The land of the Bey

by T. Wemyss Reid

At five o’clock sharp the last bell rings, and the visitors leave the ship and range themselves alongside the dock wall. I lounge over the rail of the upper deck, smoking my cigarette, and watching a dozen little dramas of domestic life that are being played out under my eyes. Wives, some tearful and others gay, are parting from their husbands. Alas! for the “contrariness” of human nature. In my cynical mood this afternoon I cannot but observe that where the wives are in tears the husbands are all smiles and jokes; whilst a blithe face on the part of a wife means a grim and melancholy countenance on the part of her spouse. But at last the welcome sound of the screw puts an end to my observations. The stately ship begins slowly to glide out of the basin, and ten minutes later we are fairly clear of the port of Marseilles, whose white towers and rocks and hills begin slowly to fade away as the Charles Quint ploughs her path onward through the blue waters of the Gulf of Lyons. As one turns seaward towards the Mediterranean it is impossible to forget that twelve months ago to-day I was sailing on this same sea, in the company of as joyous and genial a little band of travellers as ever traversed the ocean. Alas! of that small company two of the bravest and the best have already reached the end of the long voyage of life; whilst the others are scattered far and wide all up and down the world; and I am here alone to-day, the solitary Englishman on board this vessel. As I sat after dinner smoking a last cigar on a comfortable deckseat, and watching the stars blaze out in their southern magnificence, whilst the ear was soothed by the solemn melody of the ocean, it was a difficult matter to drive away those pensive feelings which must come to all men when they revisit scenes once familiar to them, and reflect upon the changes which have been wrought since they last were here. But even whilst I mused I was suddenly aroused by a very trifling yet significant incident. My cigar dropped out of my nerveless hand, and I started up shivering, to find I had fallen asleep on the open deck. Then I recalled the fact that I had not been in bed last night, and made haste to turn into my comfortable cabin.

Saturday, October 15th.—I awoke refreshed after a good night’s rest. Presently turning out upon the deck, I found that I was in the full enjoyment of real Mediterranean weather. The sun was bright and hot, and one was glad to get shelter from it beneath the awning, where the pleasant breeze produced by the rapid motion of the boat made the temperature quite agreeable. The water was of that wonderful blue colour which you see nowhere except in the Mediterranean; but the waves were crested with white, and made the blank sea, upon which not a sail was to be discovered, itself a glorious spectacle. As I sat in the full enjoyment of the scene I could not help thinking of last Saturday, and contrasting my surroundings then, when I found myself one of thirty thousand human beings packed into the Leeds Cloth Hall yard—or rather, into the fine “Gladstone Hall” erected on that spot—with the situation in which I am placed to-day.

I have already discovered that there is one serious defect about the arrangements on board the Charles Quint. Everybody who has travelled by sea knows that the two principal occupations of well-disposed passengers are eating the meals provided on board and then grumbling at the cookery and the quality of the provisions served. With a perverse want of consideration for the passengers, the Compagnie Transatlantique have resolved apparently to deprive them of at least one of these occupations—and possibly the favourite one—that of grumbling. Nothing could well be better than the manner in which we are fed on board the Charles Quint. At seven in the morning the usual French “first breakfast,” consisting of coffee and bread and butter, is provided. After that I have my bath, and my first walk on deck. At half-past nine comes the regular breakfast, beautifully served in the saloon. At the head of our table sits the captain, a handsome and refined-looking man of fifty, who speaks French with a strong southern accent, and who is quite a model of mingled dignity and suavity. To his right and left are seated two smart young gentlemen in elegant uniforms, one of whom is the purser and the other the doctor, and whom I have already christened the Corsican Brothers, not merely because of their striking resemblance to each other, but because they invariably walk the deck together, and seem almost as inseparable as the Siamese Twins themselves. Then, each of us in a comfortable revolving arm-chair, come the ten or twelve saloon passengers.

A very sociable party we make; and how we enjoy our food, to be sure! At breakfast this morning the following was the menu, all the dishes being served in a style which would have done credit to Champeau’s:—Radishes, anchovies (excellent), omelette of mushrooms, calves’ head, hot lobster with sauce piquante (excellent), filet de bœuf with potatoes, cheese, and fruit. Admirable white and red wine is supplied in abundance during the meal, and the usual coffee and cognac afterwards. With a cuisine like this, and in so pleasant and airy a saloon as ours, the most squeamish of travellers might fairly tempt the “dangers of the deep.”

A very amusing conversation occupied the company at breakfast. They thought proper to engage in an edifying discussion on sea-sickness, accompanied by realistic—indeed, occasionally too realistic—illustrations on the part of most present of the peculiar manner in which they were affected by the malady. Eventually some one propounded a knotty problem for solution. “How is it,” he asked, “that Englishmen are never sea-sick?” Alas! poor innocent. I thought of the revelation that awaited him whenever he made his first passage from Calais to Dover; but in the meantime I listened eagerly for the answer to his question. It came from the captain, and was as follows: “You see it is all an affair of the imagination, this sea-sickness. Now, the English have no imagination, and consequently they are never sea-sick. Voilà tout!”

But if my friends on board have limited ideas on some subjects, they are nevertheless—like most people in this world when you once get to know them—very good fellows, and they have shown an amazing amount of kindness to myself as the sole foreigner on board. One pleasant little “commercial,” bound for Bone, has insisted upon playing chess with me during the greater part of the afternoon; whilst after dinner the Corsican Brothers invited me to join them in the smoking-room at a game at dummy whist. There was a lovely sunset this evening, and to-night the stars are shining with marvellous brilliance, the Milky Way reflecting a perceptible track of light upon the ocean. The moon is burning, a crescent of red fire, high in the heavens. Before turning in for the night the long low line of the African coast became visible in the distance. Strangely enough, I last saw it on this very day twelve months ago.

Sunday, October 16th.—Hardly had I fallen into my first sleep last night when I was aroused by the din of our arrival at Bone. Everybody on board the ship apparently seemed to think it necessary to jump out of bed and forthwith to make the greatest possible amount of noise. Shouting, laughing, crying, talking, and even playing the piano in the saloon, they evidently found that in no other way could they give expression to their feelings at having once more come within sight of land. One would have imagined that it was a voyage of a year instead of one of a day only that had come to an end. Then the “horrid winch” began to work, and for a couple of hours the uproar was really appalling. After that, apparently because everybody was exhausted, things became quieter, and I was able to get a few hours’ sleep.

At seven o’clock, when I rose and dressed, I found the vessel moored alongside the quay of Bone, and consequently lying snugly in the best harbour on the coast of Algiers. Bone is one of the most flourishing towns in the French colony in North Africa, and it attracts a considerable number of commercial travellers like those who have come with me in the Charles Quint. For the uncommercial traveller it has other attractions of a special kind. Thus the sportsman comes here because the railway from this place takes him to the nearest spot to England where that noblest of all the beasts of the forest, the lion, is to be found; whilst those who are interested in the past visit Bone because here St. Augustine lived and wrote his burning “Confessions,” and because near here his tomb is now to be seen.

The morning was bright and beautiful, though on the brown hills behind the town some rather ominous clouds were hanging. As I was about to take my first walk on the soil of Africa, I thought it advisable to array myself in my lightest attire, and accordingly I presently sallied forth in a guise which would have brought a mob to my heels in any English town. The scene was very picturesque. The town is of semi-French architecture, with a wide boulevard and a little square, besides many narrow streets. Everywhere Arabs, clad in the flowing white burnous and in the blue or red jebbas, were to be seen. Hundreds of black and brown children—genuine street Arabs these—were gambolling about the doors of the houses; and amid the swarthy elders of the famous race and their half-naked offspring, there strolled about, with that air of dignity which the conqueror, wherever he may be found, seldom forgets to wear, numbers of Frenchmen.

Sunday morning though it was, the shops were all open. Those best worth examining were the photograph and coral shops. Coral is obtained in large quantities upon this coast; La Calle, a port a few miles to the east, being one of the seats of the coral fishery. The articles I was shown in the different shops were very cheap, but were poor in quality. I strolled into the fish and vegetable markets. In the former were many curious fishes, as well as some very fine ones. Among the curious fish were large quantities of a creature very like the octopus, which I was told was a favourite delicacy among all classes. In the vegetable market, besides an abundant supply of such vegetables as are only produced in England during the summer, there were great quantities of melons, oranges, lemons, and pomegranates. In the centre of the town is a small garden, in which tropical plants and trees were growing luxuriantly. Everywhere one could see traces of the struggle between the old and the new, and everywhere proofs were to be found of the success with which the French are establishing their own institutions on the soil of Africa, in spite of the dogged opposition of one of the most conservative races in the world.