THE GUERILLA HEAD-QUARTERS.
"I made a mountain brook my guide,
Through a wild Spanish glen,
And wandered, on its grassy side,
Far from the homes of men.
It lured me with a singing tone,
And many a sunny glance,
To a green spot of beauty lone,
A haunt for old romance."--MRS. HEMANS.
Save in the west, where the hues of crimson and gold predominated,
the sunset sky was all of a pale violet. Though the mountain peaks
were rough and barren, and the plains of Estremadura, long abandoned
and for ages uncultivated, were waste and wild in general, the road
by which Quentin proceeded towards Herreruela lay through rich
scenery and land that was fertile.
The tall Indian corn had been reaped, but its thick brown stubble
remained. In some places it had too evidently been destroyed by fire
to keep it from the French, or by them to harass and distress the
Spaniards. The olive and the vine grew wild by the wayside; the
orange tree and the leafy lime, the fig, and the prickly pear were
frequently mingled in the same place with the variegated holly, while
the myrtle and the lavender flower loaded the air with sweet perfume.
Darkness came rapidly on; the reddened summits of the sierra grew
sombre, the western flush of light died away, and ere long Quentin
found himself traversing a steep and gloomy road, that led right into
the heart of the mountains.
A sound that came on the night wind made him pause and listen.
It was the great bell of Valencia de Alcantara--the same that had
rung so joyously when the Christian cavaliers of Salamanca defended
the wild gorge through which the Tagus rolls at Al-Kantarah (_the
bridge_ of the Moors)--and it was now tolling the hour of ten.
Ribeaupierre was now with his friends and comrades, doubtless
recounting his adventures and his escape, by the aid of a British
soldier. A knowledge of this caused Quentin some anxiety, lest among
the listeners, there might be some who had neither the gratitude nor
the chivalry of the young chasseur, and who might take means to cut
off his return to Portugal, for he was now fully aware of the risk he
ran on the Spanish side, and began to see something of the snare into
which he had fallen.
As the last stroke of the bell died away on the wind, a sense of
intense loneliness came over Quentin's heart; the sound seemed to
come from a vast distance, and the narrow road he was traversing
penetrated into the mountains, which seemed to become darker and
steeper on each side of it; but there is something intoxicating in
the idea of peril to a gallant soul. It kindles a glorious
enthusiasm at times, and thus he marched manfully on till a voice in
Spanish, loud, sonorous, and ringing, demanded in a military manner--
"_Quien esta ahi?_" (Who comes there?)
"_Gente de paez_," replied Quentin, while the rattle of a musket and
the click of the lock as it was cocked came to his ear, and he saw
the dark outline of a human figure appear suddenly in the centre of
the path.
"_Estere ahi_ (Stay there), and say from whence you come," said the
challenger again.
Quentin naturally paused before replying, as he know not by whom he
was confronted, and could only make out a tall figure wearing a
slouched sombrero, by the pale light of the stars.
"Presto--quick!" continued the stranger, slapping the butt of his
musket; "from whence come you?"
"The British cantonments," replied Quentin, conceiving the truth to
be the wisest answer to a Spaniard.
"_Bueno!_ why didn't you say so at once?" exclaimed the other; "but
what seek you here?"
"I am bearer of a despatch for Don Baltasar dc Saldos. Am I right in
supposing you are one of his people?"
"Si, senor; this is his head-quarters."
By this time Quentin had come close to the questioner, who still kept
his bayonet at the charge, and who seemed to be a Spanish peasant,
accoutred with crossbelts and cartridge-box. He was posted on the
summit of a hastily-constructed earthwork, which was formed across
the road in a kind of gorge through which it passed; and there, too,
were in position three brass field-pieces, French apparently, loaded
no doubt with grape or canister to sweep the steep and narrow
approach.
Beside them lounged a guard of some forty men or so, muffled in their
cloaks, smoking or sleeping, but all of whom sprang to their feet and
to their weapons as Quentin approached. He had now taken off his
grey coat to display his scarlet uniform, and, when one of the guard
held up a lantern to take a survey of him, loud vivas and mutterings
of satisfaction and welcome greeted him on all sides.
"Senors, where shall I find Don Baltasar?" he inquired.
"At his quarters in the puebla, senor. Lazarillo, conduct the senor
to De Soldas," said one who seemed to exercise some authority over
the rest: "but I fear you will find him busy at present. At what
time are those French prisoners to be despatched?"
"Midnight, Senor Conde," replied he whom he had named Lazarillo.
"It wants but half an hour to that," said the guerilla officer, who
was no other than the Conde de Maciera, as he looked at his watch;
and it was with emotions of intense pleasure and satisfaction that
Quentin found himself proceeding towards the mountain village which
formed the head-quarters of the formidable guerilla chief, and thus
acting, as he hoped, the last scene in the task assigned him; but he
knew little of the people among whom he was thrown, for in character
they are unlike all the rest of Europe.
"Nature and the natives," says a traveller, "have long combined to
isolate still more their peninsula, which is already moated round by
the unsocial sea. The Inquisition all but reduced the Spanish man to
the condition of a monk in a wall-enclosed convent, by standing
sentinel and keeping watch and ward against the foreigner and his
perilous novelties. Spain, thus unvisited and unvisiting, became
arranged for _Spaniards only_, and has scarcely required conveniences
which are more suited to the curious wants of other Europeans and
strangers, who here are neither liked, wished for, or even thought
of--natives who never travel except on compulsion, and never for
amusement--why, indeed, should they?"
Late though the hour, the guerillas, a loose and, of course,
disorderly force at all times, seemed all astir in their quarters.
By the clear starlight Quentin could see that the street consisted of
humble cottages bordering the way, with red-tiled roofs, over nearly
every one of which a huge old knotty vine was straggling. At one end
rose a strong old archway, "old," Lazarillo said, "as the days of
King Bomba," and there, when the puebla had been a place of greater
pretension, a gate had closed the thoroughfare by night.
Now there was no barrier save a bank of earth and rubbish, hastily
thrown up, and a couple of field-pieces mounted thereon seemed to
hint the rigour with which intruders would be prosecuted; in short,
it prevented any sudden surprise in that direction. There were
lights--pine-torches or candles--burning in all the houses, and, as
he passed the windows, Quentin could perceive the dark-bearded faces,
the striking figures, and varied costumes of the guerillas. Various
groups of them thronged the little street, and a company of them were
parading, under arms, before the largest house in the puebla.
"That is the posada, senor," said Quentin's guide. "There Don
Baltasar resides; but we have come too late to speak with him, at
least until his work is done."
"His work," repeated Quentin, inquiringly; "what is about to be done?"
"_Por Dios!_ you shall soon see," he replied with a grin, as a number
of men bearing blazing pine torches issued from the large house,
which the guide styled the posada, and, by the united light of these,
Quentin was enabled to behold a strange, a wild, and very awful scene.
As a drum only half braced was hoarsely beaten, the guerillas came
swarming out of the wayside cottages in hundreds, and a singularly
savage but picturesque set of fellows they were. All were strong and
hardy Castilians; many were exceedingly handsome both in face and
form, and there was scarcely one among them that might not have
served as a model for a sculptor or a study for an artist.
Their Spanish peasant costumes, in some instances were sombre and
tattered, in others new and gay; the jackets, olive or claret colour,
being gaudily embroidered, and worn over the scarlet or yellow sashes
which girt the short, loose trousers. Many were bare-legged and
bare-footed, and many wore long leather abarcas. Not a few wore
fanciful uniforms of all colours, among which Quentin recognised the
brown coats of the Spanish line, and a few scarlet, which had no
doubt been stripped from the dead at Roleia and Vimiera, as they
seemed to have belonged to the 29th regiment, and the Argyllshire
Highlanders.
Most of them wore the native sombreros; many had their coal-black
locks gathered in a net of scarlet twine, or bound by a large yellow
handkerchief, the fringed end of which floated on the left shoulder,
while others sported regimental shakos and staff cocked-hats. All
were armed with long Spanish guns, sabres, pistols, and daggers, and
all nearly were cross-belted with cartridge-box and bayonet.
In one or two instances the closely-shaven chin and the tonsure, but
ill-concealed by the half-grown hair, indicated the unfrocked friar,
who had taken up arms inspired by patriotism or revenge against the
destroyers of convents, or it might be to have a turn once more in
the world, while the state of Spain loosed all ties, divine as well
as human.
Half hidden in the shadow of the starlight night, and half thrown
forward into the strong red glare of the upheld pine torches that
streamed in the wind, the figures of those in the foreground and
those flitting about in the rear--the varied colours of their
costumes, their black beards and glittering eyes, their flashing
weapons, together with the rude mountain village, with its old and
time-worn archway, made altogether a strangely wild and picturesque
scene.
But its darker and more terrible features are yet to be described.