"Now we must leave our fatherland,
And wander far o'er ocean's foam."
GOOD BYE TO ALBION! SOUTHWARD HO!
GIBRALTAR.
Farewell, farewell! The last words have been said! How we would have put
off that last hour; how we would have blotted it out, if, by so doing,
we might have avoided that farewell. I never before realised how
impressive a sailor's parting is. Was it really but a few hours since
that loving, clinging hands rested within our own, that we heard the
scarcely breathed words which still linger in our ears? How like a dream
it all seems, and how like a dream it must continue to be, until we
shall once more hear those voices and feel those hands.
Thus felt we as on the morn of August, 4th, 1878, just one month from
the hoisting of the pennant, we rounded the western end of Plymouth
Breakwater, _en route_ for the land of the Celestials. It was Sunday,
and never Sabbath broke fairer than that one, or sun shone more
auspiciously on the commencement of a voyage.
Our friends, I doubt not, are casting longing and tear-bedimmed eyes
after us; and many a handkerchief flutters its good bye long after
objects on the shore have ceased to be distinguishable. Let us leave
them to their tears; for us the sterner realities of life. We are not
going away for ever, I trust; and England's sailors are patriots enough
to feel that their own land, and mothers, wives, and sisters are the
dearest and best in the world. With a short silent prayer, commending
them to God's protection, we take a last look for good and all, at old
Rame Head, and endeavour if we can to banish melancholy.
But are we really at sea? for the ship is so steady, and the water so
smooth, that, without the sense of sight, we have no perception of
motion. Sea voyages are, as a rule, uneventful and monotonous--to the
seaman, at any rate, and ours was no exception.
A few days after leaving Plymouth we were fairly in the bay so dreaded
by ancient mariners, and which is popularly supposed to be for ever
"Upheaving, downrolling tumultuously."
Many a yarn have I heard old salts spin of this special and favourite
abode of the god of storms: how that the seas were so high that in the
valleys between the wind was taken completely out of a ship's sails;
then, fearful lest each successive wave would engulf her, her trembling
crew see her up-borne with terrible force, and once more subject to the
full fury of the blast: how that no bottom was to be reached by the
heaviest of leads and the longest of lines,--and such-like awe-inspiring
wonders; or, as that most observant of naval poets, old Falconer,
graphically puts it--
"Now quivering o'er the topmast wave she rides,
Whilst beneath the enormous gulf divides.
Now launching headlong down the horrid vale,
Becalmed, she hears no more the howling gale;
Till up the dreadful height again she flies,
Trembling beneath the current of the skies."
We probably crossed Biscay during the time the presiding restless spirit
was taking holiday or sleeping; for a lake could not possibly have
presented a smoother surface. Shoals of porpoises, trying their rate of
speed under our bows; the dull flop of a solitary sea-bird astern,
seeking sundry bits of biscuit or other waste; and the everlasting rythm
of the engines were the only occurrences to mar the sameness of this
part of our voyage.
Internally all the activity usually displayed on board a British
man-of-war was being carried on incessantly; nothing was neglected, and
the captain soon led us to see that "thorough" was his motto, and that
for him there were to be no half measures. Nor did he, during the time
he was with us, ever require of us more than he was ready to undertake
himself. He set us such an example of zeal and activity, that though we
might not altogether have approved, yet we were bound to admire it.
It is the fourth day of our voyage, and we are in sight of the high land
of the Torres Vedras, at the mouth of the Tagus. Far, far away in the
background, like a magnificent panorama, rise the high, time-worn
summits of the Sierras of Spain. On approaching near enough to
distinguish objects we discovered several large baronial castles, or
convents, perched high up on bold pinnacled crags, in positions most
inaccessible and impregnable. One goes back, in fancy, to the feudal
days, and recalls those heroes of our boyish imaginations to the times
when
"Knights were bold and barons held their sway,"
with all the consequent ills of that system of government.
Our sails are filled with the balmy breath of Portugal's orange groves
as we continue our southward way. Cape St. Vincent soon rises,
Dungeness-like, right ahead, and we call to mind that this was the scene
of one of England's great naval victories. These rocks, so still and
peaceful now, have resounded to the din of deadly strife, when, in the
year 1797, a Spanish fleet, of twenty-seven sail, tried to wrest the
dominion of the seas from its lawful holders, the English fleet, under
Sir John Jervis, numbering only half that of the enemy.
Next, never to be forgotten Trafalgar is reached. Trafalgar, glorious
Trafalgar! a household word so long as England shall endure. How our
thoughts love to dwell on the deeds you witnessed our fathers do, every
man of whom was a hero.
And now arrives Sunday, August 11th, on which day, after having been
favoured with exceptionally fair weather, Gibraltar, with its mighty
rocky fortress, heaves in sight.
Before we arrive at the anchorage I would beg a slight indulgence of my
readers whilst I twist a yarn about "Gib.;" and as, I think, much of the
interest attaching to a place or object is due to a knowledge of its
previous history, I purpose to give just a rapid and cursory glance at a
few of the leading events connected with the past of the places we
visit.
Gibraltar is of Moorish origin, having been named after the famous
Saracen chieftain, Tarik, who made this rock the starting point of his
conquests in Spain. Hence it was called Gib-el-Tarik--the hill of
Tarik--further Europeanized into the modern Gibraltar. This magnificent
natural fortress rises perpendicularly to a height of 1300 feet from the
purple waves of the Mediterranean. It and the peak Abyla, on the
opposite (African) coast, were styled by the Greeks, in their poetical
language, "the pillars of Hercules;" whilst the strait between is said
to have been executed by the same man of muscle, to wile away the tedium
of an idle hour.
The remnants of this now almost-forgotten race--the Saracen--are still
to be found on the northern seaboard of Africa, in the kingdom called
Morocco, where they strive to eke out a scant existence from the arid
plains of that parched and burning clime.
The events I have recorded above happened hundreds of years ago. Let us
leap the gulf of time, and see if there be anything else worthy of note
or interest as bearing upon Gibraltar. I think there is--much that is
interesting to Englishmen. In 1704, Sir George Rooke and Admiral Byng
had made several attempts to engage the French fleet, but had signally
failed. Deeming it undesirable to return to Plymouth in this inglorious
manner, the two leaders determined to win laurels for themselves and
fleet somehow and somewhere--it mattered not where, and they decided on
making a bold attempt on Gibraltar.
It was during this memorable attack that the signal gallantry of the
Royal Marines displayed itself in so brilliant and wonderful a
manner--gallantry which has shed such lustre on the annals of naval
warfare, and gained for them a name and a place second to none in the
British army.
In 1713, on peace being proclaimed, the fortress was ceded to England in
perpetuity; but the Spaniards had no intention of abiding by a treaty
wrung from them at such a cost. The result was that several subsequent
attempts were made to regain the place. At length, in the years 1789-93,
occurred that memorable siege--the greatest, perhaps, on record--when a
mere handful of British soldiers, under General Elliott, successfully
withstood a siege of three years' duration, which settled at once and,
let us hope, for ever the question as to who were henceforth to be
masters here. But it is a bitter pill to the Spaniards; and even now
they can scarcely realize that it does not belong to them. The Spanish
people are continually being buoyed up with the pleasant fiction, that
it is only _lent_ to its present proprietors; for in all documents
relating to Gibraltar, or in all questions raised in the Spanish
parliament touching that place, the British are referred to as being
only "_in temporary possession of Gibraltar_."
The view of the town from the bay is rather pleasing. Before us and far
away to the left, till hid by an eminence, the houses stand out boldly,
terrace above terrace, against the rocky background--their white mass
and gaily-colored verandahs glistening in the sunbeams.
To prevent loss of time, instead of anchoring we were at once secured
alongside the jetty, thus offering a fine opportunity for sight-seers,
who speedily throng the wharf. A most motley gathering that same crowd,
a few were undoubtedly British, therefore nothing need be said of
them--a few more, half-blooded Spaniards; and as we shall become better
acquainted on our visiting the town, we will pass them without comment
also; but one remarkable race, which has its representatives amongst the
sea of faces before us, needs a few words of remark. Their proud,
commanding bearing, clearly-cut features--as if just from the sculptor's
chisel, their sallow complexion--almost approaching a saffron hue, all
are new to us. Red fez caps on a close-shaven head, loose flowing
scarlet tunics, bare legs, and sandalled feet--these clearly betray
their oriental origin. Who are they? Reader, a few pages back I
endeavoured to claim your interest in a people who once owned half
Spain--the Moors: these before you are some of their descendants, and
are a portion of the army of the Sultan of Morocco, here for the purpose
of receiving instruction in gunnery. Though they have such proud looks
they are extremely bashful and restive under our gaze, constantly
shifting their position to escape our scrutiny; as for making a sketch
of one, that is nearly impossible, for immediately he sees you put your
pencil to paper he vanishes in the crowd, as though he had detected you
levelling a revolver at him.
The other dwellers on the soil are a strange mixture of the
Mediterranean race; and as it is impossible to describe them, or say
what they are, we will just be content with the title they are proudest
of--the reptilian one of "rock scorpions"--a tough, hardy people,
though, notwithstanding their doubtful ancestry.
In my description of places I shall always assume that about twenty or
thirty of my shipmates accompany me in my strolls,--we shall get along
much pleasanter, and enjoy ourselves much better thus than if we were
scattered without any end in view: besides, it will be much less
difficult for me, and I shall be enabled to get rid of that
objectionable personal pronoun, first person singular, nominative. I
will, therefore, with your kind co-operation, introduce you to the first
of our series of rambles.
The climate is beautiful and the air most exhilirating, two, at any
rate, of the attributes to an enjoyable walk already manufactured for
us. Passing out of the Dockyard precincts we are at once in the English
quarter. As I said before, the houses are constructed in terraces: hence
we find ourselves continually mounting flights of steps to get from one
street to another, so that there is really little inducement for
pedestrians to move out of doors at all. Vegetation is very scarce, a
want we can scarcely be surprised at when we consider the soil. Of
course, that camel of the vegetable world, the cactus tribe, has its
representatives in this arid, parched earth, where, seemingly, it is
impossible anything else can take root.
As we approach the rising ground, which hides a portion of the town from
our view, we observe the walls of an old ruin boldly outlined against
the pure blue of the sky. This is all that now remains of a Moorish
castle, the last existing monument of that race in Gibraltar.
But we must hurry on, for we have a lot to do: amongst other things, a
climb to where that flag flutters indistinctly in the breeze. After
sundry twists and turns, now up these steps, now down this street, or
that, we find ourselves at the beginning of the ascent, and in as rubbly
and dusty a pathway as one would wish to traverse. What with the ruts
worn by the rain, and the tearing up of the ground by the passage of
heavy ordnance, it would be a difficult matter indeed to select any
particular line of march and call it a road. Travellers ordinarily
engage mules for the journey; we sailors scorn any such four-footed
assistance, though the next time we voyage this way it will be as well
to remember that ankle boots are preferable to "pursers' crabs." As we
advance, the sun's rays are beginning to get unpleasantly warm, whilst
the sand most persistently ignores all the known laws of gravity, by
fixing itself in our eyes, mouths, and nostrils.
Herds of goats, with their attendant shepherds, occasionally cross our
path, changing their pasturage. Query, what do they live on? I don't
think that any of our party have yet seen anything green since we
started, not a blade of grass nor even a moss to relieve the stony
reality of the hard rock.
With what a sigh of relief and satisfaction we reach the top, and enter
within the welcome shade afforded by the signal-house. Refreshments are
eagerly sought after, anything to wash the dust out of one's mouth.
There is no lack of drinks here, very fortunately; beer and stout, and
something--which being put into lemonade bottles passes, I suppose, for
that beverage--are speedily, greedily, gulped down our parched throats.
The supposed lemonade which, by special desire, fell to my lot, was
enough to engender thoughts of disloyalty to a certain lady and her
cause in the mind of the stoutest champion of the league; and I took
considerable credit to myself that I passed scathless through such a
trying ordeal. What stuff! Just imagine, you who are drinking your stout
with such keen relish, and smacking your lips in such evident
satisfaction, imbibing a liquid as hot almost as the surrounding air,
and so insipid that I have tasted medicines far more palatable.
Opportunely I call to mind a proverb of our Spanish friends yonder, "The
sailor who would caulk his boat must not turn up his nose at pitch;" and
as, figuratively speaking, I want to caulk mine, I make a virtue of
necessity, and the obnoxious liquid vanishes.
Having regaled ourselves at a very moderate cost, all things considered,
we are invited to insert our names in the visitors' book. To satisfy a
curiosity we possess we turn back over the pages, to see who has honored
this height with their presence. We find princes from Germany, grandees
from Spain, professors from America, naval officers of almost all
nations, and ladies not a few. One person of a witty and poetical turn
thus records his and his friends' visit:--
"April 17th, 1878.
Three friends this day
Walked all the way
To the signal station;
There was W. T.,
With his chum, C. G.,
And R. H. of the British nation."
After such an enjoyable rest, suppose we just step outside on the
terrace, and have a look around whilst we "do" our tobacco.
We are at a height of 1255 feet above the level of the sea; and the
fatigue of the ascent is more than compensated by the view of the
splendid natural panorama, spread out like a map around us. The bay of
Gibraltar, with the houses of the town of Algeciras, are distinctly
visible; so, too, is the southern range of the Ronda mountains, the
purple Mediterranean, with the immense jumble of Afric's sparkling
shores, the Atlas mountains, the Neutral ground, and the Spanish lines.
These are some of the objects which never tire the eye. The precipices
below us are amazingly steep, in some cases the heights even overhang.
Many precious lives were lost through inadvertent steps during the first
occupation; and this suggests to me a story I have read somewhere, and
which I will ask your pardon for telling you.
A young officer of the garrison, who with a brother officer was on guard
one day, suddenly missed his companion; and on retracing his steps a
little he saw his poor friend's mangled body about 400 feet below. The
sub, however, made no reference or allusion to this accident in his
report. His commanding officer, on being informed of the sad business,
immediately summoned his subordinate before him, and demanded an
explanation of his conduct, the following dialogue taking place between
them:--"You say, sir, in your report, 'N.B.--nothing extraordinary since
guard mounting,' when your brother officer, who was on guard with you,
has fallen over a precipice 400 feet high and been killed! call you this
nothing?" Our sub, who hailed from 'auld reekie,' thus replied, "Weel,
sir, I dinna think there is onything extraordinary in that; had he fa'n
doon a precipice 400 feet high, and _not_ been killed, I should ha'e
thocht it vera extraordinary indeed, and would ha'e put it doon in my
report!"
I think we have found the down journey not nearly so difficult or
wearying as the ascent, for we are in the town ere we are aware of it,
and following in the wake of a throng of people, seemingly all heading
in one direction. As we have still a few hours left us we will accompany
them, and make a study of Spanish life by gaslight.
Graceful, black-eyed women, instinct with loveliness and vivacity, claim
our first notice--first, because they are ladies, and, secondly, because
of their becoming attire and the natural grace of their movements; for
theirs is "the very poetry of motion." We have all possibly seen
pictures of Spanish women, and may have, no doubt, remarked the
head-gear they were depicted with. The flowing lace adornment, reaching
from the head to the shoulders, and from thence thrown in graceful folds
over the back and one arm, is called the "mantilla," and is the
characteristic costume of the ladies of Spain. Each carries a fan in her
hand--no lady is dressed without it--which they use, not so much for the
purpose of cooling themselves as to convey the subtle emotions of the
Spanish female mind. It seems to do the duty of eyes, though they
possess very beautiful eyes, too. What I mean is, that whereas we in our
colder climate generally indicate love, passion, or melancholy by means
of the eyes principally, and through the facial muscles generally, these
ladies interpret all this through the agency of the fan. So skilled are
they in its use, that there is scarcely an emotion, it is said, which
they cannot render intelligible by this means.
To say that we passed them without an impertinent stare is to confess at
once that we are not sailors. This want of manners, or seeming want, is
excusable, I think, insomuch that in our everyday life we see so little
of them, that when we do fall across "the sex" we regard them more in
the light of curiosities than tangible flesh and blood like ourselves. I
see, too, that some of the more susceptible of our party are looking
behind them. "Remember Lot's wife," and remember, too, the blue-eyed
girls of your village homes whom you parted from so recently; for the
Spanish maids, with all their charms, will scarcely bear comparison with
our bonnie English lasses.
We have said something of the "_senoras_," now a word for the
"_senors_." The dress of the men is as picturesque and gaudy as that of
the ladies is not; in the particular, indeed, the sexes seem to have
usurped the other's rights. Young Spanish swells, in colored velvet
breeches and tastefully embroidered leggings, scarlet silk sash around
the loins, and irreproachable linen, with, here and there, one with the
far-famed guitar, improvising amorous nothings for the ear of some
susceptible damsel, abandon themselves to the luxury of the hour in true
Spanish style.
But what is this? Whither has the crowd conducted us? Surely the fairies
have been at work! In other words, we have wandered into the Alameda, or
Public Gardens. I beg to recall a statement which I fear I made somewhat
rashly a few pages back, in which I said that Gibraltar could not
possibly yield any green thing, owing to its miserable soil. I find I am
wrong, for here before us is a perfect greenery. Stately trees,
beautiful blossoms, fragrant and gaily-flowered shrubs, ferns and
grasses--all are here in abundance. How charming it all looked by the
light of many colored lamps! These gardens are evidently the favorite
promenade of all classes of the people--the Spanish don, the English
officer, the Southern Jew, and the swarthy African--all find a place in
its walks, and glide along its various avenues in twos or threes,
according to taste. The strains of the Garrison band, too, invite us to
linger yet, as the sweet airs of the reminiscences of Scotland whisper
among the branches. Sombre-clad priests, in long togas and shovel hats,
bustle about here and there, now talking cheerfully to one lady, now
looking correction at another; but all enjoying themselves with as much
evident pleasure as their more mundane flocks.
The boom of the Citadel gun cuts short all our pleasing reflections, and
we may (very unwillingly it must be confessed) tear ourselves away from
this happy place.
On arriving at the Dockyard gates we are summoned to give the pass-word
by the vigilant guard before we are allowed to pass the ponderous
portal. Those who have read Captain Marryatt's delightful story, "Peter
Simple," and I should hope there are few sailors who have not, will
perhaps recall the amusing scene which took place on this very spot
between lieutenant O'Brien and the soldier on guard.
Our days at pleasant "Gib." are drawing to a close. I feel assured that
we shall carry with us, in our voyage to the far east, many pleasing
recollections of Gibraltar--its balmy air and genial climate--its
abundance of grapes, melons, and oranges. Would we could send some to
our friends in England.