Story 2—Chapter II.
The Coffee-Shop in Beyrout.
Pushing past the crowds of busy and idle people, Greeks, Turks, Armenians, Maronites, Arabs, Frenchmen, and a few English, like themselves, who thronged the narrow streets, which were lined on either side with stores built in the American fashion for the disposal of European goods; narrow Eastern shops, and bazaars and caravanserais, hung with carpets, and displaying grapes and figs, and all sorts of fruit in true Oriental style; they made their way towards a Turkish coffee-house that was situated not far from the waterside, and much patronised by those who, like themselves, had to do with ships and seafaring concerns—although, they did not arrive very quickly at their destination, for the time for the noonday halt having passed by, the usual caravans from Damascus and the interior were coming in, long trains of camels, asses, and mules, laden with coffee, raw silk, rhubarb, untanned leather, figs, aromatic gums, and all the varied merchandise that comes through Arabia and Persia to the ports of the Levant; and, consequently, the main thoroughfares were so blocked with these commercial pilgrims from the desert, that it was as much as Tom and Charley could do to get along.
They did it at length, however, by dint of shoving themselves unceremoniously through the lookers-on who congregated to see the caravans pass, taking no notice of the many invocations to Allah to curse them, as “dogs of Christians,” who profaned the sacred presence of the followers of Islam by breathing the same air as themselves; finally reaching the courtyard of Mohammed’s khan, after much jostling and struggling and good-natured expostulation and repartee, enlivened with many a hearty laugh as some donkey driver came to grief with his load, or when a venerable Arab sheikh on a tall dromedary sputtered with rage at finding the way impassable and his dignity hurt.
The Turk who kept the khan, or coffee-house, was a middle-aged man, who had seen a good deal of all sorts of life in knocking about the world, and was so cosmopolitan in his character that he was almost denationalised. He had a round, good-humoured face, that told as plainly as face could tell that he was no ascetic, or rigid Mussulman bound to the edicts of the Koran, but one who liked good living as well as most folk.
Tom’s description of him hit him off exactly; he was decidedly “a jolly old Turk”—nothing more nor less.
On seeing the boys come in, he at once made places for them beside him on the divan, where he sat on a pile of cushions smoking a long chibouque, with a coffee-cup beside him on a little tray, that also contained sweetmeats, from which he took an occasional sip in the intervals, when he removed the stem of his pipe from his lips and emitted a vast volume of tobacco-smoke in one long puff.
“Aha, my young capitan!” said he to Tom Aldridge, when they had seated themselves, cross-legged, as he was, and accepted the chibouques brought to them immediately by an Arab boy, “you ver long time coming to see me. I tinks I nevare see yous no more!”
He spoke broken English, but with his genial manner and broad smile of welcome made himself readily understood.
“I couldn’t come before,” said Tom. “But I didn’t forget you all the same, for I’ve brought what I promised, the bottle of—”
“Hush-h!” interrupted old Mohammed, with a warning gesture, placing his hand before Tom’s mouth. “De med-i-seen for my leg? Ah, yase, I recollects. I am ver mooch oblige. Tanks. You’ll have some café?”
“No, thank you,” replied Tom. “I and my friend here are sick of coffee; let us have some sherbet instead, although we don’t want anything. We only came to have a chat with you and a smoke, that’s all.”
“That is all raite, my frens. I don’t like mooch coffees myselfs. De med-i-seen is mooch bettaires,” said Mohammed, patting his stomach and grinning again, as he winked knowingly at Tom, in a manner that would have shocked a true believer, while he shouted out an order to the Arab boy. “But, de sheerbeet is goot for de leetle boys, O yase.”
“Cunning old rogue,” said Charley, aside to Tom. “He wants all the brandy for himself, although he wouldn’t like his fellow-religionists to know that he drank it. I suppose if we wished for some, we would have to ask for a drop of the med-i-seen.”
“Oh, he’s not a bad sort,” replied Tom. “He has offered me wine many a time, and he’s a generous old chap, I should think. Well, Mohammed,” he continued, aloud, “and how’s business?”
“Ver bad, ver bad inteet,” said that worthy. “I nevare did no worse in my loife. I shall have to shoot up de shop soon.”
“That’s a good one!” exclaimed Tom. “You can tell that to the marines. I bet you’ve got a snug little pile of piastres stowed away somewhere.”
“P’raps I haive,” said the old Turk, nodding his head as he smiled complacently; “and if you young shentlemens should be vat you call ‘ard oop,’ I could lend you some moneys. But don’t talk so loud,” he added cautiously, casting a glance at a group of Greek sailors who were gabbling away near them, and scanning Tom and Charley curiously, “I don’t like de look of dose fellows dere, and dey might hear us talk if dey leesten, and vill remembers.”
“What of that?” asked Charley; “I don’t suppose they would understand us.”
“Aha, so you tink,” said Mohammed warily. “But dose Grecs are ver knowing and oop to every ting. Dey are bad, ver bad, every one.”
As he spoke two of the Greeks separated themselves from the group, and came over to where they were sitting, as if sent for the purpose.
“I understand,” said one, who acted as spokesman, and addressed them in the most perfect English, “that your captain is in want of hands?”
The question was pertinent enough, as more than half the crew were laid up in the Beyrout hospital, or lazaretto, with a sort of malarial fever, and the Muscadine was only waiting for their recovery, or until enough hands could be shipped, to enable her to pursue her voyage to her next port, Smyrna, where she was to complete her cargo, and then sail for England.
The boys of course knew this well enough, but they did not see it was any business of the Greeks, and after Mohammed’s hint as to their character they resented the inquiry as a piece of impudence.
“How do you know which is our ship?” said Charley, in Irish fashion asking another question, in lieu of answering the one addressed to him; “and if you do, whether she wants hands or not?”
He spoke rather uncivilly, but the man replied to him with studied politeness.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” said he, “but the Muscadine is the only English ship in the harbour, and any one who has travelled like myself could easily tell the nationality of yourself and your friend. I am aware, also, that several of your crew are laid up in hospital.”
“And supposing such is the case,” said Tom Aldridge, taking up the cudgels, “what then?”
“Only, sir,” replied the man, even more obsequiously than before, “I and several others here, who are in want of a ship, would be glad to sign articles with you.”
“The others you mention are Greeks like yourself, I suppose?” inquired Tom, still brusquely, as if he did not care whether he offended his interlocutor or not.
“Yes, sir,” said the man, “but my countrymen are generally reckoned to make good sailors, and ship in all sorts of vessels to all parts of the world.”
“That may be,” answered Tom, who hardly knew what to say, “but it is no concern of mine. You had better speak to Captain Harding about the matter; we can’t engage you.”
“No?” said the man with a half sneer, half smile on his face, and he seemed about to say something nasty; but he altered his mind before he uttered the words, and completed his sentence with another civil inquiry, at which neither Tom nor Charley could take offence. “And, where can I and my friends see the captain, sir?”
“On board, any time before ten in the morning or after sunset in the evening,” said Tom curtly.
He didn’t like the man, but he was at a loss how he could put him off in any other way.
“Thank you, sir, I’m deeply obliged for your condescension,” said the Greek, who then regained his comrades, and the group presently walked out of the khan.
“Bismillah!” ejaculated Mohammed as soon as the Greeks had disappeared. “Can I believe my eyes? That scoundrel has got the impudence of Sheitan, and must be in league with the spirits of Eblis.”
“Who is he? do you know him?” eagerly asked Tom and Charley almost in one breath of the Turk, who exhibited all the appearance of stupefied astonishment.
“Mashallah! do I know him?” gasped out Mohammed, his emotion nearly choking him. “Allah is great and Mohammed is his prophet—do I know him?” he repeated, taking a long draw at his chibouque as if to calm his nerves, while he lay back for a moment motionless amid his cushions.
“Well, who on earth is he, Mohammed?” demanded Tom abruptly—“that is, unless the a—medicine—has got into your head.”
While the Greek had been talking to Charley in the first instance, it may be mentioned that Tom had dexterously transferred the bottle of brandy to the keeping of the Turk, who had secreted it behind his back, after turning half aside and pouring out a pretty good dose into his coffee-cup, all with the most rapid legerdemain as if he were a practical conjuror.
“Effendi,” said Mohammed with dignity, “you insult me by such a remark. The sight of that man—that Grec, that villainous piratt, quite overwhelmed me.”
“Pirate!” said Charley, for Tom was too much abashed by the Turk’s rebuke to speak.
“Yes, piratt,” repeated Mohammed firmly. “That would-be simple Grec sailor, as he represented himself to you, was no one else than Demetri Pedrovanto, better known in the Aegean Sea, as ‘The Corsair of Chios.’ There’s a price of ten thousand piastres on his head. Mashallah! How he dares show himself in Beyrout, amongst the enemy he has plundered, I know not. However, kismet! ’tis his fate, I suppose.”
“Are you sure?” asked Charley, who was inclined to think that Mohammed was cramming them.
“Effendi, throw dirt on my beard if I lie. It is Demetri Pedrovanto, sure enough.”
“But I never heard of pirates being about in these waters, with so many French and English cruisers going backwards and forwards in the neighbourhood,” observed Tom.
“Aha, you Inglese and Frenchmans don’t know everyting!” said the Turk laconically, after emitting another volume of smoke, which he had been apparently accumulating all the time he had been speaking previously. “There are alway piratts in dese seas, and always will be, as long as Grecs are Grecs!”
“Ah, you say that because you are a Turk,” said Charley chaffingly.
“No, no, no,” replied Mohammed, shaking his head vehemently. “I’m not one great bigot because I have been born under the crescent. I am cosmopolitaine. You ask your consul, or ze Americans, dey will tell you the same. All dose Grecs are piratts, and dem as isn’t piratts are brigands, tiefs, every one.”
“Well, you’ve got a very good opinion of them at any rate,” said Tom. “I wonder what the beggar spoke to us for, eh? If he is the man you say, I don’t suppose he would have the cheek to go on board the Muscadine.”
“No, I should think not,” agreed Charley; “and if he does, the skipper will soon overhaul his papers, and then find him out.”
“Aha, ah!” grunted out Mohammed. “De Grec is one ver clevaire rogue, and would sheet Sheitan himself.”
“Who is he?” asked Charley innocently. “I heard you mention him before.”
“De Debble!” answered the Turk, so gravely that both the young fellows burst out into such paroxysms of laughter that Mohammed thought they were ridiculing him, and they had much difficulty in assuring him to the contrary. Indeed, it was not until late in the evening, after they had dinner of kebabs and coffee and their host had imbibed several cups of his “med-i-seen,” that he grew friendly again; and then, he was so cordial that he wept over them at their departure, and assured them that he loved them as his own children, as his brothers, as his father, nay, even as his great-grandfather, who had borne the standard of the prophet in the annual pilgrimage to Mecca!
When Tom and Charley got on board the Muscadine, they saw only the second officer, Mr Tompkins, who after telling them that they were very late, and that the captain had turned in long since, said they might go below; which of course, as the ship was in harbour and only an anchor watch kept, when their services were not required, they were extremely grateful for, and turned in accordingly, without giving a thought to their rencontre at the khan.
The next morning, however, when they came on deck they saw three or four Greek sailors lounging about the foc’s’le, and Mohammed’s warning recurred to there with startling significance.
“Who are those men?” asked Charley of Mr Tompkins, who was in command of the vessel for the time being, Captain Harding, the skipper, having gone ashore, and the chief mate being invalided with those of the crew who were in the lazaretto.
“Some new hands the captain shipped last night,” answered he; “and if you’ve any more business ashore, Master Onslow, you’d better look sharp about it, as we’re going to sail as soon as we’ve obtained pratique, which will be about four bells, I reckon.”
“But, does Cap’en Harding know about them?” asked Tom, sinking his objection to having any conversation with the second officer in the urgency of the occasion.
“You mind your own business, you young dog,” said Tompkins, glad to have the opportunity of snubbing Tom. “I suppose you would like to command this ship, but you sha’n’t while I’m on board.”
“You cad!” muttered Tom under his breath, as he walked away forward to look at the men more closely. “I wish I had you on land for a quiet half hour, and I’d soon take the starch out of you!”
“None of your jaw,” shouted the second mate as a parting shot. “I hear you, and if you speak another word I’ll have you put in irons for mutiny,” swearing also a fearful oath. So Tom had to put up with the other’s language and nurse his wrath until the skipper came on board.
When Charley joined him presently, they took note of the new additions to the crew, who were altogether eight in number; but to their surprise they did not see the Greek among them whom Mohammed had indicated as being the far-famed corsair; and on their comparing their views they both agreed that the worthy Turk must have been “slinging the hatchet” at their expense, or else mistaken about the supposed pirate.
On Captain Harding coming off, however, they thought it their duty to tell him what they heard; but the skipper, who was a bold bluff English sailor, laughed the Turk’s warning to scorn, and joked the young fellows for taking any notice of it.
“What! Mohammed told you, the keeper of the khan by the Capuchin monastery. My dear boys, he was only humbugging you. I saw the old rascal this very morning hauled up before the cadi, for being drunk and kicking up a row. He must be able to spin a fine yarn when he has a mind to. There are no pirates nowadays in the Mediterranean; and if we do come across any, I believe the Muscadine will be able to give a good account of them. Pirates! bless my soul, what a tremendous liar that old Turk must be! Those Greeks I’ve shipped are honest sailors enough; for I’ve examined their papers, and had them before our consul. Besides, I’ve told them what sort of discipline I keep on board my ship; and they are not likely to try and come the old soldier over me—not if John Harding knows it!”
“But, captain,” put in Tom.
The skipper wouldn’t hear any more, however. “Now get to your stations, lads,” said he, to show that the private interview was at an end. “Mr Aldridge, I must make you acting second officer in Mr Tompkins’ place, as I’ve promoted him to poor Wilson’s berth until he can join me at Smyrna, as I’m bound to start at once now that I have filled-up the vacancies amongst my crew. Charley Onslow, remain aft with me. All hands up anchor, and make sail!”
In a short time the men working together with a will, and the new hands specially distinguishing themselves for their activity in so marked a manner as to call forth the approval of the generally grumbling Mr Tompkins—although, perhaps, he praised them because Tom and Charley had suspected them—the Muscadine had her anchor at the catheads; and, her topsails having been dropped long before, was sailing gaily out of Beyrout harbour, under the influence of the land-breeze that sprang up towards the afternoon, blowing briskly off shore.
When she had got a good offing, and the mountains of Lebanon began to sink below the horizon in the distance as she bowled along merrily on her north-western course, a long way to the southward of Cyprus, bearing up direct for the Archipelago, a keen observer on board might have noticed something that looked strange, at all events on the face of it.
No sooner had the shades of evening begun to fall than a long low suspicious-looking vessel crept out from the lee of the land, and followed right in the track of the Muscadine, as if in chase of the English ship.
It was a swift-sailing lateen-rigged felucca, one of those crafts that are common enough in Eastern waters, especially in the Levant.
She spread a tremendous amount of canvas; and leaping through the sea with the pace of a dolphin, came up with the doomed merchantman hand over hand.