C. Rochfort? Scott

DON LUIS’S NARRATIVE IS INTERRUPTED BY A BOAR—THE BATIDA RESUMED—DEPARTURE FROM SANONA—ROAD TO CASA VIEJA—THE PRIEST’S HOUSE—ADVENTURE WITH ITINERANT WINE-MERCHANTS—DEPARTURE FROM CASA VIEJA—ALCALA DE LOS GAZULES—ROAD TO XIMENA—RETURN TO GIBRALTAR.

THE old man, excited by the stirring recollections of the eventful times to which his narrative referred, his eyes sparkling with animation, and his words flowing somewhat more rapidly than in their wonted even current, had risen from his rocky seat, and, having transferred his fowling-piece to the left hand, was standing with his right arm extended in the direction of the scene of his former exploits, when he suddenly dropt his voice, and, after slowly, and, as it appeared to us, abstractedly, repeating his favourite expression, “Io y mi gente,” he ceased altogether to speak, and appeared transfixed to the spot. His right arm remained stretched out towards Cadiz, and his head was turned slightly to one side, but the only motion perceptible was a tightening of the fingers round the barrel of his long gun.

As if from the effect of sympathy, Damien’s jaws—which for the last hour had been keeping Hubilon in a state of tantalization, threatening to produce St. Vitus’s dance—suddenly became equally motionless; his huge proboscis was turned on one side for a moment to allow free access to his left ear, and then starting up he exclaimed, “Javali! cospetto!”[110]

“Quiet ... o!” said Don Luis, in an undertone, at the same time motioning Damien to resume his seat, “Si, es una puerca.”[111] And then making signs to his men, they rose without a word, and went stealthily off down the hill.

We now distinctly heard the grunting of a pig, and were hastily distributed in a semicircle, along the crest of the steep ridge we had selected for our resting-place. We had scarcely got into position before the cries of the beaters, and several shots fired in rapid succession, gave us notice that they had come in sight of the chase; but the sounds died away, and we were beginning to speak to each other in terms of disappointment, when a loud grunt announced the vicinity of a visiter. Hearing our voices, however, he went off at a tangent, and attempted to cross the ridge lower down; but this was merely, as the Spaniards say, “Escapar del trueno y dar en el relampago:”[112] a sharp fire there opened upon him, and after various trips he was fairly brought to the ground. Our couteaux de chasse were instantly brandished, but the grisly monster, recovering himself quickly, once more got into a long trot, and, most probably, would have effected his escape, but that he was encountered and turned back by some of the dogs. Finding himself thus pressed on all sides by enemies, he again attempted to force the line of sportsmen, and a second time was made to bite the dust. He managed, nevertheless, to recover himself once more, and might, even yet possibly, have got away from us but for the dogs, which hung upon and detained him until some of the beaters came up and despatched him with their knives; not, however, until he had killed one dog outright, and desperately gored two others. The dogs showed extraordinary pluck in attacking him.

On examining the huge monster, we found he had received no less than four bullets: two in the neck, and two in the body. A fire was immediately kindled, and, having been singed, to destroy the vermin about him, he was decorated with laurel and holly, placed on the back of a mule, and, with the rest of our spoils, sent off to the CaserÍa.

The beaters informed us, that they had seen the wild sow and four young ones, which Don Luis had sent them after; but that they had made off through the wooded valley to the right, ere they could succeed in heading and turning them up the hill.

It was decided that we should proceed immediately after them, and leave the conclusion of Don Luis’s tale for the charcoal fire-circle in the evening; but, as the rest of his story related principally to events that are well known, and was all “Santiago y cierra EspaÑa,”[113] I will spare my readers the recital.

The rest of the day’s sport was poor, but the grand and ever-varying mountain scenery was of itself an ample reward for the fatigue of scrambling up the steep braes. Towards sunset we retraced our steps, thoroughly tired, to the CaserÍa. Damien, mounting a stout mule, rode on to prepare dinner, saying, “Messieurs, sans doute, dÉsireront goÛter du chevreuil de Sanone; vado avanti con questo motivo, e subito, subito, all red-dy";[114] and, digging his heels into the animal’s side, he thereupon started off at a jog-trot, his huge feet sticking out at right angles, like the paddle-boxes of a steamer, the smoke of a cigar rolling away from his mouth, like the clouds from the steamer’s tall black funnel.

On the following morning we departed from Sanona, taking the road to Casa Vieja, and sending our game into Gibraltar.

Don Luis would on no account receive any remuneration for the use of his house, &c.; and a very moderate sum satisfied the beaters he had engaged for us.

The distance to Casa Vieja is about twelve miles, the country wild and beautiful; but the view, after gaining a high pass, about three miles from Sanona, is confined to the valley along which the road thenceforth winds, until it reaches the river Celemin. This stream is frequently rendered impassable by heavy rains. Emerging now from the woods and mountains, the road soon reaches the Barbate, which river, though running in a broad and level valley, is of a like treacherous character as the Celemin.

The little chapel and hamlet, whither we were directing our steps, now became visible, being situated under the brow of a high hill on the opposite bank of the river, and distant about a mile and a half. The road across the valley is very deep in wet weather, and the Barbate is often so swollen, as to render it necessary, in proceeding from Casa Vieja to the towns to the eastward, to make a wide circuit to gain the bridges of Vejer or AlcalÀ de los Gazules.

We “put up” at the house of the village priest, which adjoins the chapel. Indeed the portion of his habitation allotted to our use was under the same roof as the church, and communicated with it by a private door; and I have been credibly informed that, on some occasions, when the party of sportsmen has been large, beds have been made up within the consecrated walls of the chapel itself, whereon some of the visiters have stretched their wearied heretical limbs and rested their aching heads. In our case there was no occasion to lead the Padre into the commission of such a sin, since the small apartment given up to us was just able to contain four stretchers, in addition to a large table.

The priest was another “amigo mio de mucha aprec’ion”[115] of SeÑor Damien. Their friendship was based upon the most solid of all foundations—mutual interest; for, it being an understood thing that the accommodation, and whatever else we might require, was to be paid for at a fixed rate, both parties were interested in prolonging our stay: the Padre, to gain wherewith to shorten the pains of purgatory, either for himself or others; Damien, simply because he liked shooting better than even baking in this world.

To us also this was an agreeable arrangement, since it granted us a dispensation from all ceremony in ordering whatever we wanted, and gave us also the privilege of making the Padre’s house our home as long as we pleased. Accordingly, finding the sport good, we passed several days here very pleasantly. The snipe and duck shooting in the marshes bordering the Barbate is excellent; francolins, bustards, plover, and partridges, are to be met with on the table-lands to the westward of the village; and the woods towards AlcalÀ and Vejer abound, at times, in woodcocks.

An adventure befel me during our short stay at Casa Vieja, which I relate, as affording a ludicrous exemplification of the power of flattery—an openness to which, that is to say, vanity, is certes the great foible of the Spanish character.

I had devoted one afternoon to a solitary ride to Vejer, (which town is about eleven miles from Casa Vieja,) and had proceeded some little distance on my way homewards, when, observing a very curious bird on a marshy spot by the road-side, I dismounted—knowing my pony would not stand fire—to take a shot at it. The gun missed fire, as I expected it would; for, in consequence of its owner not having been able to discharge it during the whole morning, I had lent him mine to visit the snipe-marsh, and taken his to bear me company on my ride. The explosion of the detonating cap was enough, however, to frighten my pony; he started—jerked the bridle off my arm—and, finding himself free, trotted away towards Casa Vieja.

I ran after him for some distance, fondly hoping that the tempting green herbage on the road-side would induce him to stop and taste, but my accelerated speed had only the effect of quickening his; from a trot he got into a canter, from a canter into a gallop; and, panting and perspiring, I was soon obliged to abandon the chase, and trust that the animal’s natural sagacity would take him back to his stable.

I had long lost sight of the runaway—for a thick wood soon screened him from my view,—and had arrived within four miles of Casa Vieja, when I met a party of very suspicious-looking characters, who, under the pretence of being itinerant wine-merchants, were carrying contraband goods about the country. They were all very noisy; all, seemingly, very tipsy; and most of them armed with guns and knives.

The van was led by a fat Silenus-looking personage, clothed in a shining goatskin, and seated on a stout ass, between two well-filled skins of wine; who saluted me with a very gracious wave of the hand, evidently to save himself the trouble of speaking; but his followers greeted me with the usual “Vaya usted con Dios;” to which one wag added, in an undertone, “y sin caballo,”[116]—a piece of wit that put them all on the grin.

Regardless of their joke, I was about to make enquiries concerning my pony, which it was evident they knew something about, when I discovered a stout fellow, bringing up the rear of the party, astride of the delinquent. Considering the disparity of force, and aware of the unserviceable condition of my weapon, I thought it best to be remarkably civil, so informing the gentleman riding my beast that I was its owner, and extremely obliged to him for arresting the fugitive’s course, I requested he would only give himself the further trouble of dismounting, and putting me in possession of my property.

This, however, he positively refused to do. “How did he know I was the owner? It might be so, and very possibly was, but I must go with him to Vejer, and make oath to the fact before la Justicia.” This, I said, was out of the question: it was evident that the horse was mine, since I had claimed him the moment I had seen him; and as, by his own admission, he had found the animal, he must have done so out of my sight, since we were now in a thick wood. If, I added, he chose to return with me to Casa Vieja, the Padre, at whose house I was staying, would convince him of the truth of my statement, and I would remunerate him for his trouble. But I argued in vain! “If,” he replied, “I felt disposed to give him an onza,[117] he would save me further trouble, but otherwise justice must take its course.”

I remarked that the haca was not worth much more than a doubloon. “No!” exclaimed one of the party, jumping off his mule, thrusting his hand into his belt, and producing two, “I’ll give you these without further bargaining.”

This occasioned a laugh at my expense. I turned it off, however, by telling my friend, that if he would bring his money to Gibraltar we might possibly deal; but, as I had occasion for my pony to carry me back there, I could not at that moment conveniently part with him.

There seemed but slight chance, however, of my recovering my pony without trudging back to Vejer; and, probably, they would have ridden off, and laughed at me, after proceeding half way; or by paying a handsome ransom, which I was, in fact, unable to do, having only the value of a few shillings about me.

The dispute was getting warm, and my patience exhausted; for vain were my representations that the haca could belong to no one else—that the saddle, bridle, and even the very tail of the animal, were all English. The Don kept his seat, and coolly asked, whether I thought they could not make as good saddles, and cut as short tails, in Spain?

The party had halted during this altercation, and old Silenus, who, by his dress and position, seemed to be the head of the firm, had taken no part in the dispute. He appeared, indeed, to be so drowsy, as to be quite unconscious of what was passing. I determined, however, to make an appeal to him, and summoning the best Spanish I could muster to my aid, called upon him as a Spanish hidalgo, a man of honour, and a person of sense, as his appearance bespoke, to see justice done me.

He had heard, I continued, in fact he had seen, how the case stood; and was it to be believed that a foreigner travelling in Spain—perhaps the most enlightened country in the world—and trusting to the well-known national probity, should be thus shamefully plundered? An Englishman, above all others, who, having fought in the same ranks against a common enemy, looked upon every individual of the brave Spanish nation as a brother! Could a people so noted for honour, chivalry, gratitude, and every known virtue, be guilty of so bare-faced an imposition?

Oh, “flattery! delicious essence, how refreshing art thou to nature! how strongly are all its powers and all its weaknesses on thy side!”

“Baj’ usted!” grunted forth Silenus to the man mounted on my pony, accompanying the words with a circular motion of his right arm towards the earth. “Baj’ usted luego!”[118] repeated the irate leader in a louder tone, seeing that there was a disposition to resist his commands. “Mount your horse, caballero,” he continued, turning to me, “you have not over-estimated the Spanish character.”

I did not require a second bidding, but, vaulting into the vacated saddle, pushed my pony at once into a canter, replying to the man’s application for something for his trouble, by observing, that I did not reward people for merely obeying the orders of their superiors; and, kissing my hand to the fat old Satyr, rode off, amidst the laughter occasioned by the discomfiture of the dismounted knight.

On the morning fixed for our departure from Casa Vieja, Damien came to us at a very early hour—a smile breaking through an assumed cloudy expression of countenance—to report that the Barbate was so swollen by the rain which had fallen without cessation during the night, as to be no longer fordable: “Nous pouvons demeurer encore trois ou quatre jours,” he added, “car il nous reste de quoi manger—du thÉ, du sucre, du jambon, un bon morceau de bouilli de rosbif, et autres bagatelles; et comme il fait beau temps À prÉsent, puede ser que havra una entrada de gallinetas esta noche—no es verdad SeÑor Padre?”[119] turning to the priest, who had followed him into the room.

We were prepared for this contingency, however, and, stating that we must go, signified our intention of returning home by way of AlcalÀ de los Gazules. Damien was horror-struck. “Corpo di Bacco! Messieurs, celle lÀ est la plus mauvaise route du pays! È infestata di cattivissima gente, ad ogni passo. No es verdad, Don Diego, que esa trocha de AlcalÀ allÀ ‘se llama el camino del infierno!” “Si, si,” replied the priestly lodging-house keeper with a nod, “tan verdad como la Santa Escritura.”[120]

Finding, however, that we were bent on departing, Don Diego went to make his bill out; and Damien, now truly alarmed, proposed that, at all events, we should take the shorter and more practicable route homewards, by way of Vejer. But the name of the other had taken our fancy, and orders were given accordingly, our departure being merely postponed until the afternoon; for, as it would be necessary to sleep at AlcalÀ, which is but nine miles from Casa Vieja, we agreed to have another brush at the snipes ere leaving the place.

In the afternoon we set out. At two miles from Casa Vieja the road crosses a tributary stream to the Barbate, which reached up to our saddle-girths, and then traverses some wooded hills for about an equal distance. The rest of the way is over an extensive flat.

Little is seen of AlcalÀ but an old square tower, and the ruined walls of its Moorish castle, in approaching it on this side. The town is built on a rocky peninsulated eminence, which, protruding from a ridge of sierra that overlooks the place to the east, stretches about a mile in a southerly direction, and, excepting along the narrow neck that connects it with this mountain-range, is every where extremely difficult of access. A road, however, winds up to the town by a steep ravine on the south-eastern side of the rugged eminence; and a good approach has also been made, though with much labour, at its northern extremity. The river Barbate washes the western side of the mound, and across it, and somewhat above the town—which is huddled together along the northern crest of the ridge—a solid stone bridge presents itself, where the roads from Casa Vieja, Medina Sidonia, and Xeres, concentrate.

The ascent from the bridge, as I have mentioned, is good, but very steep. The position of the town is most formidable; its walls, however, are all levelled; and, of the castle, the square tower, or keep, alone remains. The streets are narrow, but not so steep as we expected to find them, and they are remarkably well paved. The houses are poor, though some trifling manufactories of cloths and tanneries give the place a thriving look. Its population amounts to about 9000 souls.

This AlcalÀ receives its distinctive name of “los Gazules” (i.e. the Castle of the Gazules), from a tribe of Moors so called; but what Roman city stood here is a mere matter of conjecture.

The inn afforded but indifferent accommodation; but our host and hostess were obliging people, and very good-naturedly made over to us the olla prepared for their own supper. It was a fine specimen of the culinary art; the savoury odour alone, that exuded from the bubbling stew, drew a smile from Damien’s unusually lugubrious countenance; and, on afterwards witnessing the justice we did to its merits, he kindly wished—with a doubt-implying compression of the lips—that we might have as good an appetite to enjoy as good a supper on the following night.

We set out at daybreak, accompanied by a guide, though, I think, we could have dispensed with his services. The road enters the SerranÍa, immediately on leaving AlcalÀ, taking an easterly direction, and ascends for five miles by a rock-bound valley, partially under cultivation, and watered by several streams, along which mills are thickly scattered. On leaving them behind, the country becomes very wild and desolate; the mountains ahead appear quite impracticable; and, long ere we reached their base, the Piedmontese march had several times resounded through the rocky gorges that encompassed us.

At length we began to scramble up towards a conical pinnacle, called El PeÑon de Sancho,[121] which presents a perpendicular face, to the south-west, of some hundreds of feet, and whose white cap, standing out from the dark sierra behind, is a landmark all along the coast from Cipiona to Cape Trafalgar.

We soon attained a great elevation, crossing a pass between the PeÑon de Sancho and the main sierra on our left. The view, looking back towards Cadiz, is magnificent, and the scenery for the next four miles continues to be of the most splendid kind, the road being conducted along the side of the great sierra Monteron, and by the pass of La Brocha to the sierra Cantarera.

The road is by no means so bad as, from the name it bears, we were prepared to expect; in fact, there are many others in the SerranÍa of a far more infernal character. After riding about four hours—a distance of twelve miles—we reached a verdant little vale, enclosed on all sides by rude mountains, wherein the Celemin takes its rise, and whence it wends its way through a deep and thickly wooded ravine to the south. This gullet is called the Garganta de los Estudientes, from the circumstance, as our guide informed us, of some scholars having ventured down it who never afterwards were heard of—to which story Damien listened with great dismay.

We halted at this delightful spot for half an hour, as well to breathe our horses as to examine the contents of Damien’s alforjas, who took his meal, pistol in hand, for fear of a surprise. Continuing our journey, we had to traverse some more very difficult country, the views from which were now towards Ximena, Casares, Gibraltar, and the Mediterranean; including an occasional peep of Castellar, as we advanced to the eastward.

At four miles and a half from our resting-place, the road branches into two, the left proceeding to Ximena (five miles and a half), the other leading toward Estepona, and the towns bordering the Mediterranean. Taking the latter path, in about two hours we reached the river Sogarganta, along the right bank of which is conducted the main road from Ximena to Gibraltar.

Damien’s countenance brightened on his once more finding himself in “un pays reconnu,” and, turning joyfully into the well-known track, he struck up one of his most scherzosa arias; the heretofore dreaded Boca de Leones and Almoraima forest (which we had yet to pass), being robbed of their terrors by the superior dangers we had safely surmounted; and, in the words of the favourite poet of his country,