



Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England




The Boy Slaves, by Captain Mayne Reid.

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This is an excellent book, telling of the adventures of three midshipmen
and a much older sailor from a British warship that goes aground off the
coast of Africa, well offshore, and sinks with all hands.  However these
four find themselves afloat on a spar, which they paddle with their
hands for several days until they reach the shore of Africa.  Shortly
after this they are taken prisoner by some Arabs, who intend to take
them north to a town where they can be sold as slaves.

The book deals with their adventures as they are driven north to be
sold.  In those days Arab pirate ships, known as Barbary pirates, and
also Algerine pirates, used to capture European vessels and make their
white crews and passengers into slaves, demanding ransoms from their
families.  Even if the ransom was received, the captors usually
pretended it hadn't been.  The practice had been going on for centuries,
and was terminated in 1816 when Admiral Lord Exmouth attacked Algiers,
and obtained the release of 1300 white slaves.  Following this the
French were charged with the responsibility of keeping the Arabs of
North Africa in order.  The date of 1816 is wrongly given as 1856 on
page xi of Guy Pocock's introduction to the Everyman Edition of the
book.

The audiobook takes about ten hours to play.
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THE BOY SLAVES, BY CAPTAIN MAYNE REID.



CHAPTER ONE.

THE LAND OF THE SLAVE.

Land of Ethiope! whose burning centre seems unapproachable as the frozen
Pole!

Land of the unicorn and the lion, of the crouching panther and the
stately elephant, of the camel, the camel-leopard, and the camel-bird!
Land of the antelopes, of the wild gemsbok, and the gentle gazelle, land
of the gigantic crocodile and huge river-horse, land teeming with animal
life, and, last in the list of my apostrophic appellations--last, and
that which must grieve the heart to pronounce it, land of the slave!

Ah; little do men think, while thus hailing thee, how near may be the
dread doom to their own hearths and homes!  Little dream they, while
expressing their sympathy--alas! too often, as of late shown in England,
a hypocritical utterance--little do they suspect, while glibly
commiserating the lot of thy sable-skinned children, that hundreds, ay
thousands, of their own colour and kindred are held within thy confines,
subject to a lot even lowlier than these--a fate far more fearful.

Alas! it is even so.  While I write, the proud Caucasian, despite his
boasted superiority of intellect, despite the whiteness of his skin, may
be found by hundreds in the unknown interior, wretchedly toiling, the
slave not only of thy oppressors, but the slave of thy slaves!

Let us lift that curtain which shrouds thy great Saara, and look upon
some pictures that should teach the son of Shem, while despising his
brothers Ham and Japhet, that he is not master of the world.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dread is that shore between Susa and Senegal, on the western edge of
Africa--by mariners most dreaded of any other in the world.  The very
thought of it causes the sailor to shiver with affright.  And no wonder;
on that inhospitable seaboard thousands of his fellows have found a
watery grave; and thousands of others a doom far more deplorable than
death!

There are two great deserts: one of land, the other of water--the Saara
and the Atlantic--their contiguity extending through ten degrees of the
earth's latitude--an enormous distance.  Nothing separates them, save a
line existing only in the imagination.  The dreary and dangerous
wilderness of water kisses the wilderness of sand--not less dreary or
dangerous to those whose misfortune it may be to become castaways on
this dreaded shore.

Alas! it has been the misfortune of many--not hundreds, but thousands.
Hundreds of ships, rather than hundreds of men, have suffered wreck and
ruin between Susa and Senegal.  Perhaps were we to include Roman,
Phoenician, and Carthaginian, we might say thousands of ships also.

More noted, however, have been the disasters of modern times, during
what may be termed the epoch of modern navigation.  Within the period of
the last three centuries, sailors of almost every maritime nation--at
least all whose errand has led them along the eastern edge of the
Atlantic--have had reason to regret approximation to those shores, known
in ship parlance as the Barbary coast; but which, with a slight
alteration in the orthography, might be appropriately styled
"Barbarian."

A chapter might be written in explanation of this peculiarity of
expression--a chapter which would comprise many parts of two sciences,
both but little understood--ethnology and meteorology.

Of the former we may have a good deal to tell before the ending of this
narrative.  Of the latter it must suffice to say: that the frequent
wrecks occurring on the Barbary coast, or, more properly on that of the
Saara south of it, are the result of an Atlantic current setting
eastwards against that shore.

The cause of this current is simple enough, though it requires
explanation: since it seems to contradict not only the theory of the
"trade" winds, but of the centrifugal inclination attributed to the
waters of the ocean.

I have room only for the theory in its simplest form.  The heating of
the Saara under a tropical sun; the absence of those influences,
moisture and verdure, which repel the heat and retain its opposite; the
ascension of the heated air that hangs over this vast tract of desert;
the colder atmosphere rushing in from the Atlantic Ocean; the consequent
eastward tendency of the waters of the sea.

These facts will account for that current which has proved a deadly
maelstrom to hundreds, ay thousands, of ships, in all ages, whose
misfortune it has been to sail unsuspectingly along the western shores
of the Ethiopian continent.

Even at the present day the castaways upon this desert shore are by no
means rare; notwithstanding the warnings that at close intervals have
been proclaimed for a period of three hundred years.

While I am writing, some stranded brig, barque, or ship may be going to
pieces between Bojador and Blanco; her crew making shorewards in boats
to be swamped among the foaming breakers; or, riding three or four
together upon some severed spar, to be tossed upon a desert strand, that
each may wish, from the bottom of his soul, should prove uninhabited!

I can myself record a scene like this that occurred not ten years ago,
about midway between the two headlands above named--Bojador and Blanco.
The locality may be more particularly designated by saying: that, at
half distance between these noted capes, a narrow strip of sand extends
for several miles out into the Atlantic, parched white under the rays of
a tropical sun, like the tongue of some fiery serpent, well represented
by the Saara, far stretching to seaward; ever seeking to cool itself in
the crystal waters of the sea.



CHAPTER TWO.

TYPES OF THE TRIPLE KINGDOM.

Near the tip of this tongue, almost within "licking" distance, on an
evening in the month of June, 18--, a group of the kind last alluded
to--three or four castaways upon a spar--might have been seen by any eye
that chanced to be near.

Fortunately for them, there was none sufficiently approximate to make
out the character of that dark speck, slowly approaching the white
sandspit, like any other drift carried upon the landward current of the
sea.

It was just possible for a person standing upon the summit of one of the
sand "dunes" that, like white billows, rolled off into the interior of
the continent, it was just possible for a person thus placed to have
distinguished the aforesaid speck without the aid of a glass; though
with one it would have required a prolonged and careful observation to
have discovered its character.

The sandspit was full three miles in length.  The hills stood back from
the shore another.  Four miles was sufficient to screen the castaways
from the observation of any one who might be straying along the coast.

For the individuals themselves it appeared very improbable that there
could be any one observing them.  As far as eye could reach--east,
north, and south, there was nothing save white sand.  To the west,
nothing but the blue water.  No eye could be upon them, save that of the
Creator.  Of his creatures, tame or wild, savage or civilised, there
seemed not one within a circuit of miles: for within that circuit there
was nothing visible that could afford subsistence either to man or
animal, bird or beast.  In the white substratum of sand, gently shelving
far under the sea, there was not a sufficiency of organic matter to have
afforded food for fish--even for the lower organisms of _mollusca_.
Undoubtedly were these castaways alone; as much so as if their locality
had been the centre of the Atlantic, instead of its coast!

We are privileged to approach them near enough to comprehend their
character, and learn the cause that has thus isolated them so far from
the regions of animated life.

There are four of them, astride a spar; which also carries a sail,
partially reefed around it, and partially permitted to drag loosely
through the water.

At a glance a sailor could have told that the spar on which they are
supported is a topsail-yard, which has been detached from its masts in
such a violent manner as to unloose some of the reefs that had held the
sail--partially releasing the canvas.  But it needed not a sailor to
tell why this had been done.  A ship has foundered somewhere near coast.
There has been a gale two days before.  The spar in question, with
those supported upon it, is but a fragment of the wreck.  There might
have been other fragments, other of the crew escaped, or escaping in
like manner, but there are no others in sight.  The castaways slowly
drifting towards the sandspit are alone.  They have no companions on the
ocean, no spectators on its shore.

As already stated, there are four of them.  Three are strangely alike,
at least, in the particulars of size, shape, and costume.  In age, too,
there is no great difference.  All three are boys: the eldest not over
eighteen, the youngest certainly not a year his junior.

In the physiognomy of the three there is similitude enough to declare
them of one nation, though dissimilarity sufficient to prove a distinct
provinciality both in countenance and character.  Their dresses of dark
blue cloth, cut pea-jacket shape, and besprinkled with buttons of
burnished yellow, their cloth caps of like colour, encircled by bands of
gold lace, their collars, embroidered with the crown and anchor, declare
them, all three, to be officers in the service of that great maritime
Government that has so long held undisputed possession of the sea--
midshipmen of the British navy.  Rather should we say, had been.  They
have lost this proud position, along with the frigate to which they had
been attached; and they now only share authority upon a dismasted spar,
over which they are exerting some control, since with their bodies bent
downwards, and their hands beating the water, they are propelling it in
the direction of the sandspit.

In the countenances of the three castaways thus introduced, I have
admitted a dissimilitude something more than casual; something more,
even, than what might be termed provincial.  Each presented a type that
could have been referred to that wider distinction known as a
nationality.

The three "middies" astride of that topsail-yard were, of course,
castaways from the same ship, in the service of the same Government,
though each was of a different nationality from the other two.  They
were the respective representatives of Jack, Paddy, and Sandy, or, to
speak more poetically of the Rose, Shamrock, and Thistle, and had the
three kingdoms from which they came had been searched throughout their
whole extent, there could scarcely have been discovered purer
representative types of each, than the three reefers on that spar
drifting towards the sandspit between Bojador and Blanco.

Their names were Harry Blount, Terence O'Connor, and Colin Macpherson.

The fourth individual, who shared with them their frail embarkation,
differed from all three in almost every respect, but more especially in
years.  The ages of all three united would not have numbered his; and
their wrinkles, if collected together, would scarce have made so many as
could have been counted in the crowsfeet indelibly imprinted in the
corners of his eyes.

It would have required a very learned ethnologist to have told to which
of his three companions he was compatriot; though there could be no
doubt about his being either English, Irish, or Scotch.

Strange to say, his tongue did not aid in the identification of his
nationality.  It was not often heard; but even when it was, its
utterance would have defied the most linguistic ear; and neither from
that, nor other circumstance known to them, could any one of his three
companions lay claim to him as a countryman.  When he spoke--a rare
occurrence already hinted--it was with a liberal misplacement of "h's"
that should have proclaimed him an Englishman of purest Cockney type.
At the same time his language was freely interspersed with Irish "ochs"
and "shures"; while the "wees" and "bonnys", oft recurring in his
speech, should have proved him a sworn Scotchman.  From his countenance
you might have drawn your own inference and believed him any of the
three; but not from his tongue.  Neither in its accent, nor the words
that fell from him, could you have told which of the three kingdoms had
the honour of giving him birth.

Whichever it was, it had supplied to the Service a true British tar: for
although you might mistake the man in other respects, his appearance
forbade all equivocation upon this point.

His costume was that of a common sailor, and, as a matter of course, his
name was "Bill".  But as he had only been one among many "Bills" rated
on the man-o'-war's books (now gone to the bottom of the sea) he carried
a distinctive appellation, no doubt earned by his greater age.  Aboard
the frigate he had been known as "Old Bill"; and the soubriquet still
attached to him upon the spar.



CHAPTER THREE.

THE SERPENT'S TONGUE.

The presence of a ship's topsail-yard thus bestridden plainly proclaimed
that a ship had been wrecked--although no other evidence of the wreck
was within sight.  Not a speck was visible upon the sea to the utmost
verge of the horizon; and if a ship had foundered within that field of
view, her boats and every vestige of the wreck must either have gone to
the bottom, or in some other direction than that taken by the
topsail-yard, which supported the three midshipmen and the sailor Bill.

A ship had gone to the bottom--a British man-of-war,--a corvette on her
way to her cruising ground, on the Guinea coast.  Beguiled by the
dangerous current that sets towards the seaboard of the Saara, in a dark
stormy night she had struck upon a sand-bank; got bilged; and sank
almost instantly among the breakers.  Boats had been got out, and men
had been seen crowding hurriedly into them; others had taken to such
rafts, or spars, as could be detached from the sinking vessel; but
whether any of these, or the overladen boats, had succeeded in reaching
the shore, was a question which none of the four astride the
topsail-yard were able to answer.

They only knew that the corvette had gone to the bottom--they saw her go
down, shortly after drifting away from her side; but saw nothing more
until morning, when they perceived themselves alone upon the ocean.
They had been drifting throughout the remainder of that long, dark
night, often entirely under water, when the sea swelled over them--and
one and all of them many times on the point of being washed from their
frail embarkation.

By daybreak the storm had ceased, and was succeeded by a clear, calm
day; but it was not until a late hour that the swell had subsided
sufficiently to enable them to take any measures for propelling the
strange craft that carried them.  Then, using their hands as oars, or
paddles, they commenced making some way through the water.

There was nothing in sight, neither land nor any other object, save the
sea, the sky, and the sun.  It was the east which guided them as to
direction.  But for it there could have been no object in making way
through the water; but, with the sun now sinking in the west, they could
tell the east; and they knew that in that point alone land might be
expected.

After the sun had gone down, the stars became their compass, and
throughout all the second night of the shipwreck they had continued to
paddle the spar in an easterly direction.

Day again dawned upon them; but without gratifying their eyes by the
sight of land, or any other object, to inspire them with a hope.

Famished with hunger, tortured with thirst, and wearied with their
continued exertions, they were about to surrender to despair when, as
the sun once more mounted up to the sky, and his bright beams pierced
the crystal water upon which they were floating, they saw beneath them
the sheen of white sand.  It was the bottom of the sea, and at no great
depth, not more than a few fathoms below their feet.

Such shallow water could not be far from the shore.  Reassured, and
encouraged by the thought, they once more renewed their exertions, and
continued to paddle the spar, taking only short intervals of rest
throughout the whole of the morning.

Long before noon they were compelled to desist.  They were close to the
tropic of Cancer, almost under its line.  It was the season of
midsummer; and of course at meridian hour the sun was right over their
heads.  Even their bodies cast no shadow, except upon the white sand
directly underneath them, at the bottom of the sea.  The sun could no
longer guide them; and, as they had no other index, they were compelled
to remain stationary, or drift in whatever direction the breeze or the
currents might carry them.

There was not much movement any way; and for several hours before and
after noon they lay almost becalmed upon the ocean.  This period was
passed in silence and inaction.  There was nothing for them to talk
about but their forlorn situation; and this topic had been exhausted.
There was nothing for them to do.  Their only occupation was to watch
the sun until, by its sinking lower in the sky, they might discover its
westing.

Could they at that moment have elevated their eyes only three feet
higher, they would not have needed to wait for the declination of the
orb of day.  They would have seen land, such land as it was, but sunk as
their shoulders were, almost to the level of the water, even the summits
of the sand-dunes were not visible to their eyes.

When the sun began to go down towards the horizon they once more plied
their palms against the liquid wave, and sculled the spar eastward.  The
sun's lower limb was just touching the western horizon, when his red
rays, glancing over their shoulders, showed them some white spots that
appeared to rise out of the water.

Were they clouds?  No!  Their rounded tops, cutting the sky with a clear
line, forbade this belief.  They should be hills, either of snow or of
sand.  It was not the region for snow: they could only be sand-hills.

The cry of "land" pealed simultaneously from the lips of all--that
cheerful cry that has so oft given gladness to the despairing castaway,
and, redoubling their exertions, the spar was propelled through the
water more rapidly than ever.

Reinvigorated by the prospect of once more setting foot upon land, they
forgot for the moment thirst, hunger, and weariness; and only occupied
themselves in sculling their craft towards the shore.

Under the belief that they had still several miles to make before the
beach could be attained, they were one and all working with eyes turned
downward.  At that moment old Bill, chancing to look up, gave utterance
to a shout of joy, which was instantly echoed by his youthful
companions: all had at the same time perceived the long sandspit
projecting far out into the water; and which looked like the hand of
some friend held out to bid them welcome.

They had scarce made this discovery before another of like pleasant
nature came under their attention.  That was, that they were touching
bottom!  Their legs, bestriding the spar, hung down on each side of it;
and, to the joy of all, they now felt their feet scraping along the
sand.

As if actuated by one impulse all four dismounted from the irksome seat
they had been so long compelled to keep; and, bidding adieu to the spar,
they plunged on through the shoal water, without stop or stay, until
they stood high and dry upon the extreme point of the peninsula.

By this time the sun had gone down; and the four dripping forms, dimly
outlined in the purple twilight, appeared like four strange creatures
who had just emerged from out the depths of the ocean.

"Where next?"

This was the mental interrogatory of all four; though by none of them
shaped into words.

"Nowhere to-night" was the answer suggested by the inclination of each.

Impelled by hunger, stimulated by thirst, one would have expected them
to proceed onward in search of food and water to alleviate this double
suffering.  But there was an inclination stronger than either, too
strong to be resisted--sleep: since for fifty hours they had been
without any; since to have fallen asleep on the spar would have been to
subject themselves to the danger, almost the certainty, of dropping off,
and getting drowned; and, notwithstanding their need of sleep, increased
by fatigue, and the necessity of keeping constantly on the alert--up to
that moment not one of them had obtained any.  The thrill of pleasure
that passed through their frames as they felt their feet upon _terra
firma_ for a moment aroused them.  But the excitement could not be
sustained.  The drowsy god would no longer be deprived of his rights;
and one after another, though without much interval between, sank down
upon the soft sand, and yielded to his balmy embrace.



CHAPTER FOUR.

'WARE THE TIDE!

Through that freak, or law, of nature by which peninsulas are shaped,
the point of the sandspit was elevated several feet above the level of
the sea; while its neck, nearer the land, scarce