For Love of a Bedouin Maid

by Voleur

The captives had done their last spell at the sweeps, and were no longer fettered to them, but were chained together by the wrists in gangs of from two to half a dozen. They were now lying huddled in groups about the deck, enjoying such repose as their thoughts allowed them. Their seeming hopeless apathy had inspired their callous taskmasters with confidence in their docility and resignation to their fate; so that Black Ali's satellites now paid little heed to them, and would have laughed to scorn the suggestion that they meditated mutiny. They believed their captives so completely cowed by the floggings and other cruelties they had undergone that all their manhood had gone out of them. And almost it had; but, cowed and abject, as they were, there was still some manhood left, and below the even surface of resignation and submission was a seething mass of rage and hatred which, given the opportunity, would find a vent, and, boiling over, would overwhelm their torturers as ruthlessly as does a stream of molten metal that has burst its way from a smelting furnace upon the unsuspecting workers.

So far, whether from the cowardice or the hopelessness of the slaves, or that a favorable opportunity had been wanting, no attempt at a rising had been made. Now there seemed a chance, for the number of their guards had been reduced, many of Black Ali's men having accompanied him ashore. Those who remained behind were lolling lazily about the deck, for the most part gazing at the shore.

St. Just and Mahmoud, chained together, were stretched in the shadow of a boat, apparently asleep. Certainly the carpenter, who was repairing a damaged boat hard by them, thought so. Occasionally he gave a glance at them, then turned his back and resumed his work, unconscious that his tool basket lay within reach of Mahmoud's hand.

But St. Just's eyes were fixed upon it covetously; given time and opportunity, in it he saw the instrument of their enfranchisement. Cautiously inclining his hands towards the apparently sleeping lad, he whispered in his ear, but no sound escaped his lips. Silently, stealthily, first looking around to see that he was not observed, Mahmoud advanced his unchained hand; gradually it neared the basket; over the edge and into it made its way. The next moment it was withdrawn, but it was no longer empty; it held a strong three-sided file. With the speed of lightning the lad thrust it into his waistband out of sight. Then he cast his eyes round furtively, to see whether any one had noticed him. His heart was beating violently, he breathed painfully, the sweat was pouring from him, he was trembling from head to foot. His glance assured him; he was satisfied that no one, but St. Just, whose trepidation was equal to his own, had seen his act. A deep sigh escaped him; it marked his unspeakable relief, and he breathed easily.

Hardly had he concealed the file, when the order was given for the gang to move forward to receive their rations. St. Just and Mahmoud whispered a word to their neighbors, and quickly the news would permeate the band.

The lynx-eyed slave driver, by way of encouraging them to speed their steps, gave each man, in passing, a sharp cut with the whip. But St. Just and Mahmoud received theirs in silence, for both were inwardly rejoicing, and they scarcely felt the pain, so buoyed up were they with the thought that, before another hour should have passed, the inspiring cry would have been whispered through the gang.

"A file, and freedom at the hour of sunset!"

The afternoon wore on, the captives seemingly even more quiet and subdued than usual. No one, to look at them, would have guessed the hope, the impatience, the thirst for blood, that were raging beneath their calm demeanor. But, indolent and listless though they seemed, one by one they were actively employed. The file was furtively at work. Surreptitiously and with infinite caution it was passed from hand to hand, each man filing almost, but not quite through the link that joined him to his neighbor, so that with a slight effort, it could be snapped asunder. This achieved, the file was handed on.

It had been planned that, if the file's work were done in time, the rising should take place at the next call for prayer, for then their custodians would be on their knees and, for the moment, off their guard. St. Just was to give the signal; he was to raise his hand; no sound was to be uttered.

Meanwhile everything was going in their favor. The crew had given themselves up to rest, or sport, or dissipation, according to their respective moods. Some were singing boisterously, some were gaming with cards, some dicing; others were devoting themselves to the bottle; for though followers of the Prophet, these lawless preyers on humanity took no heed of his injunctions to abstain from alcohol; and with this all were more or less inflamed. Some indeed, were so far overcome that they were stretched upon the deck in drunken stupor. Most of them had cast aside their scimitars, which were lying here and there, retaining only their daggers on their persons. The muskets were stacked just below the poop deck. The laughter, the coarse jokes, the quarreling of the gamesters and the singing of the half-drunken men combined to form a Pandemonium that was almost deafening. But for this, the sound of the continued rasping of the file could scarcely have escaped their notice.