Among those who manned the sweeps were St. Just and Mahmoud, with others of his men. Besides them, there were on board prisoners of various nationalities, all destined by their captor for the slave market; for no respecter either of persons or of countries was Black Ali.
Stretched on the poop under a protective awning, he now lay in sleepy indolence, even his tawny and well-seasoned skin giving evidence, by its greasy polish, of the sweltering heat.
Suddenly he raised himself upon his elbow and stroked his untrimmed beard reflectively, the while he ran his cold, cruel eye along the line of rowers—from his point of view no longer men, but mere sums of money—scanning carefully each form that met his view, to see that it was doing its full share of work with the heavy oar, to each of which two men were chained.
His glance fell now on a Greek, now on a Moorish figure; then it traveled from a Frenchman to a Negro, each crouched doglike, with his tongue out, his eyes protruding from his head, the muscles of his back and arms standing out in lumps and knots under the strain imposed on them, the sweat pouring from his skin, saturating his linen waist-cloth and causing it to cling the tighter to him.
Black Ali's eye moved down the line, beginning at the bow; at the bench nearest to him it was arrested; only one man was pulling. His fellow, overcome by his exertions, had dropped backwards, so far as his chin allowed, and, regardless of the consequences, was resting; he could work no more.
"Ho! there, you foreign dog," Black Ali shouted; and all started at his voice. "You, you sluggish Frenchman," he went on; "would you delay us by your sloth? Hadji!"—to the stalwart slave driver—"your whip wants exercise, my man; wake up this Christian dog and make him work."
Having to pass along the whole rank of rowers, Hadji thought it well to go one better than his orders. "Quicken your stroke, you dogs," he shouted, and he strode along the line. To emphasize his words, he raised his formidable whip. With a swishing sound it descended on the shoulders of the nearest man, raising a long wheal on the already cruelly scored back. A second time it fell on the devoted back, this time drawing blood. And thus down the whole line the cutting thong was wielded, finally falling upon the resting man and slashing him across the face.
Instinctively, the poor Frenchman made a movement with his arm to protect his bleeding face; but, alas, the arm was chained and could not reach it. Still, for all his pain, he made no attempt to resume his work. Either long ill-usage had made him reckless and deadened his feeling to the lash, or he was too weak to move. In another moment, his eyes closed and he fell forward.
"He is dying," said the slave driver to his master.
"Is he?" said the despot beneath the awning. "We will have no carrion on board. Cut him adrift and tow him astern; he shall feed the sharks."