for the ransom of prisoners.

All had been carefully arranged for the escape, the hour was almost come, when some one proved false: the story leaked out. The prisoners in Ha.s.san's garden, so near, as they believed, to the end of their long waiting, were startled by footsteps and voices breaking the stillness of the warm African night; lights flashed at the mouth of the cave, and with shouts of triumph and threats of horrible penalties the luckless fugitives were dragged forth. But one man stood forward in front of the trembling, despairing group.

'I am the author of the scheme,' cried Cervantes, 'I devised it, I carried it out; on me be the blame; take me before Ha.s.san.'

So before Ha.s.san the intrepid soldier was dragged, heavily manacled and with a halter about his neck. He faced the Viceroy, who was a renegade and a bloodthirsty tyrant, with the same cool, smiling courage with which in the Gulf of Lepanto he had faced the Turkish guns. Once more he repeated his statement that the whole scheme was his; his comrades had but followed his lead, and the penalty was due to him alone.

Why Ha.s.san spared his life it would be hard to say. Scores of men in his position had died by the most cruel tortures for a less offence, while he was only threatened, and kept for a while in chains. Possibly Ha.s.san felt that such a man must surely be ransomed sooner or later, and spared him in hopes of gain. He is said to have remarked, 'If I could keep hold of that maimed Spaniard, I should be sure of my slaves, my ships, and my whole city.'

Nor was he much mistaken, for Cervantes, while the chains were still upon his limbs, was busy with new plots. One more attempt at escape failed through treachery, and the indomitable prisoner conceived a yet more daring project, and contrived to appeal to the King of Spain, begging for armed help, and promising a revolt of the whole slave population. The thing might well have been carried out, for there were something like twenty thousand Christian captives in Algiers, but, alas!

King Philip was too busy quarrelling with his neighbours in Portugal to win himself the honour of crushing the pirate city which was the scourge of all Christendom.

And then at last arrived in Algiers Father Juan Gil, a good monk, whose work it was to collect and carry to Africa the ransom money for some of the captives, and with him he brought three hundred ducats, sc.r.a.ped together with sore pains and privations by the mother and sister of Cervantes, to purchase his freedom. Ha.s.san, however, would have none of such a paltry sum; even when it was increased to five hundred he demanded double the amount, and as his viceroyalty in Algiers was just over, he declared his intention of taking the Spanish slave with him to Constantinople.

So good Father Juan, feeling that it was now or never, went from one to another of the merchants trading along the coast, and, begging and borrowing right and left, made up the required sum. On the very day fixed for the Viceroy's departure, the good Father bore the ransom in triumph to Ha.s.san, and Miguel de Cervantes was a free man. He carried back with him to Spain the love and grat.i.tude of many a fellow-sufferer, and I think that much of the kindly humour, the hopeful courage and patience with other people's follies, which has made the author of _Don Quixote_ the friend of the whole world, must have been learned in the hard school of his Moorish captivity.

MARY H. DEBENHAM.

A PINCUSHION FACTORY.

May and Ada were thinking. That is how they would have described their long fit of silence one Sat.u.r.day afternoon. They were alone in the room which did duty for dining-room, schoolroom, and everything else; but they were quite used to being left to themselves. Mother and Jane had always lots to do, and the little girls were often troubled about this, and talked of the time when they would be able to help.

'May, I have thought,' cried Ada, suddenly.

'Have you?' said May, slowly. 'I haven't. But you're always quicker than I am, Ada.'

'Well, I have thought. I am sure Grannie and Grandfather would come and live with us always if Mother had more money.'

'Oh! I know that part,' cried her sister. 'That's what we started to think about.'

'Don't be in such a hurry,' said Ada, reprovingly. 'We want to get the money. Well, you know the dear little pincushions we made for Aunt Ellen's bazaar, and how she said they were sold directly?'

'Of course I do, but---- '

'Well, let's make lots of them, and go out and sell them. I know we shall have to make lots and lots, but they won't take long to sell, and then we shall have plenty of money for Mother. Perhaps she would get another Jane, too, then she wouldn't have so much to do. Well?' and Ada stopped, a little breathlessly, and waited for her sister to say something.

'It sounds quite splendid,' said May; 'but do you think that Mother would like us to sell for ourselves? The bazaar seems different.'

'But we mustn't tell her,' cried Ada. 'The surprise will be the best part. Think how pleased she will be! She's always glad when we do something for her when she doesn't expect it. I am sure it is the very thing. I was thinking hard for ever such a long time, but nothing else would do. We are too small to go out and work to get money---- '

'And Mother couldn't spare us,' cried May. 'Besides, you forget our lessons.'

'And we do not knit very well yet. At least we could never finish a sock unless Mother helped us, and then she would know. But, May, hadn't you thought at all?'

'I am afraid I hadn't, and I did try so hard. But that doesn't matter,'

said May, who was accustomed to follow her younger sister's lead. 'Let's start making directly, Ada. Have we any bits of silk left?'

'Plenty; and I've got some cards cut. We can get one or two done before tea.' And the two little girls were soon as silent over their work as they had been over their 'thinking.'

For the next few weeks they were continually to be seen cutting circles out of old postcards, covering them with silks, and sewing them together. Mother teased them sometimes about their 'Pincushion Factory,'

but she was glad to see them happy and busy, especially as spring was coming in 'like a lion,' with day after day of gales and storms, which made walks impossible. Jane was rather inquisitive about their doings, and a little hurt at not knowing their secret. She was accustomed to be told all about their 'thinking,' and to have a share in all the wonderful plans that Ada invented and May followed; but neither of the sisters would explain why so many pocket pincushions were wanted all at once. 'It isn't another bazaar,' said Jane, to herself, 'or Mistress would have told me. It's just some new fad Miss Ada's got hold of. I dare say it's all right. They are as good as gold, those two, and the pincushions can mean no harm.'

'Three dozen exactly,' said Ada, one bright Sat.u.r.day morning, 'and every colour that any one could want. We shall make a lot of money! We must begin selling them to-day, May.'

'Must we?' said May, rather dubiously. Somehow that part of the business did not quite please her. She had been glad that the stock took so long to acc.u.mulate, and that the business of selling did not begin at once.

'Yes, indeed. We're going to the baker's for Mother this morning. She said we might, because Jane's too busy. So we will take some out with us. Aunt Ellen got sixpence each for hers at the bazaar.'

'But can we?' said May. 'Let's ask threepence. They are very small, you know. How many will your pocket hold, Ada?'

Two little girls left Grove Villa an hour later. They were neatly dressed in dark blue, with a bright red ribbon round their sailor-hats, and there was a spot of bright colour on each of the four cheeks, telling of the excitement in the little minds. Ada was eager to begin, but May almost hoped that no likely buyers would be met with.

'Shall we ask the baker?' she whispered, as they drew near his shop.

'No, I don't think so,' said Ada, uncertainly. 'I don't quite know, but I don't believe that a baker wants pocket pincushions. I would rather ask some one who doesn't know us. Gentlemen are best because they have waistcoat pockets to slip them into.'

[Ill.u.s.tration: "'Please, sir, will you--would you buy a pincushion?'"]

But there are not many gentlemen to be seen in a London suburb in the morning on Sat.u.r.day, or any other week-day, and the sisters had walked farther down the High Road than they imagined before a likely buyer came in sight.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "I held a long stick for him to hook on."]

'There's a gentleman,' said May, in a very shaky voice. 'You ask him, Ada--you.'

'Please, sir, will you--would you buy a pincushion?' stammered Ada. The pincushion factory was all very well, but the selling part did not seem so pleasant, now that she had come to the point.

'And what should I want with a pincushion?' said some one far above their heads, so gruffly that Ada longed to run away, and May, somehow, found that tears were very near.

'And what may you be doing here alone with your pincushions?' went on this terrible voice; but it was not so gruff this time. There was something in it which they thought they had heard before. Looking up, who should it be but their father's Irish friend, Mr. O'Brien, whom they were trying to capture for their first customer!

'Oh!' cried Ada, 'it's you!' and the whole story came tumbling out in such a confused way that Mr. O'Brien had nearly taken them back to Grove Villa before he quite understood it.