Small boats of curious Eastern shape and rig, manned by Arabs, negroes, or Maltese, were dancing along over the sparkling sea. There was much coming and going, too, of heavy barges between the shore and the huge French transports which were lying in a line not far from our own gunboat the Bittern. Evidently great quantities of military stores are being unshipped for the use of the army. After a little delay one of the smaller boats came alongside the Charles Quint. I shook hands with the captain and the Corsican Brothers, who had now quite recovered their equanimity and good looks, and started for the shore. What was I to find there? Endless had been the stories of the perils to be encountered in Tunis which had been dinned into my ears during the journey out. But I had found that the nearer I drew to Tunis the less terrible those stories became, and though I had taken the precaution to load my revolver before seating myself in the boat, I had a firm conviction that I should find Tunis, upon the whole, at least as safe a place of residence as some portions of her Majesty’s dominions are at this moment.
The little harbour of Goletta—the Goletta, as it is universally called here—is guarded by a curious breakwater of time-worn stones. This breakwater is said, like the quaint Custom House which stands at one end of it, to have been constructed by the Spaniards of stone taken from the ruins of Carthage. Beyond the breakwater you enter a kind of canal, on one side of which is the crumbling fort of Goletta, which has more than once stood a prolonged siege, which, indeed, had the honour upon one occasion to be assailed by no less a personage than Charles the Fifth. As I was rowed up the canal, under the walls of the fortress, dozens of Arab boys, playing on the banks in their brilliant costumes, pointed with jeers and laughter to the passing European; negroes, black as night, grinned with placid good-humour at my pale face and curious dress; whilst now and then a sullen Moor, wrapped in the graceful folds of his burnous, shot forth a glance full of anger and contempt. Here at least I could feel that I had got beyond the reach of Mr. Cook and his “personally-conducted” flock, and that whatever experiences might await me, they would not be commonplace.
And yet my first experience of all upon landing was as commonplace as could be wished. I had hardly jumped ashore, at the foot of the shady main street of Goletta, when a swarthy young man approached me, and, lifting his hat, announced himself as the commissionaire of the Grand Hotel of Tunis! I might have been leaving a train at the Hague or Cologne. Yet let me confess that this interruption to my dream of Eastern adventures, though unromantic, was not unwelcome. Very quickly I placed myself in the hands of my new friend, Afrigan by name, who appeared to be an unusually intelligent and gentlemanly specimen of the order to which he belonged. [And here to anticipate the record of my diary, I cannot do better than state that Afrigan remained with me as servant and interpreter during the whole of my stay in the Regency, and that from first to last I found him most useful and trustworthy in both capacities. His honesty, good-nature, and intelligence, his remarkable knowledge of the current languages of Northern Africa, and his steadfast devotion to my interests, made him invaluable to me. I shall have many subsequent occasions to mention him in the course of my story; but it is only right that I should make this statement regarding him at this point in the narrative.] Under his care I first visited the Custom House. A very good-natured, gentlemanly Arab passed my portmanteaus through without troubling himself to look at their contents; and they were forthwith taken up to the little railway station and deposited there.
It wanted an hour and a half to the time for the starting of the train for Tunis, so not to lose one’s opportunities I set off, accompanied by Afrigan, for a walk through Goletta. The town consists of one short but wide main street, with shady trees growing down either side, and a number of wretched, winding alleys, opening into miserable unpaved squares. Everywhere there was plenty of life and activity. French officers in crowds were sitting drinking and smoking under the trees in front of the two cafés of which the place can boast, whilst all about were troops of Arabs and Jews, dressed in all the colours of the rainbow. One of the first things to strike my attention was the extraordinary costume of the Jewish women—a costume quite unlike anything I had seen before, either in Eastern Europe or Asia Minor. It consists of a short silk jacket and white tights, the latter displaying the shape of the limbs to advantage. In many cases these tight trousers were embroidered in gold or silver, and I am told that sometimes a pair will cost as much as twenty pounds sterling. The Arab women wear a somewhat similar dress; but the “cut” is by no means so smart as it is in the case of the Jewesses; whilst they have in addition a large burnous enveloping them almost down to the heels, and in all cases their faces are hidden by thick black yashmaks, the effect of which is hideous in the extreme. The Jewish women wear either a coloured silk handkerchief gracefully folded in turban fashion on their heads, or a white cap with projecting horns, somewhat after the style of the head-dress of the girls of Northern Holland. What the Arab women look like I cannot, of course, say; but many of the Jewesses are really handsome—a fact of which they are by no means ignorant. Most of the Arab men whom I have seen at Goletta are also very good-looking, stalwart fellows.
As I sat sipping a cup of coffee in front of a café, large numbers of French soldiers on fatigue duty passed me, whilst ever and anon the echoes of the street were woke up by the rumble of a military waggon or a heavy piece of ordnance. The soldiers, poor fellows, are very young, and have a wearied and dispirited look. Most of them were carrying burdens which seemed to overtax their strength sorely.
CHAPTER IV.
A FIRST GLIMPSE OF TUNIS.
An African railway-station — Fellow-countrymen — Mr. Parnell’s arrest — The “Little Sea” — African scenery — Sketches by the road-side — Camels, Moors, Bedouins — Tunis — The Grand Hotel — The Bab el Bahr — Tunisian costumes — The “Grande Rue de Tunis” — The bazaars — The slave-market.
Monday, October 17th.—A railway-station in Africa, strange as it may seem to some persons, is not very much unlike a railway-station anywhere else. Still it must be confessed that there was a certain incongruousness between my surroundings in Goletta—the picturesque Moors, Arabs, and negroes, who abounded in all manner of quaint and startling costumes—and the high-roofed shed of commonplace appearance from which the trains start for Tunis. Half-past ten was the hour fixed for the departure of the train, and shortly before that time, accompanied by Afrigan, I strolled up to the station, took a first-class ticket at an ordinary “pigeonhole” for myself and a third-class for my companion, and then went to take my seat in the carriage.