Departure from Oviedo—Villa Viciosa—The Young Man of the Inn—Antonio’s
Tale—The General and his Family—Woful Tidings—To-morrow we Die—San
Vincente—Santander—An Harangue—Flinter the Irishman.
So we left Oviedo and directed our course towards Santander. The man who
accompanied us as guide, and from whom I hired the pony on which I rode,
had been recommended to me by my friend the merchant of Oviedo. He
proved, however, a lazy indolent fellow; he was generally loitering two
or three hundred yards in our rear, and instead of enlivening the way
with song and tale, like our late guide, Martin of Rivadeo, he scarcely
ever opened his lips, save to tell us not to go so fast, or that I should
burst his pony if I spurred him so. He was thievish withal, and though
he had engaged to make the journey _seco_, that is, to defray the charges
of himself and beast, he contrived throughout to keep both at our
expense. When journeying in Spain, it is invariably the cheapest plan to
agree to maintain the guide and his horse or mule, for by so doing the
hire is diminished at least one third, and the bills upon the road are
seldom increased: whereas, in the other case, he pockets the difference,
and yet goes shot free, and at the expense of the traveller, through the
connivance of the innkeepers, who have a kind of fellow feeling with the
guides.
Late in the afternoon we reached Villa Viciosa, a small dirty town, at
the distance of eight leagues from Oviedo: it stands beside a creek which
communicates with the Bay of Biscay. It is sometimes called La Capital
de las Avellanas, or the capital of the Filberts, from the immense
quantity of this fruit which is grown in the neighbourhood; and the
greatest part of which is exported to England. As we drew nigh we
overtook numerous cars laden with avellanas proceeding in the direction
of the town. I was informed that several small English vessels were
lying in the harbour. Singular as it may seem, however, notwithstanding
we were in the capital of the Avellanas, it was with the utmost
difficulty that I procured a scanty handful for my dessert, and of these
more than one half were decayed. The people of the house informed me
that the nuts were intended for exportation, and that they never dreamt
either of partaking of them themselves or of offering them to their
guests.
At an early hour on the following day we reached Colunga, a beautiful
village on a rising ground, thickly planted with chestnut trees. It is
celebrated, at least in the Asturias, as being the birth-place of
Arguelles, the father of the Spanish constitution.
As we dismounted at the door of the posada, where we intended to refresh
ourselves, a person who was leaning out of an upper window uttered an
exclamation and disappeared. We were yet at the door, when the same
individual came running forth and cast himself on the neck of Antonio.
He was a good-looking young man, apparently about five and twenty,
genteelly dressed, with a Montero cap on his head. Antonio looked at him
for a moment, and then with a _Ah_, _Monsieur_, _est ce bien vous_? shook
him affectionately by the hand. The stranger then motioned him to follow
him, and they forthwith proceeded to the room above.
Wondering what this could mean, I sat down to my morning repast. Nearly
an hour elapsed, and still Antonio did not make his appearance; through
the boards, however, which composed the ceiling of the kitchen where I
sat, I could hear the voices of himself and his acquaintance, and thought
that I could occasionally distinguish the sound of broken sobs and
groans; at last there was a long pause. I became impatient, and was
about to summon Antonio, when he made his appearance, but unaccompanied
by the stranger. “What, in the name of all that is singular,” I
demanded, “have you been about? Who is that man?” “Mon maître,” said
Antonio, “_c’est un monsieur de ma connoissance_. With your permission I
will now take a mouthful, and as we journey along I will tell you all
that I know of him.”
“Monsieur,” said Antonio, as we rode out of Colunga, “you are anxious to
know the history of the gentleman whom you saw embrace me at the inn.
Know, mon maître, that these Carlist and Christino wars have been the
cause of much misery and misfortune in this country, but a being so
thoroughly unfortunate as that poor young gentleman of the inn, I do not
believe is to be found in Spain, and his misfortunes proceed entirely
from the spirit of party and faction which for some time past has been so
prevalent.
“Mon maître, as I have often told you, I have lived in many houses and
served many masters, and it chanced that about ten years ago I served the
father of this gentleman, who was then a mere boy. It was a very high
family, for monsieur the father was a general in the army, and a man of
large possessions. The family consisted of the general, his lady, and
two sons; the youngest of whom is the person you have just seen, the
other was several years older. Pardieu! I felt myself very comfortable
in that house, and every individual of the family had all kind of
complaisance for me. It is singular enough, that though I have been
turned out of so many families, I was never turned out of that; and
though I left it thrice, it was of my own free will. I became
dissatisfied with the other servants or with the dog or the cat. The
last time I left was on account of the quail which was hung out of the
window of madame, and which waked me in the morning with its call. _Eh
bien_, _mon maitre_, things went on in this way during the three years
that I continued in the family, out and in; at the end of which time it
was determined that the young gentleman should travel, and it was
proposed that I should attend him as valet; this I wished very much to
do. However, par malheur, I was at this time very much dissatisfied with
madame his mother about the quail, and I insisted that before I
accompanied him the bird should be slaughtered for the kitchen. To this
madame would by no means consent; and even the young gentleman, who had
always taken my part on other occasions, said that I was unreasonable: so
I left the house in a huff, and never entered it again.
“_Eh bien_, _mon maitre_, the young gentleman went upon his travels, and
continued abroad several years; and from the time of his departure until
we met him at Colunga, I have not set eyes upon, nor indeed heard of him.
I have heard enough, however, of his family; of monsieur the father, of
madame, and of the brother, who was an officer of cavalry. A short time
before the troubles, I mean before the death of Ferdinand, monsieur the
father was appointed captain-general of Coruña. Now monsieur, though a
good master, was rather a proud man, and fond of discipline and all that
kind of thing, and of obedience. He was, moreover, no friend to the
populace, to the canaille, and he had a particular aversion to the
nationals. So when Ferdinand died, it was whispered about at Coruña,
that the general was no liberal, and that he was a better friend to
Carlos than to Christina. _Eh bien_, it chanced that there was a grand
fete, or festival at Coruña, on the water; and the nationals were there,
and the soldiers. And I know not how it befell, but there was an emeute,
and the nationals laid hands on monsieur the general, and tying a rope
round his neck, flung him overboard from the barge in which he was, and
then dragged him astern about the harbour until he was drowned. They
then went to his house and pillaged it, and so ill-treated madame, who at
that time happened to be enceinte, that in a few hours she expired.
“I tell you what, mon maître, when I heard of the misfortune of madame
and the general, you would scarcely believe it, but I actually shed
tears, and was sorry that I had parted with them in unkindness on account
of that pernicious quail.
“_Eh bien_, _mon maitre_, _nous poursuivrons notre histoire_. The eldest
son, as I told you before, was a cavalry officer and a man of resolution,
and when he heard of the death of his father and mother, he vowed
revenge. Poor fellow! but what does he do but desert, with two or three
discontented spirits of his troop, and going to the frontier of Galicia,
he raised a small faction, and proclaimed Don Carlos. For some little
time he did considerable damage to the liberals, burning and destroying
their possessions, and putting to death several nationals that fell into
his hands. However, this did not last long, his faction was soon
dispersed, and he himself taken and hanged, and his head stuck on a pole.
“_Nous sommes deja presque au bout_. When we arrived at the inn, the
young man took me above, as you saw, and there for some time he could do
nothing but weep and sob. His story is soon told:—he returned from his
travels, and the first intelligence which awaited him on his arrival in
Spain was, that his father was drowned, his mother dead, and his brother
hanged, and, moreover, all the possessions of his family confiscated.
This was not all: wherever he went, he found himself considered in the
light of a factious and discontented person, and was frequently assailed
by the nationals with blows of sabres and cudgels. He applied to his
relations, and some of these, who were of the Carlist persuasion, advised
him to betake himself to the army of Don Carlos, and the Pretender
himself, who was a friend of his father, and remembered the services of
his brother, offered to give him a command in his army. But, mon maître,
as I told you before, he was a pacific young gentleman, and as mild as a
lamb, and hated the idea of shedding blood. He was, moreover, not of the
Carlist opinion, for during his studies he had read books written a long
time ago by countrymen of mine, all about republics and liberties, and
the rights of man, so that he was much more inclined to the liberal than
the Carlist system; he therefore declined the offer of Don Carlos,
whereupon all his relations deserted him, whilst the liberals hunted him
from one place to another like a wild beast. At last, he sold some
little property which still remained to him, and with the proceeds he
came to this remote place of Colunga, where no one knew him, and where he
has been residing for several months, in a most melancholy manner, with
no other amusement than that which he derives from a book or two, or
occasionally hunting a leveret with his spaniel.
“He asked me for counsel, but I had none to give him, and could only weep
with him. At last he said, ‘Dear Antonio, I see there is no remedy. You
say your master is below, beg him, I pray, to stay till to-morrow, and we
will send for the maidens of the neighbourhood, and for a violin and a
bagpipe, and we will dance and cast away care for a moment.’ And then he
said something in old Greek, which I scarcely understood, but which I
think was equivalent to, ‘Let us eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow
we die!’
“_Eh bien_, _mon maitre_, I told him that you were a serious gentleman
who never took any amusement, and that you were in a hurry. Whereupon he
wept again, and embraced me and bade me farewell. And now, mon maître, I
have told you the history of the young man of the inn.”
We slept at Ribida de Sela, and the next day, at noon, arrived at Llanes.
Our route lay between the coast and an immense range of mountains, which
rose up like huge ramparts at about a league’s distance from the sea.
The ground over which we passed was tolerably level, and seemingly well
cultivated. There was no lack of vines and trees, whilst at short
intervals rose the cortijos of the proprietors,—square stone buildings
surrounded with an outer wall. Llanes is an old town, formerly of
considerable strength. In its neighbourhood is the convent of San
Cilorio, one of the largest monastic edifices in all Spain. It is now
deserted, and stands lone and desolate upon one of the peninsulas of the
Cantabrian shore. Leaving Llanes, we soon entered one of the most dreary
and barren regions imaginable, a region of rock and stone, where neither
grass nor trees were to be seen. Night overtook us in these places. We
wandered on, however, until we reached a small village, termed Santo
Colombo. Here we passed the night, in the house of a carabineer of the
revenue, a tall athletic figure who met us at the gate armed with a gun.
He was a Castilian, and with all that ceremonious formality and grave
politeness for which his countrymen were at one time so celebrated. He
chid his wife for conversing with her handmaid about the concerns of the
house before us. “Barbara,” said he, “this is not conversation
calculated to interest the strange cavaliers; hold your peace, or go
aside with the muchacha.” In the morning he refused any remuneration for
his hospitality. “I am a caballero,” said he, “even as yourselves. It
is not my custom to admit people into my house for the sake of lucre. I
received you because you were benighted and the posada distant.”
Rising early in the morning, we pursued our way through a country equally
stony and dreary as that which we had entered upon the preceding day. In
about four hours we reached San Vincente, a large dilapidated town,
chiefly inhabited by miserable fishermen. It retains, however, many
remarkable relics of former magnificence: the bridge, which bestrides the
broad and deep firth, on which stands the town, has no less than
thirty-two arches, and is built of grey granite. It is very ancient, and
in some part in so ruinous a condition as to be dangerous.
Leaving San Vincente behind us, we travelled for some leagues on the
sea-shore, crossing occasionally a narrow inlet or firth. The country at
last began to improve, and in the neighbourhood of Santillana was both
beautiful and fertile. About a league before we reached the country of
Gil Blas, we passed through an extensive wood, in which were rocks and
precipices; it was exactly such a place as that in which the cave of
Rolando was situated, as described in the novel. This wood has an evil
name, and our guide informed us that robberies were occasionally
committed in it. No adventure, however, befell us, and we reached
Santillana at about six in the evening.
We did not enter the town, but halted at a large venta or posada at the
entrance, before which stood an immense ash tree. We had scarcely housed
ourselves when a tremendous storm of rain and wind commenced, accompanied
with thunder and lightning, which continued without much interruption for
several hours, and the effects of which were visible in our journey of
the following day, the streams over which we passed being much swollen,
and several trees lying uptorn by the wayside. Santillana contains four
thousand inhabitants, and is six short leagues’ distance from Santander,
where we arrived early the next day.
Nothing could exhibit a stronger contrast to the desolate tracts and the
half ruined towns through which we had lately passed, than the bustle and
activity of Santander, which, though it stands on the confines of the
Basque provinces, the stronghold of the Pretender, is almost the only
city in Spain which has not suffered by the Carlist wars. Till the close
of the last century it was little better than an obscure fishing town,
but it has of late years almost entirely engrossed the commerce of the
Spanish transatlantic possessions, especially of the Havannah. The
consequence of which has been, that whilst Santander has rapidly
increased in wealth and magnificence, both Coruña and Cadiz have been as
rapidly hastening to decay. At present it possesses a noble quay, on
which stands a line of stately edifices, far exceeding in splendour the
palaces of the aristocracy at Madrid. These are built in the French
style, and are chiefly occupied by the merchants. The population of
Santander is estimated at sixty thousand souls.
On the day of my arrival I dined at the table d’hote of the principal
inn, kept by a Genoese. The company was very miscellaneous, French,
Germans, and Spaniards, all speaking in their respective languages,
whilst at the ends of the table, confronting each other, sat two Catalan
merchants, one of whom weighed nearly twenty stone, grunting across the
board in their harsh dialect. Long, however, before dinner was
concluded, the conversation was entirely engrossed and the attention of
all present directed to an individual who sat on one side of the bulky
Catalan. He was a thin man of about the middle height, with a remarkably
red face, and something in his eyes which, if not a squint, bore a
striking resemblance to it. He was dressed in a blue military frock, and
seemed to take much more pleasure in haranguing than in the fare which
was set before him. He spoke perfectly good Spanish, yet his voice
betrayed something of a foreign accent. For a long time he descanted
with immense volubility on war and all its circumstances, freely
criticising the conduct of the generals, both Carlists and Christinos, in
the present struggle, till at last he exclaimed, “Had I but twenty
thousand men allowed me by the government, I would bring the war to a
conclusion in six months.”
“Pardon me, Sir,” said a Spaniard who sat at the table, “the curiosity
which induces me to request the favour of your distinguished name.”
“I am Flinter,” replied the individual in the military frock, “a name
which is in the mouth of every man, woman, and child in Spain. I am
Flinter the Irishman, just escaped from the Basque provinces and the
claws of Don Carlos. On the decease of Ferdinand I declared for
Isabella, esteeming it the duty of every good cavalier and Irishman in
the Spanish service to do so. You have all heard of my exploits, and
permit me to tell you they would have been yet more glorious had not
jealousy been at work and cramped my means. Two years ago I was
despatched to Estremadura, to organize the militias. The bands of Gomez
and Cabrera entered the province and spread devastation around. They
found me, however, at my post; and had I been properly seconded by those
under my command, the two rebels would never have returned to their
master to boast of their success. I stood behind my intrenchments. A
man advanced and summoned us to surrender. ‘Who are you?’ I demanded.
‘I am Cabrera,’ he replied; ‘and I am Flinter,’ I retorted, flourishing
my sabre; ‘retire to your battalions or you will forthwith die the
death.’ He was awed and did as I commanded. In an hour we surrendered.
I was led a prisoner to the Basque provinces; and the Carlists rejoiced
in the capture they had made, for the name of Flinter had long sounded
amongst the Carlist ranks. I was flung into a loathsome dungeon, where I
remained twenty months. I was cold; I was naked; but I did not on that
account despond, my spirit was too indomitable for such weakness. My
keeper at last pitied my misfortunes. He said that ‘it grieved him to
see so valiant a man perish in inglorious confinement.’ We laid a plan
to escape together; disguises were provided, and we made the attempt. We
passed unobserved till we arrived at the Carlist lines above Bilbao;
there we were stopped. My presence of mind, however, did not desert me.
I was disguised as a carman, as a Catalan, and the coolness of my answers
deceived my interrogators. We were permitted to pass, and soon were safe
within the walls of Bilbao. There was an illumination that night in the
town, for the lion had burst his toils, Flinter had escaped, and was once
more returned to re-animate a drooping cause. I have just arrived at
Santander on my way to Madrid, where I intend to ask of the government a
command, with twenty thousand men.”
Poor Flinter! a braver heart and a more gasconading mouth were surely
never united in the same body. He proceeded to Madrid, and through the
influence of the British ambassador, who was his friend, he obtained the
command of a small division, with which he contrived to surprise and
defeat, in the neighbourhood of Toledo, a body of the Carlists, commanded
by Orejita, whose numbers more than trebled his own. In reward for this
exploit he was persecuted by the government, which, at that time, was the
moderado or juste milieu, with the most relentless animosity; the prime
minister, Ofalia, supporting with all his influence numerous and
ridiculous accusations of plunder and robbery brought against the
too-successful general by the Carlist canons of Toledo. He was likewise
charged with a dereliction of duty, in having permitted, after the battle
of Valdepeñas, which he likewise won in the most gallant manner, the
Carlist force to take possession of the mines of Almaden, although the
government, who were bent on his ruin, had done all in their power to
prevent him from following up his successes by denying him the slightest
supplies and reinforcements. The fruits of victory thus wrested from
him, his hopes blighted, a morbid melancholy seized upon the Irishman; he
resigned his command, and in less than ten months from the period when I
saw him at Santander, afforded his dastardly and malignant enemies a
triumph which satisfied even them, by cutting his own throat with a
razor.
Ardent spirits of foreign climes, who hope to distinguish yourselves in
the service of Spain, and to earn honours and rewards, remember the fate
of Columbus, and of another as brave and as ardent—Flinter!