CHAPTER XVIII SOLD INTO SLAVERY
My captor, the Moorish officer, was a native of Ghadames, an interior city of Tripoli—a caravan center located on a camel route to the Soudan. I was regarded by him as the spoils of war, and his purpose was clearly to sell me for a good price in an inland slave market where there would be no American consul to make inquiries. As soon as Derne was occupied, Joseph's army disbanded and the soldiers whose property I was began to journey to their homes. Our caravan started too, and I found myself riding upon the most uncomfortable camel in the outfit, chained by one wrist to the trappings of the beast.
I decided to lose no chance to escape. I knew that the farther inland I went, the more difficult it would be for me to reach the coast. My thoughts dwelt upon the treasure-bags I had last seen flopping through the streets of Derne on Mustapha's camels. I swore that my Arab comrade would see me again soon—and I devoutly hoped that his ingenuity would enable him to hide the treasure.
At last, when I was beginning to despair of falling in with a coastbound caravan, we met a huge one bound from the Soudan to Tripoli. In the excitement of meeting, and in the feasting and dancing that went on between the two parties, my guard forgot me. I had been unshackled while I ate, and the only sentinel over me was a young Arab who had been stationed at the front entrance to my tent. I saw him looking yearningly at the Arab girls who were dancing. I snored loudly and regularly, watching his movements through the opening. Suddenly he disappeared. A moment later I vanished too. I hoped to escape with the Tripoli-bound caravan, and stole over to where its camel-drivers were gathered. I had made my color as dark as possible, and wore my long gown in true Arab fashion. I had learned, too, some common Arab words.
In the center of the crowd I saw an African snake-charmer. The fakir's round, fleshy face shone like polished ebony, and when he grinned, which was often, I caught sight of two massive rows of gleaming ivory. He wore nothing but a breech-cloth and sandals. His body was covered with scars. These snake-charmers, I had heard, inflicted wounds upon themselves, sometimes through religious frenzy, and sometimes because it gave them prestige with their audiences.
This fakir influenced the people much in the same way that a street evangelist at home attracts listeners by music and loud words. In his train were several men who played cymbals and bagpipes. As soon as they began clanging and blowing upon these instruments, the crowd gathered.
I drew back, for fear that the fakir's attentions to me would lead to discovery, but his eyes had singled me out from the minute of my approach, and he followed me, though not in a way to attract notice.
Alarmed, I was about to make a wild dash into the desert when he caught my arm. I drew back to strike.
"The saint Mohammed," he said, catching my arm, "will harbor an escaping Nazarene so long as the Nazarene is willing to clang the cymbals loudly in the name of Mohammed, and is active in collecting coins when the snakes have done squirming and the tales have been told. Two of my attendants have deserted me. I offer you a trip to the coast in my train."
I nodded assent—any port in a storm!