The church bells were ringing, and I could not resist the temptation to attend the Catholic service in the town in which St. Augustine once ministered. In coming back towards the ship, I noticed that in many cases a bottle of live leeches was suspended as a sign in front of the barbers’ shops. In an evil moment I was induced to enter one of these establishments, and trust myself to the tender mercies of an Algerian hairdresser. It was a wonderful operation which I had to undergo. I had chosen the most fashionable establishment of the kind in Bone, and a stately Frenchwoman, seated at that little counter which is so dear to the ladies of her race, superintended the work of the shop, and received with dignity the fees of the shorn. The barber to whose care I was intrusted began by covering my head and beard with violet powder, causing me to look amazingly like an overgrown baby. This was not the worst of what I had to submit to, however, for when the hair-cutting was concluded, my tormentor produced an article, the sight of which recalled my own nursery days, to wit, a small tooth comb, and proceeded to apply it with exemplary diligence to my head! It was not without a feeling of profound thankfulness that I at last escaped from his grasp, and, returning to the Charles Quint, partook of the admirable breakfast which the chef had served up. This breakfast began with oysters and melons—which might have grown among the fields of far-away Cassaba—and ended with new oranges and curaçao.
All the saloon passengers who came with me from Marseilles have left the ship, but we have some new-comers in their place. The most important of these is Colonel Allegro, the notorious adventurer, who for a time filled the post of Tunisian Consul at Bone, and who, although in the service of the Bey, is well known as one of the most determined and relentless Arab-hunters in North Africa. He is now on his way to Tunis accompanied by Arab horses, Arab servants, and an immense amount of camp equipments, having just been offered the command of the cavalry in one of the columns which are destined to march upon Kairwan. A swarthy man with keen black eyes and resolute mouth, the colonel does not promise much in the way of agreeable companionship during our voyage to Tunis. The other new-comers are a young Italian with his remarkably pretty wife and their baby. This gentleman lives at Susa, one of the Arab coast-towns in the Gulf of Hammamet, and is returning to his dreary home after a pleasure-trip to Paris. His wife seems quite content at the prospect of exchanging the delights of Paris for the dull confinement of a house in such a place as Susa. The husband has already taken me into his confidence so far as to express his opinion not only about Colonel Allegro in particular, but about the French in general. There is clearly no love lost between Frenchmen and Italians at this moment.
Whilst we have been waiting here discharging or taking in cargo, my fair friend the vivandière has been distinguishing herself. Yesterday, smooth though the sea was, she kept her berth, and doubtless nourished those feelings towards the rest of the human race which only the sea-sick know. To-day she had recovered her equanimity, her good looks, and, I hope, her benevolence. At all events, she stepped ashore early this morning arrayed in her most gorgeous costume, feathers flying from her hat, and stars and medals glittering on her bosom. A crowd of a hundred solemn-faced Arabs, among whom a few lively-looking Frenchmen were mingled, quickly formed round her, and escorted by this guard of honour she set off into the town. She returned at twelve o’clock in the highest state of delight. Her guard had increased from one to five hundred, whilst she enjoyed the satisfaction of being tenderly supported on either side by a private soldier of the line. I must say these soldiers looked rather sheepish, half proud and half ashamed, in fact. Not so mademoiselle, however. It was evidently one of the brightest moments of her life. She embraced her two friends with fervour on parting from them; and then, leaning over the bulwarks of the Charles Quint, she discharged a whole armoury of messages of remembrance and affection to her brave comrades of the 91st regiment. How the Arabs stared; and how the jolly handsome-looking young negroes on the quay showed their gleaming white teeth as they grinned at the amazing spectacle.
They had something else to grin at presently. A shuffling young fellow, aged twenty or thereabouts, in the red breeches and blue coat of the infantry, came listlessly along in the direction of our vessel. As soon as she saw him our vivandière became greatly excited. “Ho! Adolphe! Adolphe! Venez ici!” she shouted at the top of her somewhat shrill voice. Adolphe seemed not particularly anxious to respond to the invitation. He grinned idiotically; thrust his hands deeper than ever into his breeches’ pockets, and blushed vividly. But he made no motion towards the gangway connecting the ship with the shore. For a moment mademoiselle seemed puzzled as to what she should do: then, after telling him that he was nothing but a great stupid, she tripped lightly down the ladder, sprang upon the quay, seized Adolphe’s ear between her dainty little finger and thumb, and amidst the loud laughter of the spectators conducted him in triumph on board the Charles Quint. Why she wanted him there goodness only knows. Perhaps to scold, perhaps to pet him. I do not know. But in a couple of minutes she reappeared with her captive at the gangway, bestowed upon him two sounding kisses, and then patting him on the back, sent him down the ladder looking more doltish than ever. I think she must have seen a suspicious twinkle in my eye. At all events she turned to me, and with a mocking little curtsey said, “C’est mon cousin, monsieur!” But I confess I have my own ideas about that kind of cousinship.
CHAPTER III.
A WHITE SQUALL.
A crowded deck — Rough seas — La Calle and its boatmen — A sea-fight on a small scale — Dinner under difficulties — Trying to sleep — The small miseries of life — The Gulf of Tunis — A beautiful prospect — Goletta — My friend Afrigan — Jewish women — French soldiers.
Sunday, October 16th.—The Charles Quint left Bone at two o’clock on its voyage to Goletta. Unfortunately, before the hour of sailing the weather underwent a complete change. Heavy clouds settled down upon the hills encircling the town, swathing them in a grey mist, so that the scenery suddenly seemed to change from that of Africa to that of Scotland. Indeed, these African hills at all times bear a strong resemblance to the brown highlands of our own country. Then a fresh wind sprang up, and sharp showers of rain began to fall; whilst the sea rapidly lost its beautiful blue colour, and turned to a pale green like that of the German Ocean. I was glad to betake myself to my cabin, and there lay aside the white garments in which I had clad myself in the hot early morning, returning to a warmer and more sober dress.
At last, at two o’clock, the moorings were cast loose, and we set sail amid the chattering of the excited crowd of Moors and negroes on the wharf, and the dismal groaning of our deck passengers, whose prophetic souls had apparently already enabled them to foresee the trouble that was to come. It is one characteristic of French and Italian steamers, and not altogether an agreeable one, that the whole deck is free to the passengers of all classes. The saloon is, of course, reserved for those who pay for its accommodation: but everybody is at liberty to walk upon the hurricane-deck, or to sit in the snug corners which abound near the poop. This afternoon accordingly I found many Arabs, many Jews, and not a few dubious-looking Christians, scattered about on the upper deck. Below, in the ship’s waist, were the horses and tents of Colonel Allegro, and a swarm of Mohammedan women squatting under Turkish carpets, and apparently endeavouring to persuade themselves that they were going to have a fine run to La Calle, the first port on the way to Goletta. Alas! no sooner had we got clear of the harbour of Bone than we found ourselves in the full enjoyment of all the experiences of a white squall. Only a few hours had been needed to turn the placid sea of yesterday into a boiling, angry ocean, upon which our brave Charles Quint pitched and rolled like a cork. Woeful was then the scene among our deck passengers. One after another they succumbed to their inevitable fate, and before long there did not seem to be a single person among them who was not horribly sick.