BARBARY SLAVEMASTER
by
Allan Aldis
Copyright Allan Aldiss
Free extract
AUTHOR'S NOTE
This novel is set in a time and place where harem women really were totally at the mercy of the rich men who owned them, and of the black eunuchs who supervised them. European women really were captured by the Corsairs and sold in the slave markets of the East. The Barbary States did have a reputation for treating Christian slaves unbelievably harshly, almost as animals, and there actually were slave breeding farms in the Ottoman Empire ... and although you won't find Marsa on the map, there are several places where it well could have been.
The story takes place during the long drawn out war between Britain and revolutionary and then Napoleonic France, which started in 1793 and only ended with the Battle of Waterloo twenty-two years later. Because the principal naval powers were busy fighting each other, the war gave a considerable stimulus to the Barbary Corsairs. It also saw the elimination of one of their main enemies: the Knights of Malta. Thus for much of this time, they had an almost free rein to plunder and kidnap along the coasts and islands of Southern Europe.
By this time the corsairs had replaced their sea-going galleys with fast sailing craft such as polacca-chebecs which carried a mixture of European type square sails and Arab style lanteen sails. The demand for large numbers of young male Christian galley slaves had therefore dwindled. Instead many of the Corsos, as the corsair raids were called, concentrated more on capturing young women.
In 1798, for instance, only a few years before the setting of this novel, Barbary Corsairs from Tunis carried off almost a thousand women and children from the island of San Pietro, off Sardinia. Some were ransomed a few years later, but many had disappeared, having been sold in the slave markets of North Africa and the Middle East.
Thus, although what follows is fiction, the background is realistic. However, those of a squeamish disposition are advised not to read the books of the Barbary series. For a more serious study of this fascinating period I would recommend books such as Stephen Clissold's 'The Barbary Slaves' (Elek Books), Noel Barber's 'Lords of the Golden Horn' (Macmillan), 'Harem, The World Behind the Veil' by Alev Lytle Croutier (Bloomsbury), and books about the Knights of Malta.
CHAPTER 1
THE PASHA MAKES A PURCHASE
It was in 1809 (by the Christian calendar) that the Pasha consulted me regarding the purchase of a woman - a matter which one would have thought to be a routine matter, and certainly not one in which it was either necessary or desirable to involve a renegade Englishman such as myself.
Hassan Pasha, the Governor of Marsa, was somewhat plump with a long grey beard and fierce eyes. He was much older and rather shorter than I. He wore an imposing red silk turban and a long robe, and had the commanding air of a man who had spent a lifetime in positions of authority, as indeed he had. His lips were the those of a sensuous man who enjoyed his pleasures, as again indeed he did.
Or perhaps this was accentuated that day, for we were in the cool Arab style patio of the establishment of Achmed, one of the leading slave dealers in Marsa, and women were clearly on the Pasha's mind - or perhaps just this one particular woman. He was certainly a man who knew what he wanted, and - which made me somewhat apprehensive - not one to suffer fools gladly.
"The woman I wish you to inspect," he said, "is said to be English and of aristocratic stock."
I was struck dumb at the thought of any Englishwoman, let alone one of good family, being in the hands of a Marsa slave dealer. She would certainly be a very rare and valuable item!
"And you are also English of good stock, Colonel Hussein," he continued.
"Yes, Excellency, that is so," I replied. I was still not quite used to being Colonel Hussein of the Sultan of Turkey's Janissaries, instead of merely Captain Rory Fitzgerald of His Majesty King George III's foot guards and the son of a penniless Anglo-Irish Baronet. I collected my thoughts again after the Pasha's astonishing announcement. "But of course I am now a true believer."
"May Allah be praised!"
"Indeed, Excellency," I murmured, feeling rather a fraud, for my so-called conversion to the Moslem religion had been purely for practical reasons.
"You will, I presume, be able to tell whether this woman is what Achmet says she is? It is the thought of having a real English lady in my power that appeals to me - not some strumpet, not a mere servant girl."
His eyes lit up at the thought of it. A real English lady in his harem? Yes, I could certainly see how stimulating that would be! And since she would be a Christian, enslaving her would be all the more praiseworthy.
"Yes, Excellency," I replied. "I will be able to tell and it will be a great honour to advise Your Excellency." There could be promotion in this - I was second in command of the Turkish Janissaries in Marsa under Abdul Raman Bey at that time. Or there could be disgrace. I had learnt to be careful with this autocratic individual. Anything to do with a man's harem has to be treated very seriously and is a matter of considerable delicacy.
Moreover, I wondered how much he knew of the Bey's sloth and inefficiency. But my own position as an Englishman in the employ of the Sultan was also rather uncertain, for French influence on Constantinople was strong again.
"My chief eunuch has of course examined her." The Pasha's voice cut into my thoughts. "He says she is fit and well and he is confident he can train her satisfactorily ..."
I smiled at this. I knew well the impact such training would have on a white woman. Even in my own small harem the girls were kept well trained and submissive.
"So," the Pasha continued, "if the description is genuine I shall purchase her. Otherwise Achmed shall suffer ..."
He clapped his hands and Achmed himself appeared, all bows and greasy smiles. Eager as they both were to get down to business, we must first sip tiny cups of Turkish coffee and discuss the prospects for the current Corso, or raiding season, as well as the present state of the slave market: such is the way that business is conducted in the Orient.
We might have been merchants in a London coffee house, such as I had once been familiar with, discussing the state of the markets on 'Change' - except of course that I was in the uniform of an officer of the Janissaries, with a tall white felt hat, a short blue robe, baggy Turkish shalwar breeches and yellow boots, whilst the others wore Eastern robes. And, of course, we were all speaking Arabic, sitting cross legged on large ottomans and being waited on by pretty white eunuch page boys.
Presently the dealer's Negro overseer entered the room.
He was carrying a long stiff whip with a little leash at the tip - it was the sort that was widely used to school horses and was also used by such Negroes as this to school the young women placed in their charge. He bowed to the Pasha and announced that the goods that the Pasha had returned to see were ready for his inspection in the display room.
Here, there were Eastern carpets on the floor and bright painted tiles on the walls, but the windows were barred.
"Speak to her," the Pasha said to me impatiently, indicating a heavily veiled figure standing on a low platform by one of the barred windows. What I saw was a shrinking figure on a dais, hidden behind a loose white caftan buttoned down the front. Her head was covered in an all enveloping white veil through which nothing could be seen of her features.
"Speak to her in English."
The Pasha, I thought, was getting increasingly impatient to get his hands on her. It would be tactless indeed to frustrate him now that he had the bit between his teeth, as it were. He was like a man buying a horse back in Ireland. Once a horse has taken your fancy, you want quick confirmation that it is sound and well bred, and then you want to get your hands on it, try it out, ride it hard ...
Actually, the chance of a well-bred English woman becoming a slave in Barbary must be remote indeed. It was almost certain that this would turn out to be some foreign tart who had picked up a few words of English from a client.
It would, however, be considerably more tactful to tell the Pasha what he wanted to hear, and that is what I intended to do, especially as Achmed had already taken me aside and shown me a very different young woman with a pale skin, sloe eyes, flowing black hair and a well curved figure.
"Do you like this one, Effendi?" he had asked. "She is from Sardinia."
"She's not bad," I conceded. She had already been depilated but obviously not yet trained.
"Then she is yours." He had looked round to be sure we were alone, and then up at me slyly - I am taller than most, out here - "She is a virgin, unsullied. I cannot afford such a gift if the Pasha is not well pleased with the other one."
He had obviously anticipated that the Pasha would not be able to check up on what he had been told, and was rightly fearful for his sweating skin.
"Let us hope that that is the will of Allah," I had replied with a wink, "for I would not wish to be impolite towards so generous an individual as yourself!"
So now we came to the moment of truth - or perhaps, since it would not affect my reply to the Pasha, I should say of revelation.
The wrists of the woman on the dais were fastened behind her neck to a ring high up in the wall, thus keeping her upright and helpless to intervene when the buttons of her caftan were undone to allow the inspection of her body - in this way she could be freely seen and felt without interference.
The pose would also bend her slightly backwards from the waist, raising her breasts and showing them to their best advantage, like on the carved figure head at the prow of a ship.
Slave dealers always displayed their wares in the most favourable positions - especially when they were asking the sort of price Achmed would be asking for this young woman, a price I myself could certainly not even dream of affording in those days.
I moved closer to her, ready to lie in the cause of prudence and politeness. The way she shrank back showed that she could see out through the veil.
"Who are you?" I asked, in English.
"Oh thank God!" The voice, though strained, was most attractive and definitely that of an educated English lady! "Oh thank God, thank God, you're English!"
"I am," I replied. "Or, rather, Irish."
"Have you come to rescue me?"
"Impossible!" I said. All the Barbary States had signed treaties with Britain exempting, in exchange for large subsidies, British ships and subjects from capture. These treaties were often ignored, but the existence of an English slave could not be admitted officially. "I am merely here to report upon you."
"Report? Oh God, what's happening?"
The girl was almost hysterical. She started to scream out in a most unseemly fashion. "You must save me! You must! You must!"
The Negro grew angry at this sudden outburst in a language he did not understand. This was far from the submissive and humble whisper she would surely have been taught to adopt in the display room.
He raised his whip menacingly, and the effect was dramatic. Brought back to her senses, she cowered from him.
"Oh no! Don't let that brute beat me again!"
Clearly she was absolutely terrified of the Negro and his whip. I waved him back and there was a little gulp from behind the veil.
I was fascinated. I admit it. I had not heard an Englishwoman's voice for years. I was quite taken by her lilting voice and intrigued by what might be behind the veil. And what did she make of me? She would see a tall young man of military bearing, strangely dressed. Would she be impressed by the long waxed Turkish moustache and short pointed beard? No wonder she had been surprised when I spoke English! But under it all I did look fairly European still. Though well burned by the sun I was still white and my hair and eyes are brown - I have been told I have humorous self-mocking eyes and a rather aristocratic Roman nose that adds to my distinguished looks.
"Tell me about yourself," I said.
"Are they going to sell me to that fat pig over there?"
It was extremely fortunate that the Pasha could not understand a word of English.
"You must be more respectful to him," I said. "Or it will be much the worse for you."
"You wouldn't abandon me to that horrible old man?"
"I have no choice," I said bitterly. "If I could buy you for myself, then I certainly would."
It was true. I had begun to wish she were mine without even seeing her face or body.
"Buy? Buy? But surely I will be ransomed?"
"Who would do that?"
"My husband!" she said. "My husband! If he can't rescue me! Wait till he hears about this!"
"I'm afraid he never will."
"Oh!" she gasped.
What did she look like? I was becoming increasingly interested - it was a long time since I had seen an English woman.
"She is indeed English, Excellency," I told the Pasha. "Beyond that, as to her breeding, it is hard to determine when I cannot read her face to know if she is lying."
I did not expect to be permitted to see the face of a woman who might be destined for the Pasha's harem. But I was wrong. The Pasha motioned to the Negro, who reached up and pulled the veil from her face.
I gave a gasp. Here was a beauty such as I had rarely seen before.
The shrewd slave dealer had had her blond hair carefully brushed straight down her back in the approved slave girl style. Blond, blue-eyed women were very much sought after in the Barbary States and sold for huge prices. This girl's hair was fine and honey coloured, like spun gold, and her eyes were a soft and alluring blue.
No wonder the Pasha was so taken by her - I myself was utterly overcome.
Her elfin shaped face was young and beautiful, with a straight nose and full mouth made to please a man. But it was her brilliantly blue and carefully made up eyes that really caught my attention.
She seemed to be about to burst into tears, but then she shook her head and looked boldly at me.
That is when I became obsessed with her, with owning her, with having her in my own harem, to ... yes, my loins swelled mightily for her, but of course it was mad to think of even touching her. Only one of the richest man in Marsa, such as the Pasha himself, could ever afford to buy a creature like this.
Achmed the dealer was standing in a corner, watching in silence, sensing a sale. Apart from not wishing to offend the Pasha, he had doubtless invested a large sum in purchasing her from the Rais, or Captain, of the Corso ship that had captured her, and had then spent more in having her broken in thus far, and beautified.
"Tell me about yourself," I repeated.
This time she rushed breathlessly into rapid speech - hoping, I think, to convince us she should be ransomed. I began to translate into Arabic for the Pasha.
"I am Henrietta Hamilton, wife of Captain James Hamilton of the 56th. My father is the Reverend Hubert de Vere, a cousin of Lord de Vere." The Pasha's eyes lit up at this. "He is Vicar of a village in Hampshire, and we were always the poor relations" - this I did not translate - "I fell madly in love with James. We were married quickly for his Regiment was about to sail for Malta. I have never seen him since. I followed him to Malta but his Regiment had been sent to Sicily. I love him so much. I was on my way there in a local vessel when we were attacked by a Corsair ship - oh God, oh God, what is to become of me!"
When I had translated this, I bowed low and retreated into the background. It had been an outburst that must have added considerably to the price that the Pasha was willing to pay. To enslave the wife of a Christian infidel is something that appeals greatly to the Turk. The fact that the woman still loves the husband she will never see again adds further spice to the situation, especially if she is the wife of an English officer.
I thought the Pasha would dismiss me now that the matter was resolved. He would not want me to speak any more with his future concubine now that her aristocratic background was established. But again I was wrong. Perhaps he was flustered, or perhaps he was pleased with my only too obvious admiration of his prize and wished to bask in it a little longer.
Achmed motioned to his Negro overseer, who came forward and started to unbutton the girl's caftan. She gasped as she tried to shake him off, but with her wrists secured to the ring bolt set in the wall behind her head she was unable to prevent those black hands remorselessly continuing down as he undid button after button.
The Negro pulled open the caftan to show off the girl's slender naked body. The Pasha's eyes were eager as he looked her up and down, then sat, leaning forward on a stool that Achmed pulled across the floor and set closely in front of her.
I too sucked in my breath, though being careful not to draw attention to myself. The body being displayed to us was indeed superb, and the twisting and writhing added to its attraction. As I had expected, she had been depilated.
At a gesture from the Pasha the Negro unfastened her chained hands from the ring bolt and turned her round so that he could admire her long slender back and soft buttocks, and then bent her forward to give him a different view of her intimacies. The girl squirmed away from every little touch despite whatever training she had had.
This was all quite normal, of course. I myself had had much less expensive girls displayed to me in a similar way before buying them. But it had been different, they had not been delicate English girls like this. My lust for this gorgeous Henrietta was rising too fast for comfort.
If only she were mine! But that could never be. It was obvious that the Pasha was about to purchase her.
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