C. Rochfort? Scott

A SHOOTING PARTY TO THE MOUNTAINS—OUR ITALIAN PIQUEUR, DAMIEN BERRIO—SOME ACCOUNT OF HIS PREVIOUS LIFE—LOS BARRIOS—THE BEAUTIFUL MAID, AND THE MAIDEN’S LEVELLING SIRE—ROAD TO SANONA—PREPARATIONS AGAINST BANDITS—ARRIVAL AT THE CASERIA—DESCRIPTION OF ITS OWNER AND ACCOMMODATIONS—FINE SCENERY—A BATIDA.

IN the wildest part of the mountainous belt that, stretching in a wide semicircle round Gibraltar, cuts the rocky peninsula off, as it were, from the rest of Spain, is situated the CaserÍa de Sanona; a lone house, now dwindled down to a mere farm; but, as both its name implies, and its appearance bespeaks, formerly a place of some consequence.

It was brought to its present lowly state during the last war, when its inhabitants were so reduced in number, as well as circumstances, that hands and means are still equally wanting for the proper looking after, and attending to, the vast herds and extensive dehesas[95] and forest-lands belonging to it. The consequence is, that the wolves and wild boars, from having been so long permitted to roam about in undisputed possession of the woods, have in their turn, from being the persecuted, become the aggressors, and are now in the habit of making nightly predatory visits to the cattle folds and plantations of the CaserÍa, carrying off the farmer’s sheep and heifers, and destroying his winter stock of vegetables, whenever, by any neglect or remissness of the watch, an opportunity is afforded them.

Besides the animals above mentioned, deer, and, in the winter, woodcocks, find the unfrequented ravines in the vicinity of the CaserÍa equally well suited to their secluded habits; and, tempted by the promising account of the sport the place afforded, a party was formed, consisting of three of my most intimate friends, myself, and a piqueur, to proceed thither for a few days’ shooting.

Sending forward a messenger to the CaserÍa, as well to go through the form of asking its proprietor to “put us up,” during our proposed visit, as to request him to have a sufficient number of beaters collected—on which the quality of the sport mainly depends—we provided ourselves with a week’s consumption of provisions and ammunition, and, leaving Gibraltar late in the afternoon, proceeded to Los Barrios; whence, we could take an earlier departure on the following morning than from the locked-up fortress.

The Piqueur who usually accompanied us on these shooting excursions was a personage of some celebrity in the Gibraltar sporting world, and his name—Damien Berrio—will doubtless be familiar to such of my readers as may have resided any time on “the rock.” By birth a Piedmontese, a baker by profession, Damien’s bread—like that of many persons in a more elevated walk of life—was not to his taste. At the very mention of a Batida, he would leave oven, home, wife, and children; shoulder his gun, fill his alforjas—for he was a provident soul, and, though a baker, ever maintained that man could not live on bread alone—borrow a horse, and, in half an hour, “be ready for a start.”

Possessing a perfect knowledge of the country, a quick eye, an unerring aim, and a nose that could wind an olla if within the circuit of a Spanish league, Damien was, in many respects, a valuable acquisition on a shooting party. And to the aforesaid qualifications, befitting him for the staff, he added that of being an excellent raconteur. In this he received much assistance from his personal appearance, which, like that of the inimitable Liston, passed off for humour that which, in reality, was pure nature.

His person was much above the common stature, erect, and well-built, but his hands and feet were “prodigious.” His face—when the sun fell directly upon it, so as to free it from the shadow of his enormous nose—was intelligent, and bespoke infinite good nature, though marked, nevertheless, with the lines of care and sorrow. His costume was that of a French sportsman, except that he wore a high-crowned, weather-beaten old hat, placed somewhat knowingly on one side of his head, and which, of itself alone, marked him as “a character.”

To those who have not had the pleasure of his acquaintance, a precis of his early history may not be unacceptable; those who already know it will, I trust, pardon the short digression.

Born on the sunny side of the Alps, some fifteen years before the breaking out of the French revolution, Damien, at a very early age, was called upon to defend his country against the aggression of its Gallic neighbours. He was draughted accordingly to a regiment of grenadiers of the Piedmontese army commanded by General Colli; and, in the short and disgraceful campaign of 1796, was made prisoner with the brave but unfortunate ProvÈra, at the Castle of CossÉria.

On the formation of the Cisalpine republic soon afterwards, our grenadier, released, as he fondly imagined, from the necessity of any further military service, purposed returning to his family and regretted agricultural pursuits; but, on applying for his discharge, he found that he had quite misunderstood the meaning of the word freedom. “What!” said the regenerator of his oppressed country; “what! return home like a lazy drone, when so much still remains to be done! No, no, we cannot part with you yet; we are about to give liberty to the rest of Italy; you must march; can mankind be more beneficially or philanthropically employed? Allons! en avant! vive la libertÉ!"—“And so,” said Damien, “off we were marched, under the tail of the French eagle, to give freedom to the Facchini of Venice, and Lazzaroni of Naples; and to spoil and pillage all that lay in our way.”

This marauding life was ill-suited either to our hero’s taste or habits, and accordingly he embraced the first favourable opportunity of quitting the service of the “Regenerator of Italy.” How he managed to effect his liberation I never could find out, it being one of the very few subjects on which Damien was close; but I suspect—much as he liked shooting—that the love of the smell of gunpowder was not a natural taste of his. Be that as it may, he made his way to Spain—took to himself a Spanish wife—and settled at Gibraltar.

His language, like the dress of a harlequin, was made up of scraps,—French, Spanish, English, and Italian, joined in angularly and without method or regularity; and all so badly spoken, as to render it impossible to say which amongst them was the mother-tongue. Nevertheless, Damien got on well with every body, and his bonhommie and good nature rendered him a universal favourite. In other respects, however, he was not so favoured a child of fortune; for, though no idle seeker of adventures, in fact, he was wont to go a great way to avoid them, yet, as ill luck would have it, adventures very frequently came across him. And it generally happened, as with the famed Manchegan knight, that Damien, in his various encounters, came off “second best.” That is to say, they usually ended in his finding himself minus his gun, or his horse, or both, and, perhaps, his alforjas to boot.

By his own account, these untoward events invariably happened through some want of proper precaution—either whilst he was indulging in a Siesta, or taking a snack by the side of some cool stream, his trusty gun being out of his immediate reach, or when committing some other imprudent act. So it was, however, and these “petits malheurs,” as he was in the habit of calling them, had generated a more than ordinary dread of robbers, which, in its turn, had produced in him a disposition to be gregarious whenever he passed the bounds of the English garrison.

In travelling through the mountains, we always knew when we were approaching what Damien considered a likely spot for an ambuscade, by his striking up a martial air that he told us had been the favourite march of the regiment of grenadiers in which he had served; giving us from time to time a hint that it would be well to be upon the look-out by observing to the person next him, “Hay muchos ladrones par ici, mon Capitaine—el aÑo pasado (maledetti sian’ ces gueux d’Espagnols!) on m’a volÉ une bonne escopÈte en este maldito callejon[96]—Il faut Être preparÉ, Messieurs!” and then the Piedmontese march was resumed with increased energy, growing piu marcato e risoluto, as the banks of the gorge became higher and the underwood thicker.

On regaining the open country, the air was changed by a playful Cadenza to one of a more lively character, and, after a Da Capo, generally ended with “n’ayez pas peur, Messieurs—questi birbÁnti Spagniuoli”[97] (he seldom abused them in their native language, lest he should be over-heard) “n’osent pas nous attaquer À forces Égales.”

Poor Damien! many is the good laugh your fears have unconsciously occasioned us—many the joking bet the tuning up of the Piedmontese grenadiers’ march has given rise to—and every note of which is at this moment as perfect in my recollection as when we traversed together the wild puertas de Sanona.

The town of Los Barrios, where we took up our quarters for the night, is twelve miles from Gibraltar. It is a small, open town, containing some 2000 souls, and, though founded only since the capture of Gibraltar, already shows sad symptoms of decay.

Being within a ride of the British garrison, it is frequently visited by its inmates, and two rival posadas dispute the honour of possessing the golden fleece. One of them, for a time, carried all before it, in consequence of the beauty of the Donzella de la Casa:[98] but beauty will fade, however unwillingly—as in this case—its possessor admits that it does; and the “fair maid of Los Barrios,” who, when I first saw her, was really a very beautiful girl, had, at the period of my last visit, become a coarse, fat, middle-aged, young woman; and, as the charges for looking at her remained the same as ever, I proved a recreant knight, and went to the rival posada.

Nothing could well be more ludicrous than the contrast, in dress and appearance, between the beauty’s mother and the beauty herself—unless, indeed, the visiter arrived very unexpectedly,—the one being dirty, slatternly, and clothed in old rags; the other, muy bien peynado,[99] and pomatumed, and decked in all the finery and ornaments presented by her numerous admirers. The old lady was excessively proud of her daughter’s beauty and wardrobe; and in showing her off always reminded me of the sin-par[100] Panza’s mode of speaking of his Sanchita, una muchacha a quien crio para condesa.[101]

The father of “the beauty” was a notorious liberal; and, having outraged the laws of his country on various occasions, was executed at Seville some years since. He was, I think, the most thorough-going leveller I ever met with—one who would not have sheathed the knife as long as any individual better off than himself remained in the country. Boasting to me on one occasion of the great deeds he had done during the war, he said that in one night he had despatched eleven French soldiers, who were quartered in his house. He effected his purpose by making them drunk, having previously drugged their wine to produce sleep. He put them to death with his knife as they lay senseless on the floor, carried them out into the yard, and threw them into a pit. The monster who could boast of such a crime would commit it if he had the opportunity; and though I suspect the number of his victims was exaggerated, yet I have no doubt whatever that he did not make himself out to be a murderer without some good grounds; and, I confess, it gave me very little regret to hear, a year or two afterwards, that he had perished on the scaffold.

The road to Sanona enters the mountains soon after leaving Los Barrios, ascending, for the first few miles, along the bank of the river Palmones. The scenery is very fine; huge masses of scarped and jagged sierras are tossed about in the most fantastic irregularity, whilst the valleys between are clad with a luxuriance of foliage that can be met with only in this prolific climate.

Looking back, the silvery Palmones may be traced winding between its wooded banks towards the bay of Gibraltar, which, viewed in this direction, has the appearance of a vast lake; the African shore, from Ape’s Hill to the promontory of Ceuta, seeming to complete its enclosure to the south.

After proceeding some miles further, the road becomes a mere mule-track, and the country very wild and barren. The Piedmontese march had been gradually crescendo ever since leaving the cultivated valley of the Palmones, and Damien, as he rode on before us, had already given sundry yet more palpable intimations of impending danger,—firstly, by examining the priming of his old flint gun,—secondly, by trying whether the balls were rammed home,—and, lastly, by producing a brandy bottle from his capacious pocket; when, arrived at the foot of a peculiarly dreary and rocky pass, pulling up and dismounting from his horse, under pretence of tightening the girths of his saddle, he exclaimed, “À present, Messieurs, es preciso cargar—ces lÂches d’Espagnols viennent toujours a l’improviste, et se non siamo apparecchiati sarÉmo tutti inretati come tanti uccellini.—Somos todos muy bien armados con escopetas À dos caÑones; y con juicio, no tendremos que temer—ma ... bisogna giudizio!”[102] and in accordance with his wishes thus clearly expressed, we all loaded with ball, and, pushing on an advanced guard, boldly entered the rugged defile, joining our voices in grand chorus in the inspiriting grenadier’s march.

On emerging from this rocky gorge, we entered a peculiarly wild and secluded valley, which, so completely is it shut out from all view, one might imagine, but for the narrow path under our feet, had never been trodden by man. The road winds round the heads of numerous dark ravines, crosses numberless torrents, that rush foaming from the impending sierra on the left, and is screened effectually from the sun by an impenetrable covering of oak and other forest-trees, festooned with woodbine, eglantine, and wild vines; whilst the valley below is clothed, from end to end, with cistus, broom, wild lavender, thyme, and other indigenous aromatic shrubs.

At the end of about three leagues, we reached the head of the valley, where one of the principal sources of the Palmones takes its rise. The neck of land that divides this stream from the affluents to the Celemin, is the pass of Sanona. From hence the CaserÍa is visible, and a rapid descent of about a mile brought us to the door of the lone mansion.

Our arrival was announced to the inmates by a general salute from the countless dogs that invariably form part of a Spanish farmer’s establishment. The horrid din soon brought forth the equally shaggy-coated bipeds, headed by a venerable-looking old man, who, with a slight recognition of Damien, stepped to the front, and, in a very dignified manner, announcing himself as the owner of the CaserÍa, begged we would alight, and consider his house our own.

“My habitation is but a poor one, Caballeros; the accommodation it affords yet poorer. I wish for your sakes I had better to offer; but of this you may rest assured, that every thing Luis de Castro possesses, will ever be at the service of the brave nation who generously aided, and by whose side I have fought, to maintain the independence of my country."—“Bravo, Don Luis!” ejaculated Damien, which saved us the trouble of making a suitable speech in return.

We were much pleased with our host’s appearance: indeed the shape of his cranium was itself sufficient to secure him the good opinion of all disciples of Spurzheim; but this feeling of gratification was by no means called forth by his CaserÍa, from the outward inspection of which we judged the organ of accommodation to be wofully deficient.

The house and out-buildings formerly occupied a considerable extent of ground, but at the present day they are reduced to three sides of a small square, of which the centre building contains the dwelling apartments of the family, and the wings afford cover to the retainers, cattle, and farming implements. A stout wall completes the enclosure on the fourth side, wherein a wide folding gate affords the only means of external communication.

The CaserÍa has long been possessed by the family of its present occupant, but, losing something of its importance at each succeeding generation, has dwindled down to its present insignificant condition. Don Luis strives hard, nevertheless, to keep up the family dignity of the De Castros, though joining with patriarchal simplicity in all the services, occupations, and pastimes, of his dependents.

The portion of the house reserved for himself and family consists but of two rooms on the ground-floor. The outer and larger of these serves the double purpose of a kitchen and refectory; the other is appropriated to the multifarious offices of a chapel, dormitory, henroost, and granary. In this inner room we were duly installed,—the lady de Castro, and other members of the family, removing into a neighbouring choza during our stay: and a sheet having been drawn over the Virgin and child, the cocks and hens driven from the rafters, and the Indian corn swept up into a corner, we found ourselves more snugly lodged than outward appearances had led us to expect.

Leaving our friend Damien to make what arrangements he pleased as to dinner—a discretional power that always afforded him infinite gratification—we proceeded to examine the “location,” with a view of obtaining some notion of the country which was to be the scene of our next day’s sporting operations.

The situation of the CaserÍa is singularly romantic; to the north it is backed by a richly wooded slope, above which, at the distance of about half a mile, a rocky ledge of sierra rises perpendicularly several hundred feet, its dark outline serving as a fine relief to the rich and varied green tints of the forest. In the opposite direction, the house commands a view over a wide and partially wooded valley, along the bed of which the eye occasionally catches a glimpse of a sparkling stream, that is collected from the various dark ravines which break the lofty mountain-ridges on either side. A wooded range, steep, but of somewhat less elevation than the other mountains that the eye embraces, appears to close the mouth of this valley; but, winding round its foot to the right, the stream gains a narrow outlet to the extensive plain of Vejer, and empties itself into the Laguna de la Janda—a portion of which may be seen; and over this intermediate range rise, in the distance, the peaked summits of the Sierra de la Plata, whose southern base is washed by the Atlantic.

The beauty of the scenery, heightened by the broad shadows cast upon the mountains, and the varied tints that ever attend upon a setting sun in this Elysian atmosphere, had tempted us to continue roaming about, selecting the most favourable points of view, without once thinking of our evening meal; and when, at length, the sun disappeared behind the mountains, we found we had, unconsciously, wandered some considerable distance from the CaserÍa. We forthwith bent our steps homewards, and, on drawing near the house, were not a little amused at hearing Damien’s stentorian halloos to draw our attention, which were sent back to him in echoes from all parts of the SerranÍa. He was right glad to see us, though vexed at our extreme imprudence in wandering about the woods without an escopeta, or defensive weapon of any sort amongst us.

“Messieurs, quand vous connoitrez ces gens Çi aussi bien que moi——!”

We referred to Don Luis (who had come out with the intention of proceeding in search of us), whether there were any mala gente in the neighbourhood. A faint smile played about the old man’s mouth as he looked towards Damien, as if guessing the source from which our interrogation had sprung, and, then waving his right hand to and fro, with the forefinger extended upwards, he replied, “Por aqui Caballeros no hay mala gente alguna; esa Canalla conoce demasiado quien es Luis de Castro!”[103]

On entering the house, we found a large party assembled round the charcoal fire, preparing to take their evening gazpacho[104] caliente; and, hot as had been the day, we gladly joined the circle, until our own more substantial supper should be announced. The group consisted of the wife, son, and daughter-in-law of our host, and several of his friends, who, living at a distance, had come overnight, to be ready to take part in the batida on the following morning.

A batida bears so strong a resemblance to the same sort of thing common in Germany, and indeed in some parts of Scotland, that a very detailed account of one would be uninteresting to most of my readers. We turned out at daybreak, and, recruited by the neighbouring peasantry, found that we mustered twenty-three guns, and dogs innumerable, mostly of a kind called by the Spaniards podencos, for which the most appropriate term in our language is lurcher; though that does not altogether express the strong-made, wiry-haired dog used by the Spaniards on these occasions.

As the camas[105] about Sanona are very wide, and require a number of guns to line them, only eleven of the men could be spared for beaters. These were placed under the direction of Alonzo, our host’s son, whilst Don Luis himself took command of the sportsmen in the quality of capitan; and his first order was to prohibit all squibbing off of guns, by which the game might be disturbed.

The two parties, on leaving the house, took different directions. Our’s, after proceeding about a mile, was halted, and enjoined to form in rank entire, and keep perfectly silent. We then ascended a steep, thickly coppiced hill, and were placed in position along its crest, at intervals of about a hundred yards, with directions to watch the openings through the underwood in our front—to screen ourselves from observation as well as we could—not to stir from the spot until the signal was made to retire—and to observe carefully the position of our fellow sportsmen on either side, to prevent accidents.

We were much amused at the manner in which Don Luis—to whom we were all perfect strangers—selected us to occupy the different approaches to the position. Scanning us over from right to left, and from head to foot, he seemed to pick and choose his men as if perfectly aware of the peculiar qualities each possessed, befitting him for the situation in which he purposed placing him; and, beckoning the one selected out of the rank, without uttering a word he led him to the assigned post, pointed out the various openings in the underwood, and gave his final instructions in a low whisper.

On leaving me he pointed to a narrow passage between two huge blocks of rock, and in a low voice said “Lobo;”[106] which, I must confess, made me look about for a tree, as a secure position to fall back upon, in the event of my fire failing to bring the expected visiter to the ground.

The position we occupied had a deep ravine in front, a wide valley on one flank, and a precipitous wall of rock on the other; but, as the event proved, it was far too extended. Thus posted, we remained for a considerable time, and I began to think very meanly of the sport, especially as I did not much like to withdraw my eyes from the rocky pass where the wolf was to be looked for; but at length the distant shouts of the beaters resounded through the mountains, and a few minutes after, the faint but true-toned yelp of one of the hounds put me quite on the qui vive; and when, in a few seconds, other dogs gave tongue, and several shots were fired by the beaters (who are furnished with blank cartridge), giving the assurance that game had been sprung, a feeling of excitement was produced, that can, I think, hardly be equalled by any other description of sport.

The first gun from our own party almost induced me to rush forward and break the line; but, just at the moment, a rustling in the underwood drew my attention, and, looking up, I saw a fine buck “at gaze,” as the heralds say, about thirty yards off, and exactly in the direction of the spot where I had seen my friend G—— posted.

The animal, with ears erect, was listening, in evident alarm, to the barking of the dogs; yet, from the shot just fired in his front, scarcely knowing on which side danger was most imminent. I was so screened by the underwood that he did not perceive me, and I could have shot him with the greatest ease—that is to say, had my nervous system been in proper trim,—but that the fear of killing my neighbour withheld me; so there I stood, with my gun at the first motion of the present, and there stood the deer, in just as great a quandary.

At length, losing all patience, I hallooed to my neighbour by name, hoping by his reply to learn whereabouts he was (for that he had moved from his post was evident), and, if possible, get a shot at the deer as he turned back, which I doubted not he would do. But, alas! my call produced no response, and the fine animal bounded forward, breaking through our line, and rendering it too hazardous for me to salute him with both barrels, as I had murderously projected.

Soon after the horn sounded for our reassembly. The cama[107] had been very unsuccessful. One deer only, besides that which visited me, had been driven through our line; the rest of the herd, and several wild boars, turned our position by its right, which was too extensive for the small number of guns. One of the Spaniards had shot a fox, which was all we had to show; and his companions shook their heads, considering it a bad omen, and that it was, indeed, likely to turn out “una dia de zorras.”[108]

On my relating the tantalizing dilemma in which I had been placed, old Luis, who felt somewhat sore at the signal failure of his generalship, declared we should have no sport if I stood upon such ceremony; adding, with much energy of manner, and addressing himself to the assembled party, “As soon as ever you see your game, carajo! candela!”[109]—a speech that reminded us forcibly of Suwarrow’s reply to his Austrian coadjutor, when urging the prudence of a reconnoissance before undertaking some delicate operation, viz.—“Poussez en avant—chargez À la bayonette—voilÀ mes reconnoissances.”

The beaters were now directed to make a “wide cast,” and, if possible, head the game that had escaped us, whilst we moved off to a fresh position, about half a mile in rear, and perpendicular to the former. This plan was pretty successful: we killed a wolf and two deer, but Don Luis was by no means satisfied.

It was now noon-day, and, ascending a rocky ledge that projects into the wide valley, already described as lying in front of the house, we obtained a splendid panoramic view of the whole wooded district of Sanona. We found, on gaining the summit, that the provident Damien had directed a muchacho to meet us there, with a mule-load of provender, which he was pleased to call “un petit peu de rafraichissement.” We were quite prepared to acknowledge our sense of his foresight and discretion in the most unequivocal manner; for the exertion of climbing the successive mountain-ridges, and forcing our way through the underwood, as well as the excitement of the sport, had given a keen edge to our appetites.

Whilst seated in a convivial circle, smoking our cigars at the conclusion of our repast, we observed that poor Alonzo—who, though a stoutly built, was a very sickly-looking man—appeared to be quite exhausted from the heat and fatigue of the day, and that poor old Luis looked from time to time on his son, as he lay full-length upon the ground, with a heart-rending expression of grief.

One of our party remarked to him, that Alonzo did not appear to be well, and suggested that he had better not exert himself further. Don Luis shook his head. “Alas! seÑor!” he replied, “my poor Alonzo is as well as ever he again will be. But do not suppose that he is a degenerate scion of the De Castros; nor even that I regret seeing him in his present state. No: much as I once wished to see the family name handed down to another generation—of which there is now no chance—I would rather, much rather, that he should have sacrificed his health—his life indeed—for his country, than that any vain wish of mine should be gratified.”

Our curiosity excited by the words, and yet more by the manner of the old man, we ventured, after some little preamble, to ask what had occasioned the change in his son that his speech implied.

“It is a long story, caballeros,” he answered; “but, as the sun is now too powerful to allow us to resume our sport, I will, if you feel disposed to listen to a garrulous old man, relate the circumstances that led to my son’s being reduced to the lamentable state in which you see him.” We contracted the circle round Don Luis, the Spaniards, apparently, quite as intent on hearing the thrice-told tale as ourselves; and Damien, though still busily occupied at his “rafraichissement,” also lending an attentive ear.

The fine old man was seated on a rock, elevated somewhat above the rest of the party, holding in his right hand his uncouth-looking fowling-piece, whilst the other rested on the head of a favourite dog, that came, seemingly, to beg his master to remonstrate with Damien for using his teeth to tear off the little flesh that remained on a ham-bone.

Don Luis, after patting the impatient favourite on the head and bidding him lie down, thus began his story.