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.