NARRATIVE OF A RESIDENCE IN ALGIERS – PART 4

(This post is a continuation of Narrative of a Residence in Algiers – Part 3. If you haven’t done so already, it’s best to read that post before continuing on here.)

This week, we continue with Filippo Pananti’s account of his experiences in Algiers.

In this excerpt, he describes what it was like to be a slave in Algiers. Like other European writers on this topic, he presents a somewhat overly dramatized account. The details he provides are basically accurate, but you have to keep in mind that his aim is to evoke in his reader a sense of outrage rather than to present a sober description of events.

Those who have never been to Algiers and witnessed the fate to which captives falling into the hands of the these barbarians are condemned cannot form any true idea of greatness of the calamity which fortune has in store for them, or into what an abyss of sorrow and wretchedness they have been plunged. Even I, who experienced it to a certain degree in my own person, am at a loss for language equal to a description of what such captives feel and suffer when precipitated into this dreadful situation.

No sooner is any one declared a slave, than he is instantly stripped of his clothes and covered with a species of sack-cloth. He is also generally left without shoes or stockings, and often obliged to work bare-headed in the scorching rays of an African sun. Many suffer their beard to grow, as a sign of mourning and desolation. Their general state of filth is not to be conceived.

Some of these wretched beings are destined to make ropes and sails for the squadron. These are constantly superintended by keepers, who carry whips and frequently extort money from their victims as the price of somewhat less rigor in the execution of their duty. Others belong to the Dey’s household. Many are employed by the rich Moors, who bought them at market, in the lowest drudgery of domestic employment. Some, like beasts of burden, are employed in carrying stones and wood for any public buildings that may be going on. These are usually in chains, and they are justly considered as the worst among their oppressed brethren.

What a perpetuity of terrors, series of anguish, and monotonous days must not theirs be, without a proper bed to lie on, proper raiment to cover them, or proper food to support nature. Two cakes of black break, like those already alluded to, thrown down as if intended for dogs, is their principal daily sustenance. Had it not been for the charity of a rich Moor, who left a legacy for that purpose, Friday, the only day they are exempted from work, would have seen them without any allowance whatever.

Shut up at night in the prison, like so many malefactors, they are obliged to sleep in the open corridors, exposed to all the inclemency of the seasons. In the country they are frequently forced to lie in the open air or, like the troglodytes of old, shelter themselves in caverns. Awakened at daylight, they are sent to work with the most abusive threats, and thus employed, become shortly exhausted under the weight and severity of their keepers’ whips.

Those destined to sink wells and clear sewers are for whole weeks obliged to be up to their middle in water, respiring a mephitic atmosphere. Others employed in quarries are threatened with constant destruction. Some, attached to the harness in which beasts of the field are also yoked, are obliged to draw nearly all the load, and never fail to receive more blows than their more favored companion the ass or mule. Some are crushed under the falling of buildings, while others perish in the pits into which they are sent to be got rid of. It is usual for one or two hundred slaves to drop off in the year for want of food, medical attendance, and other necessaries.

And woe to those who remain if they attempt to heave a sigh or complain in the hearing of their inexorable master. The slightest offense or indiscretion is punished with two hundred blows on the soles of the feet, or over the back, and resistance to this shocking treatment is often punished with death.

When, in marching, a poor slave is exhausted by sickness, fatigue, or the cruelty of his usage, he is inhumanly abandoned on the high road, to be insulted by the natives, or trod under foot by passersby. They frequently return from the mountains with the blood trickling from their limbs, which are, together with their whole body, covered with scars and bruises.

Whenever a captive is taken ill in Algiers, motives of self-interest call upon the Moorish proprietor for a little indulgence, but were it not for the benign charity of Spain, which has established a small fund to support a hospital for the reception of slaves, the latter, when overcome with disease, would be left to perish in the streets. By means of the above benevolent institution, they may at least hope to die in peace.

Although a price is set on each captive, which may encourage a hope of freedom, yet, from the peculiar mode in which their liberation must be effected, this hope is almost always unavailing. If, after having obtained leave to exercise their trade, they acquire any property, they are not allowed to pay it for their ransom. Offers of this kind have always been rejected, on the grounds of the Dey being legal heir to all the property of his slaves. Frequently, in order to get possession of it a little sooner, this revenue is anticipated by the owner being dispatched.

Captivity is thus surrounded with aggravated cruelties, which seem to have no end. It is not enough that these poor slaves should groan under excessive labor and multiplied blows, but derision, abuse, and contempt must be added, and this species of suffering is, if possible, more acutely felt than the former. “Faithless Christian dog!” is the ordinary mode of addressing a slave, and this degrading epithet is invariably accompanied with the most insulting gesture and sometimes by personal violence.

On one memorable evening towards dark, as I was walking the streets, a hoarse voice called to me. On drawing nearer, I beheld an unhappy being stretched on the ground, foaming at the mouth, and with the blood bursting from his nose and eyes. I had scarcely stopped, struck with horror and apprehension, when, in a faint voice, the man said, “For Heaven’s sake have pity on my sufferings, and terminate an existence which I can no longer support!”

“Who are you?” I asked.”

“I am a slave,” said the poor creature. “An Oldak of the militia who was passing this way and happening to be near me at the time shouted at me, ‘Dog of a Christian! How dare you stop in the road when one of the faithful passes?” This was followed by a blow and a kick which threw me down a height of several feet and has left me in this condition.”

On another occasion, the situation of a still more unfortunate slave was equally calculated to excite my indignation and sympathy. He was sorrowfully seated under an old wall. At his feet there lay an immense load, under which he seemed to have sunk. His visage was pallid and meager, his eyes fixed on the ground, all expressing strong signs of premature age brought on by grief and suffering.

“What can be the matter, my friend?” said I, addressing myself to this unfortunate wretch.

“Poor slaves!” he replied. “There is no help for us in this world, and our groans are not heard in Heaven. I was born in Naples, but what country have I now? There is nobody to assist me. I am forgotten by all. I was a noble, a rich and illustrious man in the place of my birth. See how wretchedness and slavery have changed me. It is now eleven years since my suffering began. During that time, I have in vain solicited the assistance of relatives and fellow creatures, but all to no purpose. There is no longer anyone on whom I can place hope or reliance. What have I done to deserve so much oppression and suffering?”

After he had given vent to his feelings, I did my best to recommend patience, resignation, and hope. I also touched on the promises of eternal reward to those who suffer here below with becoming fortitude. All this was answered only by a forced smile, accompanied by a look which spoke volumes.

For those who may be interested…

The above (slightly abridged) excerpt from Pananti’s Narrative of a Residence in Algiers comes from Chapter 4, pp. 88 – 92 of the original 1818 edition.