Down the Coast of Barbary/Chapter 10
CHAPTER X.
“He will spend his mouth and promise, like Brabbler the hound; but when he performs, astronomers foretell it!”
PASHA RIPPERDA sat in the justice hall of the kasbah and enjoyed his triumph. With the death of Mulai Ali, the one external danger that menaced him was gone. This thin man with the haunted eye was the supreme ruler of western Africa; the combined Barbary armies and fleets obeyed his orders—Egypt was in alliance with him.
Inwardly, gout rioted in his blood. As he sat and gave orders and heard reports, agony twisted him. Around him were his famous renegades, bitter, cruel men, devoted to him. And they could not save him from the devils that dwelt in his blood.
Messengers were dispatched to the sherif with news of Mulai Ali’s death—though the body had not been found—and Ripperda ordered a litter made ready that night, for he was returning swiftly to the army.
Dr. Shaw, Patrick Spence, and Mistress Betty entered the hall.
Though the effort made his face livid, Ripperda arose and tendered the girl the pitiful ghost of that bow whose courtly grace had once been famous from Vienna to Madrid. Then he staggered and fell back among the cushions.
In the eyes of the girl lay pity. Dr. Shaw, after one cold bow, stood gazing at the man with no evidence of feeling. The shrewd doctor was sensible that he faced an enemy.
Ripperda began to speak in English, and suddenly the inner man shone forth. That tongue of Ripperda’s had done incredible feats, and had not lost its cunning. He ignored Shaw for the moment and addressed the girl, whose story he had learned from Spence on the road.
“You have naught to fear under my protection, mistress,” he concluded with that wan and haunted smile of his. “I shall take you to the coast and place you aboard he first Christian ship available; I have promised the same to Captain Spence. And, lady, I have heard much regarding your skill with the stars. I would talk with you later in the day regarding these augurs of destiny. This gentlemen, I take it, is the famous Dr. Shaw, of Algiers?”
Shaw bowed again, assenting dryly. Ripperda eyed him, smiled, assumed a blunt frankness.
“What say you—shall we consign the past to oblivion, sir? I know in whose company you have journeyed; but as our Spanish proverb say, ‘The dead have no friends.’ How say you?”
Shaw chuckled.
“It is also said that a living dog is better than a dead lion. I pay you my compliments for your generosity, admit my culpability, and pray your grace.”
Ripperda, generous enough in victory, uttered a frank laugh.
“Greatness knows how to punish and how to forgive. I pardon you and welcome you, for your erudition is famed. I pray that you will join me for the noon meal; meantime, your late quarters are again at your disposal.”
With a brief bow Shaw accepted the dismissal. The three were conducted to the quarters so recently vacated, and there, with the girl’s permission, the two men lighted pipes and talked. Spence told what had happened to him, and how he had flung the leather box into the river and joined Ripperda.
“Ripperda was friendly enough,” he concluded. “He knew all about our friendship with Mulai Ali, bore no grudge, and welcomed me. A most amazing man!”
“Very!” said Shaw dryly. “Before Ceuta, he had two Spanish spies impaled on the same stake one day, which amazed even the Moors! Mistake not, Patrick; we play with fire.”
Spence shrugged.
“Mistress Betty,” he said, “your predictions to Mulai Ali scarce jibe with the fate that has befallen him! How explain you this discrepancy?”
“I explain nothing, Mr. Spence,” she said. “I am more interested in knowing what is to become of us. Will Ripperda keep his promises, think you?”
“He takes us to the coast tonight,” answered Spence. “Yes, it—it—”
As he spoke he had glanced through the window, which overlooked the courtyard. His voice died away. Suddenly he turned, darted to the door, flung it open. In the doorway stood one of Ripperda’s bodyguard, pistol on arm. The man, a Frenchman, did not budge.
“No one is permitted to leave,” he said, and grinned. “By order of the pasha.”
Spence slammed the door again. “Down there—Gholam Mahmoud, talking with the soldiers! The presence of that man bodes us ill.”
Dr. Shaw started.
“The man in black—Ripperda’s confidential agent! H-m! I see it all now. He has heard of Barbarroja’s death. He is down there, questioning the renegades, looking for that leather box—ha, Patrick! Did Ripperda’s men see you throw the box in the river?”
“Aye, most likely.” Spence stood at the window, watching the ominous figure below. “They said naught of it, however. Perchance they saw it done.”
A hammering at the door. Spence opened to admit a hulking Dutchman, the leader of Ripperda’s bodyguard. He made a smirking bow.
“The pasha wishes to see the lady and talk about the stars.”
Mistress Betty rose, calm and self-contained. She looked at Spence, and smiled.
“Do not fear for me, friends, for I think that Ripperda will keep his promise, and I may be able to help you. Farewell for the present!”
She left the room, the two men looking after her, helpless. Of those twain, one was destined to see her no more in life.
Mistress Betty entered the hall of justice, but was detained at the door. A tall figure in black passed her and strode rapidly to the side of Ripperda, to whom he spoke, low-voiced.
“Spence tried to destroy it, but I can recover it in a day or two. If I succeed will you give me this English girl for my harem?”
Ripperda’s face was overspread with a mortal pallor from the anguish in his veins.
“Her and a dozen more like her,” he said hoarsely. “A million curses on that Spence! Go, and fail me not. I shall await your report at Adjerud. The girl belongs to you.”
Gholam Mahmoud circled the seat and vanished through a hidden door. Mistress Betty was brought forward, curtsied, and waited. Ripperda forced a mechanical smile to his lips.
“Mistress, plead not for your companions!” he said gently. “They have deceived me basely—”
“They are my friends,” said the girl. “I cannot but ask your clemency for Mr. Spence and—”
Ripperda made a hasty, maddened gesture. His eyes flamed savagely.
“Very well, very well! Spence shall live; I will carry him to Adjerud and sell him as a slave. But Shaw—say no word of him, I warn you. Oh, how that man smiled at me! And in his heart he knew the box was gone, that I was defeated, unable to keep my promises—”
A spasm of rage came upon him. He writhed among his cushions, then with an effort got himself in hand.
“My horoscope!” he exclaimed. “Cast it. Fear not, gentle lady; you are under my protection and shall go safe to England. You have the word of Ripperda. So, while we journey north, do you cast my horoscope, for I think you will tell the truth about things.”
So the man lied. Mistress Betty, sensing the lie from his very protests, went a shade whiter. There was no fear in her answer, however.
“My lord, I am no wizard. To diagram the stars aright cannot be done in an hour or a day; I have no books to help me. Give me certain information, and in a week it shall be done.”
“A week!” repeated Ripperda. “Well, have your way. I shall have two women slaves given you, and new quarters here. We leave an hour before the sunset prayer. I shall send a scribe to you at once, let him write down what information you desire for the horoscope, and I will send it to you in an hour. Until night, rest, for we must travel fast.”
So Mistress Betty went to her prison, and saw her friends no more.
An hour before sunset Ripperda and his cavalcade departed. In the courtyard was riding and mounting, a horse litter was ready for Ripperda, another for Mistress Betty. Spence and Dr Shaw, disarmed and bound, were dragged forth beside Ripperda’s litter. From his curtained cushions, Ripperda glared out like some venomous reptile at Shaw.
“Smile on, fool!” said Ripperda acidly. “When the stake has pierced into your vitals and death is led before your eyes, remember Ripperda. Ho, there, amel!”
The old governor came forward obsequiously. Ripperda pointed to Dr. Shaw.
“When the muezzin cries for morning prayer, set this man upon a stake at the western gate. When he is dead, send his head to me in salt, that I may see whether he still smiled in death. Place the other man on a horse—forward, in the name of Allah!”
Spence was tied into a high saddle. To him pierced the voice of Shaw.
“Farewell, Patrick! God watch over you.”
“And you,” returned Spence in a choked voice. He looked back once, but Shaw had already been dragged away.
Through the city street, to the north gate, and then out in the sweet sunset through the olive groves and the fields of green alfalfa, passed the cavalcade, and on to the winding road that led north over the horizon to the sea. The sea! How the thought of it pierced Spence at this moment!
Himself tightly bound, destined to slavery, poor Shaw, impaled at the gate of Udjde, Mistress Betty, clenched in the grip of Ripperda and trusting to his treacherous word, and all these in the turn of a single day!
“A long score, Gholam Mahmoud,” muttered Spence thickly. “This is your doing, somehow—a long score to settle—”
So the sun sank from sight, and the day was done.