"Where Lusitania and her sister meet,
Deem ye what bounds the rival realms divide?
Or ere the jealous queens of nations greet,
Doth Tayo interpose his mighty tide?
Or dark Sierras rise in craggy pride?
Or fence of art, like China's vasty wall?
No barrier wall, no river deep and wide,
No horrid crags, nor mountains dark and tall,
Rise like the rocks that part Hispania's land from Gaul.
But these between, a silver streamlet glides,
And scarce a name distinguisheth the brook;
Though rival kingdoms press its verdant sides,
Here leans the idle shepherd on his crook,
And vacant on the rippling waves doth look,
That peaceful still 'twixt bitterest foemen flow,
For proud each peasant as the noblest duke;
Well doth the Spanish hind the difference know
'Twixt him and Lusian slave, the lowest of the low."
_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage_.
The next morning early a numerous party issued from the eastern gate
of Elvas. The descending road led them between groves of olives, whose
sad colored foliage was relieved by the bright hues of the almond
tree, clothed with pink blossoms, the scarlet flowering pomegranate,
the dark, rich green of the orange-tree, already spangled over with
small white blossoms, yet still laden with its golden fruit, and the
prune trees of Elvas, favorites through the world, leafless as yet,
but conspicuous by the clouds of white flowerets which covered them.
The roofs of the suburban quintas showed themselves here and there
above the orchards, and by the roadside the _iris alata_ bloomed on
every bank.
The air is balmy, the scene lovely, and all nature smiling with the
sweet promises of Spring. Is this the goddess Flora leading down a
joyous train to the fields below? It is only Lady Mabel cantering
somewhat recklessly down hill. When she reached the more level ground,
she so far out-rode the ladies of her party, who were mounted on
mules, that, tired of loitering for them to come up, she proposed to
L'Isle, who had kept by her side, to employ their leisure in ascending
the bare hill on their left, to examine the old tower, that stood
solitary and conspicuous on its top. From the clearness of the
atmosphere it seemed nearer than it was, and the broken ground
compelled them to make a circuit before they reached it. Hence they
looked down upon their friends, crawling at a snail's pace along the
road to Badajoz. They rode round the weather-beaten, ruinous tower. It
was square, with only one small entrance, many feet above the ground,
and leading into a small room amidst the thick walls.
"What could this have been built for?" Lady Mabel asked.
"It is one of those watch-towers called _atalaias_," answered
L'Isle. "Many of them are scattered along the heights on the border.
They are memorials of an age in which one of people's chief
occupations was watching against the approach of their neighbors."
"Stirring times, those," said Lady Mabel. "People could not then
complain that their vigilance was lulled to sleep by too great
security; but this is, perhaps, a more comfortable age."
"To us in our island home," said L'Isle. "The improvement is more
doubtful here. There was a time when your forefathers and mine thus
kept watch against each other; when our own border hills were crowned
with similar watch-towers; but never did any country continue so long
a debatable land, and need, for so many centuries, the watch-tower and
the signal fire on its hills, as this peninsula during the slow
process of its redemption from the crescent to the cross."
"From this point," said Lady Mabel, "Elvas and Badajoz look like two
giant champions facing each other, in arms, each, for the defence of
his own border, yet one does not see here any of those great natural
barriers that should divide nations."
"They are wanting, not only here," said L'Isle, "but on other parts of
the frontier. The great rivers, the Duoro, the Tagus and the Guadiana,
and the mountain chains separating their valleys, instead of dividing
the two kingdoms, run into Portugal from Spain. The division of these
countries is not natural, but accidental; and in spite of some points
of contrast, the Portuguese are almost as much like the Spaniards, as
these last are like each other--for Spain is in truth a variety of
countries, the Spaniards a variety of nations."
"At length, however," said she, "Spain and Portugal are united in one
cause."
"Yet the Portuguese still hates the Spaniards," said L'Isle, "and the
Spaniard contemns the Portuguese."
"And we despise both," said Lady Mabel.
"Perhaps unjustly," said he.
"Why, to look no further into their short-comings and back-slidings,
to use Moodie's terms, have they not signally failed in the first duty
of a nation, defending itself?"
"Remember the combination of fatalities that beset them," said L'Isle,
"and the atrocious perfidy that aggravated their misfortunes. Both
countries were left suddenly without rulers, distracted by a score of
contending _juntas_, to resist a great nation, under a government of
matchless energy, the most perfectly organized for the attainment of
its object, which is not the good of its subjects, but solely the
developement, to the uttermost, of its military power. They at once
sunk before it, showing us how completely the vices of governments,
and yet more, the sudden absence of all government, can paralyze a
nation. But they have since somewhat redeemed their reputation, by
many an example of heroism."
"Why did not the nation, as one man, imitate the heroes of Zaragoza
and Gerona, and wage, like them, war to the knife's point against the
infidel and murderous horde of invaders?" exclaimed Lady Mabel, with a
flushed cheek and flashing eye, that would have become Augustina
Zaragoza herself.
"Because every man is not a hero, nor in a position to play a hero's
part. Spain was betrayed and surprised. The invaders came in the guise
of friends, under the faith of treaties, by which the flower of the
Spanish army had been marched into remote parts of Europe as allies to
the French; nor was the mask thrown off until long after it was
useless to wear it."
"Did the world ever before witness such complicated perfidy?"
"Perhaps not. But I trust it is about to witness its failure and
punishment."
"_We_ and the Czar will have to administer it," said Lady Mabel, with
the air of an arbitress of nations. "We cannot look for much help from
our besotted allies here."
"It must be confessed," said L'Isle, "that an unhappy fatality in
council and in action, has beset the Portuguese and Spaniards,
throughout the war. They have too often shown their patriotism by
murdering their generals, underrating their enemies and slighting
their friends. They have, too, attained the very acme of blundering;
doing the wrong thing at the wrong time, and choosing the wrong man to
do it."
"Say no more," exclaimed Lady Mabel. "If that be the verdict you find
against our allies, I will not accuse you of blindness to their
faults. They are unworthy of the lovely and romantic land they live
in," she added, gazing on the scene before her. "What beautiful
mountain is that which trenches so close upon the border, as if it
would join itself to the Serra de Portalegre?"
"It is the mountain of Albuquerque, so called from a town at its
foot."
"That was the title of the Spanish duke, who died lately in London,"
Lady Mabel remarked.
"And in one sense the most unfortunate Spaniard of our day," added
L'Isle. "Of the highest rank among subjects, uniting in his person
names famous in Spanish history; he was brave and patriotic, and
though still young, one of the few Spanish leaders whose enterprize
did not lead to disaster. But the Supreme Junta, in its jealousy would
never entrust him with any but subordinate commands, subjecting him to
the orders of Castanos Cuesta, and other inefficient leaders whose
blunders his good conduct often covered. When, at length Andalusia was
lost by the folly and cowardice of others, he only had his wits about
him, and by a speedy march saved Cadiz. The rabid democrats of the
city repaid him with ingratitude and insults, which drove him into
exile; and, denied the privilege of falling in defence of his country,
he died broken-hearted in a foreign land."
"Are these people worth fighting for?" exclaimed Lady Mabel,
indignantly, reining back her horse, as if about to abandon her
Spanish allies to their own folly.
"Perhaps not," said L'Isle, "if we were not also fighting for
ourselves. Spain is a convenient field on which to drub the
French. But it is time to follow our party."
They now left the hill and getting back into the road, galloped after
their friends, but did not overtake them until they had reached the
little river Cayo, which here divides Portugal from Spain. The ladies,
on their mules, were grouped together in doubt and hesitation on this
bank, while several of the gentlemen were riding about in the water,
searching for holes in the bed of the stream, which was swollen and
turbid from the late rains.
"You hesitate too long to pass the Rubicon," said Lady Mabel, "just
let me tuck up the skirt of my riding dress, from the muddy waters,
and I will lead you over into Spain."
She was soon on the other bank, and her companions followed her. The
road now led them across a sandy plain, which, treeless and desolate,
contrasted strikingly with the fertility and cultivation around Elvas.
Looking at the fortress they were approaching, L'Isle remarked: "From
the times of Saguntum, Numantia, and Astapa, Spain has been noted for
cities that perished utterly rather than yield in submission to their
foes--Zaragoza, Gerona, and other places have in our day maintained
the old national fame. But Badajoz," he added, shaking his finger at
the towers before him, "is not one of them. It cannot be denied that
in this struggle the Spaniards have proved themselves a nation. 'Every
Spaniard remembers that his country was once great, and is familiar
with the names of its heroes; speaks with enthusiasm of the Cid, of
Ferdinand Cortes, and a host of others.' When the hour of trial come,
'the nation instinctively felt,' to use the language of one of their
own _juntas_, that 'there is a kind of peace more fatal than the field
of battle drenched with blood, and strewed with the bodies of the
slain.' The patriotic fire may have flamed the higher for the holy oil
of superstition poured upon it, but it was kindled by noble pride and
generous shame and indignation, by the remembrance of what their
fathers had been, and the thought of what their children were to be.'"
"In spite of the blunders, disasters, and treachery that have been
rife in the land," said Lady Mabel, "more than one name has been added
to the list of its heroes--Palafox and the Maid of Zaragoza have won
immortal fame."
"And others less famous have deserved as well," said L'Isle. "Before
Augustina, this second Joan of Arc, had stepped out of her sex, to
display her heroism, she and others, behind the same shattered,
crumbling wall, had been showing an equal heroism within their sex's
sphere. Women of all ranks were zealous in the patriotic cause. They
formed themselves into companies, some to assist the wounded, some to
carry water, wine and food to those who defended the gates. The
Countess Burita raised a corps for this service. She was young,
delicate and beautiful. In the midst of the most tremendous fire of
shot and shells, she was seen coolly attending to those occupations,
which were now become her duty; nor through the whole of a two month's
siege did the imminent danger, to which she incessantly exposed
herself, produce the slightest apparent effect upon her; her step
never faltered, her eye never quailed. What a partial thing is fame,"
he continued, "and how poor a motive to duty! The names of Palafox and
Zaragoza are forever wedded. How few remember the old plebeian, _Tio
Jorge_, who counseled and spurred on both governor and populace to
their heroic defence!"
"When we remember all that the Spaniards have undergone in this war,"
said Lady Mabel, "we cannot but think that their atrocities in the new
world have been visited on them at home."
"How far we must answer for the sins of our forefathers," said L'Isle,
"is a nice question. We have some scriptural authority for asserting
that responsibility; and as there is no hereafter for nations, they
must be punished in this world, or not at all. I would be sorry to
bear my share of the penalty of all that immaculate England has
done. But I do not fear the fate of Spain for England:
'That royal throne of kings, that sceptred isle,
That earth of majesty, that seat of Mars,
That other Eden, demi-paradise;
That fortress, built by nature for herself,
Against infection, and the hand of war;
That happy breed of men, that little world;
That precious stone set in the silver sea,
Which serves it in the office of a wall,
Or as a moat defensive to a house,
Against the envy of less happier lands.'
England against the world!" he exclaimed breaking off his quotation,
in his enthusiasm, and laying his hand on his sword.
"You are certainly a patriot," said Lady Mabel, "if any amount of
national prejudice can make patriotism. But yours is very like the
cockney's, who despised all the world, beyond the sound of Bow bells.
As to the fortress isle. (_Let me warn you to keep it well garrisoned
against surprise_.) I believe there is an obscure little corner of it
called Scotland, which both you and the poet have forgotten."
"I merely used _England_ in a figure of speech," said L'Isle, "putting
a part for the whole."
"I will not tolerate your figure of speech, as disparaging to old
Scotland," she said. "But for us Scots--"
"Us Scots!" L'Isle exclaimed. "Why, it was but yesterday you told me
how much you had angered Moodie by calling yourself an English woman."
"What of that? I would have you know that I have two sides to my
natural character. I claim the right to present my Scotch or English
side at will, and then you cannot see the other."
Fort San Christoval, on this side of the Guadiana, rose higher and
higher before them. Gazing on Badajoz and its castle on the other side
of the river, L'Isle thought of the failures before it, and of the
price in blood at which it had been bought at last. "We are not always
successful in our sieges--at times undertaking them rashly, without
the means of carrying them on. The sabre, and bayonet, unaided, take
few walled towns. They need the help of Cranfield's art, and he cannot
work without his tools."
"But we always beat the French in the field," said Lady Mabel.
"Always," said L'Isle. "There has been no instance of a real British
army being beaten by a French one."
"None of late years," said Lady Mabel. "To find a victory over us they
have to go as far back in the last century as Fontenoy."
"That is not a fair instance," said L'Isle eagerly. "We lost that
battle chiefly through the backwardness of our Dutch allies; and
Marshal Saxe, who was no Frenchman, but a German, beat us chiefly by
aid of the valor of the Irish regiments in the French pay."
"That alters the case," said Lady Mabel; "but were we not beaten some
years before that, at Almansa, here in Spain?"
"That instance is still more unfair," exclaimed L'Isle. "Our
Peninsular allies ran away, while we fought their battle. Still,
though the enemy were two to our one, the result might have been
different. But the French had an English general, the Duke of Berwick,
to win the battle for them, and we had a French commander, DeRuvigny,
whom Dutch William had made Earl of Galway, to lose it for us."
"Then, after all," exclaimed Lady Mabel, "the Englishman won the
field."
"Yes, to our cost," said L'Isle, bitterly. "What made it more
provoking was, that we had at that very time the man to mate him;"
and, standing up on his stirrups, he raised his clenched hand above
his head, exclaiming: "O, for one hour of Peterborough to grapple with
his countryman and redeem the day!"
"What is the matter with Colonel L'Isle?" asked Mrs. Shortridge, who
was riding close behind with Cranfield.
"He is only leaping back to the beginning of the last century,"
answered Lady Mabel, "to reverse the issue of the battle of Almansa."
"Why, has not the colonel fighting enough before him," said Cranfield,
laughing, "that he must go back so far for more?"
"Let us be content with what we have," said L'Isle joining in the
laugh. "It is useless to dwell on old disasters but by way of shunning
new ones. It has been our constant luck to go into battle shoulder to
shoulder with allies who, except when in our pay, seldom stand by us
to the end of the day."
The river was now at hand. Turning to the right before reaching San
Christoval, they entered the _tete du pont_, and soon found themselves
on a noble granite bridge of many arches. The voices of many singers
drew their eyes to the banks of the river, where they saw all the
washerwomen of the city, collected in pursuit of their calling, and
lightening their labors with song, the burden of which, "Guadiana,
Guadiana," fell often on the ear, while the sun-beams bleached the
linen spread out on the banks of the stream, and tanned the faces of
the industrious choir chanting its praise.
"This, then, is the Guadiana!" said Lady Mabel, peeping over the
parapet. "I feel bound to admire its broad face, but miss the swift
current and pellucid waters of the poetasters, to whose bounties the
river god owes much of his fame."
"While you and our party loiter here, searching out the beauties of
the Guadiana," said L'Isle, "I will ride on and secure our peaceful
reception at the gate. A Spanish sentinel is often asleep, and apt to
prove his vigilance by firing on whoever wakes him up."
Presently following L'Isle, who luckily found the sentinel awake, they
reached the southern end of the bridge, and passing between two
beautiful round towers of white marble, now tinted straw-color with
age, they entered the northern gate of the city, and soon sought
hospitality at the _Posada de los Caballeros_.
Putting up their horses here, they left the servants to see that a
dinner was got ready; this meal, at a Spanish inn, depending less on
what you find there than on what you bring with you. Three Spanish
officers were lounging at the posada, one of whom immediately claimed
Cranfield's acquaintance, and introduced his companions. Cranfield did
not seem delighted to meet with him, nevertheless he presented them to
the whole party with studied politeness. Captain Don Alonzo Melendez,
with a handsome person, a swaggering air, and a costume more foppish
than military, looked more like a _majo_ of Seville than a soldier and
a gentleman. His companions had much the advantage of him there, but
he beat them hollow in assurance. Learning that curiosity alone had
brought them to Badajoz, he at once took the post of guide. Finding
that Lady Mabel knew enough of Spanish to make a good listener, he
placed himself by her side. Cranfield escorted her on the other, and
thus they walked forth. L'Isle, thrust into the background,
accompanied Mrs. Shortridge and the rest of the party.
As they drew near the works, many marks of injury and devastation on
the adjacent houses, brought the late siege prominently to their
minds. Don Alonzo Melendez at once began to discourse grandiloquently
on the subject. His narrative was so copious and inaccurate, that
Cranfield soon lost all patience, and found it hard to keep from
interrupting and contradicting him. Lady Mabel, detecting this,
encouraged the Spaniard to the uttermost by displaying rapt attention,
and full faith in his glowing narrative.
"I never before heard," said she to Cranfield, "so graphic an account
of the siege and storming of Badajoz."
"If our friend here talks about it much longer," said Cranfield, in
English, "he will forget that we had any thing to do with it. The
siege was, however, in one sense, the work of the Spaniards. If the
traitor Imaz had not sold it to Soult for a mule load of gold, we
would not have had to buy it back at the cost of so many thousands of
lives. Nor were any of them Spanish lives," he added bitterly; "though
some were Portuguese--for the only Spaniards at the siege were the
renegades who aided Philippon and his Frenchman to keep us out."
"Every Spaniard is not traitor or coward," said L'Isle from
behind. "If the brave Governor Menacho had not been killed in
defending the place, his successor Imaz could not have sold it a few
days after to the French."
As they strolled along the ramparts, Don Alonso, with a strange
forgetfulness of events within the year, lauded the impregnable
strength of the works, as if Badajoz were still a virgin fortress.
Cranfield, by way of rebuking him, pointed out to Lady Mabel the
restorations he had made of the breached walls. She replied that "the
patchwork character of his repairs were but too evident, as he had
invariably omitted to use materials of the same color with the
original works."
As they rambled through the city, Don Alonso failed not to point out
the superior size and style of the buildings over those of Elvas, and
Lady Mabel remarked that "in cleanliness, too, it far surpassed its
neighbor." Leading them to the cathedral, their guide compelled them
to inspect minutely this heavy and cumberous building, while he
eulogized it in terms that might have been suitable to St. Peter's, at
Rome. "I am sorry," said he, "you cannot see it in all its splendor;
but the gorgeous furniture of the altar and the rich ornaments of the
shrines are not now exhibited."
"Why not?" asked Lady Mabel.
"In these troubled, sacrilegious times, the clergy think it best not
to display the wealth of the church."
"They would find it difficult to display any thing but tinsel," said
Cranfield. "It is two years since the golden crucifix, the silver
candlestick, and the saintly jewelry, mounted on horseback and
traveled into France."
"But the saints," said L'Isle, "knowing that the air of France would
not agree with them, wisely staid behind."
As they were coming out of the cathedral, Mrs. Shortridge asked L'Isle
the meaning of the words on a tablet near them: "_Oy se sacca
animas_."
"They give us notice," said L'Isle, "that to-day souls are released
from Purgatory. But surely the notice is incomplete, not specifying
whose souls they are. Their friends may go on spending money in masses
for them after they are in Paradise."
"That would be throwing away their cash," said Mrs. Shortridge. "I
have known good folks in London exercise their charity by releasing
small debtors from prison. But their bounty bears little fruit,
compared with that of the Papist, who, by opening his purse, rescues
sinful souls from purgatory. But our works, as our faith, fall far
short of theirs."
"And the Spaniards are foremost among the faithful," said L'Isle.
"They are greedy of belief, even beyond what the church commands. Thus
the mysterious origin of the Holy Virgin, which once convulsed the
Spanish church, is here no longer a disputed point. It is the first
article of their creed, as proved by their commonest term of
salutation. On entering a Spaniard's house, you must begin with the
words, '_Ave Maria Purissima_,' to which will be answered, '_Sin
pecado concebida_.' Smithfield fires could not burn this dogma out of
them, and they would become schismatics if the rest of Popedom were
not treading on their heels. Yet to me this doctrine seems to sap the
great Christian truth, that Christ is 'God made man,' for it pushes
his human origin one generation further back. Did Scripture tell the
name of the mother of the blessed Virgin, the next age might discover
that she too was '_sin pecado concebida_.'"
"Since I have been in this land," said Mrs. Shortridge, "I have seen
scarcely a street, or even a house, which is without an image or
picture of the blessed Virgin, and the images are often crowned with
flowers."
"She is the goddess of these southern nations," L'Isle answered; "and
styled the Mother of God. Moreover, every pious Spaniard regards the
Virgin in the light of his friend, his confidante, his mistress, whose
whole attention is directed to himself, and who is perpetually
watching over his happiness. With the name of Mary ever on his lips he
follows his business, his pleasures, and his sins. It is in the name,
too, of Mary," L'Isle continued, with an arch smile, "that the ladies
write billetdoux, send their portraits, and entertain their gallants."
"Stop," said Mrs. Shortridge; "you are libeling our sex, and your love
of satire makes you as bitter against Popery as old Moodie himself."
"It is, at least, no scandal to say that, under her patronage, small
sins are easily absolved here, on the performance of certain duties of
atonement."
"What are the duties of atonement?"
"Ave Marias, fasts, and alms. The alms go to the begging friars, or
else to buy masses for the souls in purgatory."
Walking up the sloping street that leads to the castle, they found
this Moorish edifice in a shattered condition, a few towers only
standing whole amidst the ruins. From one of these, looking northward
across the river which ran three hundred feet below them, they saw the
strong fort of San Christoval towering above them, while they, in
turn, overlooked the city, and beyond its walls, the plain to the
south, not long since covered with vineyards, and olive groves, and
the picturesque villas of the richer citizens of Badajoz--now its bare
surface was furrowed with trenches, ridged with field works, and
spotted with ruins. The devastating blast of war had left it the
picture of desolation.
Lady Mabel, turning to ask L'Isle a question, saw him gazing gloomily
down into the deep but dry fosse below them.
"What fixes your attention on that spot," she asked.
"Do you see where the earth shows, by its color differing from the
adjacent soil, that it has been turned up not long since? Thousands
of Britons, Portuguese, and French are buried there. They met but to
contend, yet now lie peaceably together. I have more than one friend
among them."
Mrs. Shortridge put her hand before her eyes, and Lady Mabel turned
pale as she gazed earnestly below. "Come," she said, at length, "we
have seen enough of bloody Badajoz. There are some feelings that may
well kill the idle curiosity that led us hither."
Descending into the town, they walked into the great square, their
party attracting much attention from several groups of citizens and of
soldiers of the garrison. Captain Don Alonso Melendez stopped them
here to point out various objects of interest, being evidently anxious
to display himself as the patron and intimate of these distinguished
strangers. He brought forward and presented to them two or three more
of his brother officers whom he here met.
While he was thus engaged with others of the party, Lady Mabel found
leisure to remark to Cranfield: "Short as is the distance from Elvas
to Badajoz, I fancy I can perceive, without listening to the language
around me, that I am among a new people."
"You may well be struck with the language," said Cranfield, "while
listening to our patronizing friend here. But you must not take his
discourse for a fair sample of Spanish style or facts."
"Of course not," said Lady Mabel. "Eloquence and intelligence like his
are rare everywhere."
"I trust they are," said Cranfield, with a sneer. "But there is
already an obvious difference observable here in the people, which
becomes more marked as you proceed toward Castile. The Spaniard is
taller and yet leaner than the Portuguese. He has a more expressive
countenance, a striking sedateness of carriage, and a settled gravity
of manner, especially when silent, which makes him seem wiser than he
is. With much elegance of form, his meagre person shows that he is the
denizen of a dry climate, which, every Spaniard will tell you, gives a
peculiar compactness of structure to all its products: the wheat of
Spain makes more bread, its beef and mutton are more nourishing, its
wines have more body, and the men more enduring vigor than those of
other countries. Certain it is that Spanish troops have often proved
great marchers; yet of all nations they have the slenderest legs, and
indeed they never use their own when they can substitute those of
horse, mule, or _burro_."
"The heat of the climate discourages exercise on foot," said Lady
Mabel.
"Or labor of any kind," said Cranfield. "The universal cloak
sufficiently proves that they are not a working people."
"And imperfectly conceals that they are a ragged one," said she. "Had
I old Moodie at my elbow, he would remind me that 'drowsiness shall
clothe a man in rags.'"
Observing Cranfield gazing round the square with much interest, she
said: "You must be quite familiar with this place."
"I shall never forget the occasion on which I saw it first," he
answered. "I was one of two engineers attached on the assault to
General Walker's brigade. While Picton was scaling the castle walls,
and crowds of our brave fellows were dying in the breaches, we
succeeded in forcing our way into the place over the bastion of San
Vincente. Hard work we had of it, and the fight did not end there; for
the enemy stubbornly disputed bastion after bastion on our flank, and
our commander fell on the ramparts covered with so many wounds that
his living seemed a miracle. The detachment I was with pushed forward
into the town. The streets were empty, but brilliantly illuminated,
and no person was to be seen; yet a low buzz and whisper was heard
around; lattices were now and then opened, and from time to time shots
were fired from underneath the doors by the Spaniards--"
"The French, you mean," said Lady Mabel.
"No; the Spaniards," persisted Cranfield. "And perhaps our talking
friend there was one of them."
"Don Alonso is an Andalusian and a patriot," said Lady Mabel; "and I
will not have him so traduced."
"Be it so," replied Cranfield. "It is lucky for your patriot that he
was not here. However, the troops, with bugles sounding, advanced up
yonder street into this square, and we captured several mules going
with ammunition to the trenches. But the square was empty and silent
as the streets, and the houses as bright with lamps; a terrible
enchantment seemed to be in operation; for we saw nothing but light,
and heard nothing but the low whispers around us, while the tumult at
the breach was like the crashing thunder. There, though the place was
already carried on two sides, by Picton's column and ours, the
murderous conflict still raged; we still heard the shots, and shouts,
and infernal uproar, while hundreds and hundreds fell and died after
fierce assault and desperate resistance were alike vain. We pushed on
that way to take the garrison in reserve, but our weak battalion was
repulsed by their reserve, and some time elapsed before the French
found out that Badajoz had changed hands."
"But it was ours!" exclaimed Lady Mabel, "though too dearly bought."
"The carnage was dreadful," said Cranfield; "and when the full extent
of that night's havoc became known to Lord Wellington, the firmness of
his nature gave way for a moment, and the pride of conquest yielded to
a passionate burst of grief at the loss of his gallant soldiers.--Then
came the _voe victis_," continued Cranfield. "We do not like to dwell
on the wild and desperate wickedness which Badajoz witnessed on
becoming ours. By the by, just where we stand stood the gallows."
"The gallows!" Lady Mabel exclaimed, stepping back from the polluted
spot. "You could not hang the French. Did you hang the Spaniards who
had fired on you."
"No; but Lord Wellington was compelled to hang some of his own heroes
for making too free with what was theirs by right of conquest."
The young surgeon, who had been listening to Cranfield, now thought it
time to lay some of his coloring on this picture of the siege,
storming and sack of this unhappy city. He told some curious and
thrilling incidents, but his profession getting the mastery of him, he
soon got to the hospital, and, amidst ghastly wounds, horrid
disfigurations, and dismembered limbs, began to bandage, slash, and
saw, until Lady Mabel sickened at the tale. "Pray stop there; you make
me shudder at your hospital scenes, which, in their endless variety of
suffering are too like the Popish pictures of souls in Purgatory. I
prefer going to dine at the posada, to stopping here to sup full of
horrors."
They now returned to the posada and had their Spanish friends to dine
with them--Lady Mabel seating Don Alonso beside her, and losing not a
word of his grandiloquence. After the meal the party dispersed--most
of them taking a siesta in order to get rid of two or three hot hours
of the afternoon before they set out on their way back to Elvas. Their
Spanish friends however, returned and persuaded them to postpone their
ride until they had taken an evening promenade on the bridge, the
favorite resort of the ladies of Badajoz and their cavaliers during
the hot weather. Here they enjoy an extended prospect, and the cooling
breezes that attend the current of a great river.
They found here many of the first people of Badajoz and many of the
Spanish officers and their fair friends. Leaning against the parapet
of the bridge, Lady Mabel forgot the idlers walking by, while she
gazed on the scenery around, or watched the gliding stream below, and
listened to L'Isle speaking of the Guadiana; of its mysterious
disappearance near its source, its course betrayed only by the rich
pastures overlying the subterranean streams, of its return to daylight
in the lakes called its eyes: _Ojos de la Guadiana_; and following it
to Portugal, to the _Salto de Lobo_, so called because a wolf might
leap across the deep but narrow chasm between the overhanging rocks,
he named the noted places on its banks, and quoted many a ballad of
which it was the theme. Presently, finding themselves almost alone
they followed their companions, to the bridge head, and joined the
large company assembled in this outwork. The Spanish officers had
provided music for their entertainment, and oranges and confectionary
were handed about. Of the latter, the Spanish and Portuguese ladies,
according to national habit, eat a great quantity. After a pause the
musicians struck up a lively seguidilla, the gentlemen secured
partners, Lady Mabel declining a dozen applications, and with
difficulty ridding herself of Don Alonso, who could not understand how
a lady who delighted so much in his conversation could refuse to dance
with him.
The level space within this outwork was now crowded with couples, the
Portuguese ladies entering fully into the spirit of the hour. Mrs.
Shortridge and Lady Mabel stood aside, with L'Isle, and had the
pleasure of witnessing a genuine _impromptu_ Spanish ball in the open
air. They were at once struck with the sudden gayety and activity of a
people habitually so grave and inert. But as one dance followed
another, the vivacity of the party increased. Many of the officers and
some of their fair friends were from Andalusia, where music and the
castinets are never heard in vain. Presently the tune was changed, and
the excited dancers slid over into the fandango and volero, danced out
to the life in so demonstrative, voluptuous and seducing a style, that
Mrs. Shortridge declared such exhibitions abominable, and that they
should be prohibited by law; while Lady Mabel shrinkingly looked on in
bewildered astonishment. She had herself danced many a time, though
not as often as she wished; but such dancing she had never dreamed of
before.
At this moment the sun set, and the bells of the churches and convents
across the water gave the signal for repeating the evening prayer to
the Virgin. In an instant the gay crowd was arrested as if by
magic. The music ceased; the dancers stood still; the women veiled
their faces with their fans; the men took off their hats; and all
breathed out or seemed to breathe a prayer to the protecting power who
had brought them to the close of another day--all but the English
officers, who, mingled with the devout dancers, stood looking like
profane fools caught without a prayer for the occasion. After a short
solemn pause, the men put on their hats, the women uncovered their
faces, the music again struck up, and the throng glided off into
gayety and revelry as before.
"I would not have lost this for any thing," Lady Mabel exclaimed; "It
is so sudden and extraordinary a transition from the wild abandonment
of revelry to absorbing devotion and back again to the revels. Without
seeing it, I could not have imagined it. I have before witnessed and,
at times, been impressed with this solemn call to the evening prayer,
misdirected though it be. But here the effect is utterly ridiculous,
to say the least."
"This may give you an insight into the Spanish character on more than
one point," said L'Isle. "As to their love of dancing, and of the
fandango in particular, it is said, though I do not vouch for it, that
the Church of Rome, scandalized that a country so renowned for the
purity of its faith, had not long ago proscribed so profane a dance,
resolved to pronounce the solemn condemnation of it. A consistory
assembled; the prosecution of the fandango was begun according to
rule, and a sentence was about to be thundered against it. But there
was a wise Spanish prelate present who knew his countrymen, and
dreaded a schism, should they be driven to choose between the fandango
and the faith. He stepped forward and objected to the criminal's being
condemned without being heard.
"The observation had weight with the assembly. He was allowed to
produce before them a _majo_ and a _maja_ of Seville, who, to the
sound of voluptuous music, displayed all the seductive graces of the
dance. The severity of the judges was not proof against the
exhibition. Their austere countenances began to relax; they rose from
their seats; their legs and arms soon found their former suppleness;
the consistory-hall was changed into a dancing-room, and the fandango
acquitted."
Both ladies laughed heartily at this story, and L'Isle went on to say;
"In spite of the exhibition before us, these people, in their serious
hours, retain all the gravity and ceremonious stateliness in language
and manner of their forefathers, in the time of Charles the Fifth and
his glooming son, when the Spaniard was the admiration and dread of
Europe.
"I have been told," said Lady Mabel, "that you may, at this day, find
many a Spaniard who might sit for the portrait of Alva himself."
"Yes," answered L'Isle, "It has been well said that the Spaniard of
the sixteenth century has vanished, but his mask remains."
Twilight was now failing them, and the party from Elvas hastened back
to the posada. The horses had been brought out, and some of the ladies
were already mounted, when Don Alonso Melendez came hastily up, having
followed them to take a ceremonious leave. His parting words with his
new friends, and especially his compliments to Lady Mabel, who did not
allow herself to remain in his debt, delayed them some time. As they
rode off, he waved his hat, and called out: "_Con todo el mondo
guerra, y paz con Inglaterra!_"
"We taught them that proverb long ago," said Cranfield, "by taking
their galleons laden with plate from the New World."
"The Spaniard has a treasury of wisdom locked up in his proverbs,"
said L'Isle. "What a pity it is he will not take some of it out to
meet the current demands on him."
They soon again crossed the bridge, and entered the _tete du
point_--but the dancers had vanished; their music was hushed; nor was
its place supplied by the song of the morning. The chorus of
"Guadiana--Guadiana," no longer arose from its banks. All was still,
dark and desolate before them.
Meanwhile, Lord Strathern, though not given to over caution, was
seized, as night drew on, with a sudden nervousness, at _Ma Belle_'s
taking a night ride across the borders of two such unsettled
countries, infested with patriotic guerilleros, who sometimes mistook
friends for foes. He entertained--in fact, cultivated--an unfavorable
opinion of his neighbors, the Spanish garrison of Badajoz. He laid at
their door every outrage perpetrated in the country around.--The party
from Elvas would afford a rich booty in purses, watches, and jewelry;
and he thought it quite possible that after some of their allies had
entertained them in Badajoz, with ostentatious hospitality, others
might waylay, rob and murder them before, or soon after they crossed
the frontier. So, he hastily ordered Major Conway to send out a patrol
of dragoons to meet them; and the Major sent off Lieut. Goring in a
hurry on this service.
Now, Goring had passed the day chafing with indignation at hearing of
the pleasant party, which he had not been asked to join; and his anger
was not soothed by being despatched to meet it, at a late hour, when
all the pleasure was over. Galloping on in this mood, with a dozen and
more dragoons, behind him, he came to the Cayo, and after taking a
look at the dark current, was about to cross, when he heard the sound
of horses' feet, and the clattering of tongues drawing near on the
other side. In the spirit of mischief, he followed the impulse of the
moment. He ordered his men to form on the edge of the water, fronting
the ford, to unbuckle their cloaks, and throw them over their helmets,
and not to move or speak a word. The men took the joke instantly. The
crescent moon, already distanced by the sun, was sinking below the
horizon; the bank of the river threw its shade over them, and they
stood below, a dark, undistinguishable mass.
Presently the party came straggling up, Dona Carlotta and her cavalier
leading them, and feeling their way down to the water.
"This cannot be the ford," said he; "the bank looks too steep on the
other side."
"What is that black object across the water?" asked Cranfield, from
behind. "Can the river have risen and the bank caved in?"
"It has too regular an outline for that," said L'Isle, who had now
come up, and was trying to peer through the darkness. "Do you not hear
the stamping of a horse across the water?"
"And a clattering sound?" said Cranfield, as a dragoon's sword struck
against a neighboring stirrup.
"Lady Mabel," said L'Isle, eagerly, (she had pressed close up beside
him,) "Pray ride back a little way, and take the ladies with you."
"I will, but what is the matter?"
"The road seems to be occupied. But go at once, and take them with
you."
"I wish it were daylight!" said she, trying to laugh off her
trepidation. "Adventures by night are more than I bargained for. Come
ladies, follow me."
"Tom," said L'Isle to his groom, without turning his head, but gazing
steadily at the dark object across the water, "Follow Lady Mabel."
"Better send the Doctor, sir," said Tom, doggedly. "He has not sword
or pistol."
"Whoever they are," said L'Isle to Cranfield, "they have posted
themselves badly for surprise or attack. Let us form here on the slope
of the bank, and if they attempt to cross, fall on them as they come
out of the water."
Officers and servants fell into line--a badly armed troop, with
infantry swords, and some without pistols. Meanwhile, L'Isle sent
Hatton's down to the edge of the river to challenge the opposite
party.
Now, Hatton's knowledge of foreign tongues was pretty much limited to
those vituperative epithets which are first and oftenest heard in
every language. He rode down to the edge of the water, and proceeded
loudly to anathamatize his opponents in Portuguese, Spanish and French
successively. Having exhausted his foreign vocabulary, he hurled at
them some well shotted English phrases--but the heretics did not heed
the damnatory clauses, even in plain English. Not a word could he get
in reply from them. L'Isle literally and figuratively in the dark,
grew impatient, and announced his intention to commence a pistol
practice on them that would draw out some demonstration. He rode down
to the water's edge, and was leveling a long pistol at the middle of
the dark mass, when some epithet of Hatton's more stinging than any he
had yet invented, proved too much for Goring's gravity. He began to
laugh, and the contagion seized every dragoon of the party. The mask
of hostility fell off, and they were instantly recognized as friends,
to the great relief of those on the other bank.
Provoked as they were at this practical joke, their position had been
too ridiculous not to be amusing. After a hearty laugh, they hastened
to bring back the ladies, who were not found close at hand, for Dona
Carlotta and her friends had been posting back to Badajoz, and Lady
Mabel had only succeeded in stopping them by the assurance that the
road was doubtless beset, both before and behind them. When the two
parties, now united, had taken their way back to Elvas, Lieutenant
Goring found an opportunity of putting himself alongside of Lady
Mabel.
She reproached him with the boyish trick he had just perpetrated. It
might so easily have had fatal consequences. Goring, himself began to
think it not so witty as he had fancied it.
"It was very provoking, though," said he, "to be left out of your
pleasant party. I hope you will consider that, Lady Mabel, and forgive
me for the little alarm I have given you."
"Not to-night," said she. "My nerves are quite too much shaken. But
if I sleep well, and feel like myself again, I may possibly forgive
you to-morrow."