“Renegado?”
“Turn Moslem. Sing out night and mornin’ that there’s only one Allah and nobody like him. After that they got to treat you kinder. If you’m a Kafir—Christian, so to speak—they’re doin’ this here Allah a favor by peltin’ stones at you. If you’re a Mohammedan you’re one of Allah’s own and they got to love you; see what I mean? Mind you, there’s drawbacks. You ain’t supposed to touch liquor, but that needn’t lie on your mind. God knows when the corsairs came home full to the hatches and business was brisk there was mighty few of us Renegados in Algiers city went sober to bed, y’understan’? Then there’s Ramadan. That means you got to close-reef your belt from sunrise to sunset for thirty mortal days. If they catch you as much as sucking a lemon they’ll beat your innards out. I don’t say it can’t be done, but don’t let ’em catch you; see what I mean? Leaving aside his views on liquor and this here Ramadan, I ain’t got nothin’ against the Prophet.
“When you get as old and clever as me you’ll find that religions is much like clo’es, wear what the others is wearin’ and you can do what you like. You take my advice, my son, and as soon as you land holla out that there’s only one Allah and keep on hollaing; understan’?”
Ortho understood and determined to do likewise; essentially an opportunist, he would have cheerfully subscribed to devil worship had it been fashionable.
One morning they were taken on deck and kept there till noon. Puddicombe said the officers were in the hold valuing the cargo; they were nearing the journey’s end.
It was clear weather, full of sunshine. Packs of chubby cloud trailed across a sky of pale azure. The three ships were in close company, line ahead, the lame flagship leading, her lateens wing and wing. The gingerbread work on her high stern was one glitter of gilt and her quarters were carved with stars and crescent moons interwoven with Arabic scrolls. The ship astern was no less fancifully embellished. All three were decked out as for holiday, flying long coach-whip pennants from trucks and lateen peaks, and each had a big green banner at a jack-staff on the poop.
No land was in sight, but there were signs of it. A multitude of gulls swooped and cried among the rippling pennants; a bundle of cut bamboos drifted by and a broken basket.
MacBride, a telescope under his arm, a fur cap cocked on the back of his head, strutted the poop. Presently he came down the upper deck and walked along the line of prisoners, inspecting them closely. He gave Ortho no sign of recognition, but later on sent for him.
“Did Jerry Gish ever tell you the yarn of how him and me shaved that old Jew junk dealer in Derry and then got him pressed?”
“No, sir.”