Back to Gibraltar--The Parting with Albert--The Tongue of
Scandal--Voyage to Malaga--"No Police, no Anything"--Federalism
Triumphant--Madrid _in Statu Quo_--Orense--Progress of the
Royalists--On the Road Home--In the Insurgent Country--Stopped by
the Carlists--An Angry Passenger is Silenced.
"How like a boulder tossed by Titans at play!" said the sentimental
lady, as we approached Gibraltar on our return.
"More like a big-sized molar tooth," broke in Mrs. Captain.
And, indeed, this latter simile, if less poetic, gave a better idea of
the conformation of the fortified hill, with the gum-coloured outline of
all that was left of a Moorish wall skirting its side. The tooth is
hollow, but the hollow is plugged with the best Woolwich stuffing, and
potentially it can bite and grind and macerate, for all the peaceful
gardens and frescades of the Alameda that circle its base like a belt
of faded embroidery. At Gibraltar our party separated, the Yorkshire
Captain and his friends taking the P. and O. boat to Southampton, my
countryman going back to Tangier after having made some purchases, and I
electing to voyage to Malaga by one of Hall's packets, which was lying
at the mercantile Mole discharging the two hundred tons of Government
material which it is obliged to carry by contract on each fortnightly
voyage. When Albert and I parted no tears were shed; we resigned
ourselves to the decree of destiny with equanimity. But I humbly submit
that Mrs. Captain, when thanking me for my good intentions towards him,
might have spared me the ironical advice not to volunteer for duties in
future which I was not qualified to fulfil. "Volunteer," ye gods! when
she had absolutely entreated me to take him in charge.
Before leaving the Club-House, I was pressed to relate our adventures in
Africa. I had no pig-sticking exploits to make boast over; but I turned
the deaf side of my head to certain whispers about holy men who
imported wine in casks labelled "Petroleum," who affected to be
delivering the incoherent messages of inspiration when they were merely
trying to pronounce "The scenery is truly rural" in choice Arabic, and
who accounted for the black eye contracted by collision with the kerb by
a highly-coloured narrative of an engagement in mid-air with an emissary
of Sheitan. Neither did I accord any pleased attention to anecdotes of a
"lella," or Arab lady, who tempted the Scorpions to charge ten times its
value for everything she bought by telling them to send them to a
personage whose title was exalted. Gib is a very small place, and, like
most diminutive communities, is a veritable school for scandal. I took
my last walk over the Rock, past the "Esmeralda Confectionery," which
still had up the notice that hot-cross buns were to be had from seven to
ten a.m. on Good Friday, and paced to the light-house on the nose of the
promontory, where the meteor flag, ringed by a bracelet of cannon, flies
in the breeze. And then I meandered back, and began to ask myself, had
Marryat aught to do with the sponsorship of this outpost of the British
Empire? Shingle Point, Blackstrap Bay, the Devil's Tower, O'Hara's
Folly, Bayside Barrier, and Jumper's Bastion--the names were all
redolent of the Portsmouth Hard; and I almost anticipated a familiar
hail at every moment from the open door of "The Nut," and an inquiry as
to what cheer from the fog-Babylon.
The trip to Malaga on one of the Hall steamers which trade regularly
between London and that port, calling at Cadiz and Gibraltar, was very
agreeable, and the change to such dietary as liver and bacon was a
treat. We were but three passengers--a steeple-chasing sub of the 71st,
Senor Heredia, of Malaga, and myself. And now I have to make an open
confession. I am unable to decipher the log of that passage. I have a
distinct recollection of the liver and bacon, but more important events
have worn away from my mind. There are the traces of pencil-marks before
me; I dare say they were full of meaning when I scrawled them down, but
now I have lost the key. "Jolly captain--left his wife--forty
years--electric light deceives on a low beach--fourteen children--El
Cano--break in the head of wine-casks": there is a literal copy of the
contents of a page, which may mean nothing or anything, frivolity or a
thesaurus of serious information. Memory, what a treacherous jade thou
art! It may be said, why did I not take copious notes in short-hand? I
would have done so were I a stenographer; but I am not. I tried to
acquire the accomplishment once, and ignobly failed. I could write
short-hand slightly quicker than long-hand, but when written, I could
not transcribe my jottings.
Flanking a beautiful coast, mostly hill-fringed--with hills, too, of
such metallic richness that lead and iron were positively to be quarried
out of their bosoms--we steamed into the harbour of Malaga, and landed
at the Custom-House quay. But there were no Customs' officers to trouble
us with inquiry. A red-bearded, flat-capped, dirty fellow in bare feet,
holding a bayoneted rifle with a jaunty clumsiness, accosted Senor
Heredia with a laughing voice. He was a sentinel of the provisional
government established in Malaga. The nature of that government may be
judged from his frank avowal: "We've no police--no anything." There were
French and German war-vessels at anchor, which was some guarantee of
protection for strangers. A novel tricolour of red, white, and a
washed-out purple had replaced the national flag. The Federal Republic
existed there, and yet the city was quiet; and official bulletins were
extant, recommending the citizens to preserve order. But this quietude
was not to be relied on over-much. One of the magnificoes under the new
_regime_ was a dancing-house keeper, and his principal claim to
administrative ability lay in the ownership of a Phrygian cap. Another,
who styled himself President of the Republic of Alhaurin de la Torre, a
territory more limited than the kingdom of Kippen, had stabbed a lady at
a masked ball a few months previously, for a consideration of sixty-five
duros. Still, it would be unfair to infer from that example that every
Malagueno was a mercenary ruffian, Senor Heredia related to me an
anecdote of a poor man who had found a purse with value in it to the
amount of thirty thousand reals, and had given it up without mention of
recompense. But a city where the wine-shops had nine doors, and
potato-gin was dispensed at a peseta the bottle, and there were "no
police--no anything," was not a desirable residence; and, as I had no
call there, and weeks might elapse before another revolution might be
sprung, I gladly took train to the capital.
Madrid was tranquil, but with no more confidence in the duration of
tranquillity than when I left it. The army was still in a state akin to
disruption, with this difference--the rascals who had rifled the pockets
of the dead Ibarreta a few weeks before, would sell the bodies of their
slain officers now, if there was any resurrectionist near to make a bid.
Worse; I was given to understand that there were suspicions that the
gallant staff-colonel had been shot by his own men. The dismissed
gunners were still wearily beating the pavements, and a subscription
organized on their behalf among the officers of the other branches of
the service by the _Correo Militar_ was open. What were these gentlemen
to do? There was a rumour that they had been invited to enter the
French service, to which they would have been an undoubted acquisition,
bringing with them skill, scientific knowledge, and experience. But they
were Spaniards, not soldiers of fortune, and would decline to transfer
their allegiance, even if France were disposed to bid for it. Still, what
were they to do? In Spain as in Austria--
"Le militaire n'est pas riche,
Chacun salt ca."
But the _militaire_ must live. Othello's occupation being gone, the
artillery officers had no alternative but to do what Othello would have
done had he been a Spaniard--conspire.
The usual manoeuvring and manipulations were going on as preparation
for the election of the Constituent Cortes, and the extreme Republicans
were full of faith in their approaching triumph all along the line. They
were awaiting Senor Orense, but if he did not hasten it was thought
events so important would eclipse his arrival that, when he did come,
the Madrilenos would pay as small heed to him as the Parisians did to
Hugo when he surveyed the boulevards anew after years of exile. They
would honour him with a procession, and no more. The venerable
Republican, by the way, is a nobleman, Marquis of Albaida. But he is not
equal to the democratic pride of Mirabeau, marquis, who took a shop and
painted on the signboard, "_Mirabeau, marchand de draps._"
"If you are a true Republican, why don't you renounce your title?"
somebody asked once of Orense.
"If it were only myself was concerned I would willingly," responded the
Spaniard; "but I have a son!" Rousseau was a freethinker, but Rousseau
had his daughters baptized all the same.
Meanwhile the Carlists were making headway. The Vascongadas, Navarre,
and Logrono, with the exception of the larger towns and isolated
fortified posts, were now in their power. Antonio Dorregaray, who was in
supreme command, was reported to have 3,200 men regularly organized,
well clad, and equipped with Remingtons. The Remington had been selected
so that the Royalists might be able to use the ammunition they reckoned
upon helping themselves with from the pouches of the Nationalists. In
addition to this force of 3,200, which might be regarded as the regular
army of Carlism, there were formidable guerrilla bands scattered over
the provinces. Our old acquaintance, Santa Cruz, had 900 followers in
Guipuzcoa. The other cabecillas in that region were Francisco, Macazaga,
Garmendia, Iturbe, and Culetrina, all men with local popularity and
intimate knowledge of the mountains. In Biscay, the commander was
Valesco, and his lieutenants were Belaustegui, del Campo, and the
Marquis de Valdespina, son of the chieftain who raised the standard of
revolution at Vitoria in 1833. Their factions were estimated at 2,500.
After Dorregaray, the most dangerous opponent to the Government troops
was Ollo, an old ex-army officer, who was licking the volunteers into
shape; and after Santa Cruz, the most noted and dreaded chief of
irregulars was Rada, who was also operating in "the kingdom," as their
province is proudly called by the daring Navarrese. The elements in
which the Royalists were wanting were cavalry and artillery; but they
had some money, foreign friends were active, the French frontier was not
too strictly watched nor the Cantabrian coast inaccessible, and Don
Carlos--Pretender or King, as the reader chooses to call him--was biding
his time in a villa not a hundred miles from Bayonne. When the hour was
considered favourable, he was ready to cross the border and take the
field, or rather the hills; and his presence, it was calculated, would
be worth a _corps d'armee_ in the fillip it would give to the enthusiasm
of his adherents.
And yet the "only court" held its tertulias, and the donas talked
millinery, and bald politicians sighed for a snug post in the
Philippines, and the gambling-tables and the bull-ring retained their
spell upon the community. It was the old story: Rome was on the verge of
ruin, and the senate of Tiberius discussed a new sauce for turbot.
As I saw no immediate prospect of the outburst of those important
events, which were cloud-gathering over Madrid, and nearly all my
colleagues had departed, I resolved to pursue my journey to London. I
had _carte blanche_ to return when I deemed there was no further scope
for my pen; but there was an obstacle in the way. Miranda was the
terminus of the rail to the north; the track thence to the Bidassoa had
been closed by order of the lieutenants of his Majesty _in nubibus_,
King Charles VII. In other words, 179 kilometres of the main iron line,
the great artery of communication with France, were held by the
insurgents. Obstacles are made to be met, and, if steadily met, to be
overcome. Surely, I reasoned, there must be some intercourse carried on
in these districts. I passed through territory occupied by Carlists
before. Why not again? Besides, I had nothing to fear from the Carlists,
the tramp carols in the presence of the footpad (which, I submit, is a
neat paraphrase of a classic saw); and if I did chance to meet them,
there would be that dear touch of romance for which the lady-reader has
been looking out so long in vain.
I started. The journey to Miranda I pass by. One is not qualified to
write an essay on a country from inspection through the windows of a
railway-carriage in motion, more particularly at night. As well attempt
to describe a veiled panorama, unrolling itself at a hand-gallop. At
Miranda, which was crowded with soldiers, there was a diligence that
plied to San Sebastian by tacit arrangement with the knights of the
road--that is, the adherents of Don Carlos. As the fares were very
expensive, I suspect the speculator who ran the coach was heavily taxed
for the privilege, and recouped himself by shifting the imposition to
the shoulders of passengers. The day was fine, the roads were good, the
vehicle was well-horsed, and we got away from the boundary of republican
civilization at a rattling pace. My fellow-voyagers were mostly French,
some of them of the gentle sex, and chattered like pies until they fell
asleep. I believe it is admitted by those who know me best that I can do
my own share of sleep. On the slightest provocation--yea, on what might
be condemned as no reasonable provocation--I can drop my head upon my
breast and go off into oblivion. Nor am I particular where I sit or if I
sit at all. Any ordinary person can fall asleep on a sofa or at a
sermon, but it requires a practitioner with an inborn faculty for the
art to achieve the triumphs of somnolence which stand to my credit. I
have taken a nap on horseback; I have marched for miles, a musket on my
shoulder, in complete slumberous unconsciousness; I have nodded while
Phelps was acting, snoozed while Mario was singing, and played the
marmot while Remenyi was fiddling; awful confession, I have dozed
through an important debate in the House of Commons! I am yawning at
present. It is to be hoped the reader is not. And so I burned daylight
the while we drove through a country reputed to be pregnant with
surprises of scenery until, at long last, the diligence drew up in the
straggling street of Tolosa. We halted here for dinner, and resumed our
journey with a fresh team at an enlivening speed, until about two miles
outside the town we came to an abrupt stop.
"An accident, driver?"
"No, senor, but the Carlists."
Some of my fellow-passengers turned pale, the ladies did not know
whether to scream or consult their smelling-bottles; and before they
could decide, a tall, slight, gentlemanly-looking man of some
four-and-twenty years, with a sword by his side, a revolver in his belt,
an opera-glass slung across his shoulder, and a silver tassel depending
from a scarlet boina, the cap of the country, appeared at the hinder
door of the diligence, bowed, and asked for our papers. He glanced at
them much as a railway-guard would at a set of tickets, inquired if we
were carrying any arms or contraband despatches, and being answered in
the negative, gave us a polite "Go you with God," and motioned to the
driver that he might pass on. As we galloped off, all eyes were turned
in the direction of the stranger; he leisurely walked over a field
towards a hill, two peasants equipped with rifles and side-arms
following at his heels. They were young and strong, and wore no nearer
approach to uniform than their officer.
"This is abominable," cried a French commercial traveller (so I took him
to be), as soon as we had got out of hearing of the trio. "The notion of
these three miscreants stopping a whole coachful of travellers in broad
daylight is atrocious!"
"They did not detain us long," said I.
"They did us no harm," said another.
"And that officer, I am sure, was very polite, and looked quite a
D'Artagnan--so chivalrous and handsome," added one of the ladies.
"They are no better than bandits," said the commercial traveller.
"Driver, why did you not resist?"
For reply, the driver pointed with his whip to a wall, under the lee of
which a party of at least fifty armed men, portion of the main body from
which the outpost of three had been detached, were smoking, chatting, or
sleeping. The commercial traveller relapsed into silence. We met with no
further adventure in our ride to the frontier, but experienced much
fatigue.