Expansion of Carlism--A Pseudo-Democracy--Historic Land and Water
Marks--An Impudent Stowaway--Spanish Respect for Providence--A
Fatal Signal--Playing with Fire--Across the Bay--Farewell to
Andalusia--British Spain.
TOWARDS the close of February, a grave official report was published in
the _Gaceta_ of Madrid, announcing that an engagement had been fought
with the Carlists and a victory scored, _one_ of the enemy having been
killed. We were now in April, some six weeks later, and Carlism still
showed lively signs of existence, notwithstanding the death of that
solitary combatant. The statement of the troops employed against it will
be the best measure of its importance. These consisted of a battalion
and two companies of Engineers, four companies of Foot Artillery, a
battery of Horse and five batteries of Mountain Artillery; eight
squadrons of Cuirassiers, seven of Lancers, four of Hussars, a section
of Mounted Chasseurs (Tiradores), and eighteen battalions of Infantry of
the line, with five of Cazadores, or light infantry. Behind this force
of regulars were the Francos or Free-shooters of Navarre (who were about
as good as their prototypes, the _francs-tireurs_ of France--no better),
some mobilized Volunteers, and the Carabineros, or revenue police. There
were some who imagined that the hosts of Don Carlos might crown the
hills of Vallecas, and present themselves before the gate of Atocha to
the consternation of Madrid, as did those of his predecessor in the
September of 1837. But the Federals of the south did not mind. What did
not touch them, they cared not a jot for. They were of the
pseudo-democracy which wants to live without working, consume without
producing, obtain posts without being trained for them, and arrive at
honours without desert--the selfish and purblind pseudo-democracy of
incapacity and cheek.
As I had no pecuniary interest in salt, wine, phosphate of soda, hides,
or cork--the chief exports of Cadiz--I left the much-bombarded port on
the _Vinuesa_, one of the boats of the Alcoy line plying to Malaga. My
immediate destination was the Hock, but we went no nearer than
Algeciras, the town on the opposite side of the bay, off which Saumarez
gave such a stern account of the Spanish and French combined on the 12th
of July, 1801. The sea was without a ripple. The bright coasts of two
Continents were in view. On such a day as this the first adventurers
must have crossed from Africa to Europe. Hero might almost have swum
across. Even Mr. Brownsmith of Eastchepe might rig a craft out of an
empty sugar hogshead, set up his walking-stick for mast, tie his
pocket-handkerchief to it for sail, and trust to the waves in
safety--that is, if Mr. Brownsmith of Eastchepe had in him the heart of
Raleigh, not of Bumble. Some men are born to be drivers of tram-cars,
some to be captains of corsairs. The pioneer of navigation must have
been cut out by nature to be a High-Admiral of bold buccaneers.
We were only five passengers on the steamer, and we amused ourselves
comparing notes. One told of a voyage from Barcelona to Alicante which
he had once undertaken. The first night out they lost a sailor; he was
seized with a fit and died; and then came the poser. When they would
arrive at Alicante and muster the crew for the inspection of the health
officers one would be wanting; suspicions would be aroused that he had
fallen a victim to contagious disease, and they ran the hazard of being
stuck into quarantine unless they could succeed in buying themselves off
with an exorbitant bribe. While they were in a quandary, a white head
popped above a gangway forward and a voice sang out:
"I'll get you out of the hole for a consideration."
"Who the deuce are you? Where did you spring from?" cried the skipper.
"A stowaway,--a flour-barrel. I'll parade as the dead man's substitute
for ten dollars and a square meal."
In the end they were glad to accept the impudent proposal; the corpse
was flung overboard, and the stowaway entered the port of Alicante an
honest British tar, looking the whole world in the face like
Longfellow's village blacksmith, and jingling ten dollars in his
pocket.
We passed by Barrosa, where Graham gave the French such a thrashing in
1811, and the 87th Irish Fusiliers earned their glorious surname of the
"Eagle-takers;" and over the waves of Trafalgar where Nelson did his
duty, and was smitten with a bullet in the spine; and passing into the
Straits and rounding the point by Tarifa, stood in for the Bay of
Gibraltar. A spacious swelling spread of live water it is, and safe,
except, as one of my fellow-passengers informed me, for a rock off the
Punta del Carnero, or Mutton Point. The rock is covered when the tide is
high (for there is a tide here), but rears its tortoise-like back over
the surface for some hours at the ebb. The Channel squadron was coming
out of Gib some years before when an ironclad grounded on this rock, but
was got off without more damage than a scraping. As the danger to the
navigation was outside the limits of the fortress, the British
authorities applied to the Spanish for permission to clear away the
obstruction. It was easily to be accomplished. A party of sappers could
set a caisson round it, bore a gallery, insert a charge, and blast the
rock into smithereens with safety and despatch. But the Spaniards would
not consent to such an interference with the designs of Providence; the
poor fishermen on the coast were often dependent for their livelihood on
what they could pick up from wrecks, and if this rock were removed
Nature would be sacrilegiously altered, and the interesting wreckers
deprived of many an honest coin. I tell the tale as it was told to me. I
wonder should it be dedicated to the amphibious corps.
Another story bearing on the successful revolution inaugurated by Prim
is worth relating, as it deals with an episode of Spanish politics which
is repeated almost every other year with slender variations. The play is
the same; the scene and the _dramatis personae_ are merely shifted. One
of the stereotyped military risings was to be initiated at Algeciras on
the arrival of Prim from England. The intimation that he was at hand was
to be made by the firing of two rockets from the ship which carried him.
On a certain night at the close of August, 1868, two rockets blazed in
the sky, and were noticed by the impatient conspirators at Algeciras,
who flew to arms to cries of "Down with the Queen," and "Live Prim and
Liberty." But no Prim landed. The alarm was premature, the rising a
flash in the pan. What they had taken for the bright herald of the
advent of "El Paladino" was the signal of a Peninsular and Oriental
steamer which had arrived on her passage to Port Said. For the sake of
appearances, a number of unfortunate fools were set up against a wall
and had their brains blown out in tribute to law and order. But the
fruit was ripening. Within little more than a fortnight came the
insurrection of the fleet at Cadiz, upon the appearance in that port of
the popular hero, and before the end of the month Queen Isabella had
fled over the French frontier, never to return to Spain as a sovereign.
Prim's plot was attended with a fortune in excess of his most sanguine
hopes; he entered Madrid in triumph in October, and was created a
Marshal in November. All was joy and enthusiasm, but the hapless tools
of ambition who had helped to prepare the way for him below in Algeciras
were not of the jubilee.
At first sight the rock looms up large like a frowning inhospitable
islet, the stretch of the Neutral Ground being so low that one cannot
detect it above the sea-level until almost right upon it. We left the
_Vinuesa_ and entered a boat with a couple of sturdy rowers, who offered
to pull us across the Bay for five dollars. As I dipped a hand in the
brine one of them raised a cry of "Take care!" there were "mala pesca"
there. Mr. Shark, who is an ugly customer, had been cruising in the
neighbourhood, and had taken a morsel out of an American swimmer a
little time before. There were three masts protruding over the water at
one spot, the relics of some gallant ship, and index to one of those
godsends which the Spanish Government is solicitous to guarantee to the
distressed and deserving local fishermen. What a pity it was not the
_Murillo_! That would have been poetic retribution.
No matter: with all thy faults I like thee, Spain, and especially that
brown dusty province of Andalusia, with its oranges and pomegranates;
its dancing fountains splashed with sunshine; its winsome damozels with
such lisping languors of voice; its philosophic waiters upon the morrow,
happy in a cigarette, a melon and a guitar; its muleteers crooning
snatches of lazy song; its peasants with hair tied in beribboned
pigtail; its tawny boys in Manola colours; aye, and its artistic
beggars.
"Ah! now you see the Neutral Ground; that village to the left is Lineas,
where you can get a glass of Manzanilla cheap," exclaimed a companion.
I do not set exceeding store by your pale thin Manzanilla, nor do I care
to load my mouth with the flavour of a drug store.
"There are the sheds we put up the time Prim was expected; they are on
the Neutral Ground, ha, ha! where the soil is supposed to be inviolate;
but we have forgotten to take them down since. We were too many for
them."
And now we are by the landing-stairs, and the Customs' officer demands
our passport in English. We answer him cheerily that we need none, and
to his smiling welcome we step on the soil of British Spain; but it
would be unpardonable to begin describing it at the tail of a chapter.