Pelayo Proclaimed King by the Goths
To those who have not visited the north of Spain, the grandeur of the
dark chain of the Asturian mountains rising sheer out of the plains of
Leon and Lugo can hardly be imagined. The change is so abrupt, the
aspect so dark and threatening of frowning defiles, deeply scored
precipices, and pointed summits heavy with mist. Here winter lingers
into latest spring and the tardy summer soon retreats before the grey
and deathlike hue which clothes the rocks and narrows inch by inch with
the green mantle which sunshine brings.
This is the true Iberia, the cradle of the race, the title borne by the
eldest born of Spain, the stronghold which has held out last against all
conquerors. The Romans left their mark at Gijon; in the south the Moors
stamped the soil with their lineaments; in the east, Catalonia formed a
separate kingdom, with laws and customs; Navarre, with its ancient line
of kings, raised Alpine barriers. But the mountain crests are free, and
those deep cavernous recesses which cut the rocks resound only to the
shrill cry of the eagle or the bleat of the wild deer.
Full in the front of a stupendous face of rock, facing east, the mouth
of a deep cave opens; the narrow track which leads to it ends here,
Nature herself forbids further progress. Piles, avalanches rather, of
black boulders, the spittle and waste of mountains shaken by earthquakes
in bygone ages, have fallen from above, and, smoothed by time to dull
surfaces of greys and greens, guard its opening, shrouded by a feathery
veil of thorn, ivy, and wild trailing plants which love the shade.
From within the cave a transparent rivulet murmurs forth in a bed of
coloured pebbles to meet the sun and join its feeble ripple to the
louder sound of other waters flowing from the gorge above.
In front the grass spreads soft and verdant; cups of the early crocuses
peep out, lilac and white, and dark purple violets nestle under dry
leaves, filling the air with fragrance. A few scraggy beech-trees turn
their white trunks outwards, the roots deeply imbedded in the rocks, and
clumps of low firs and juniper follow the almost imperceptible track
which leads onwards to remoter glens.
* * * * *
Slowly mounting from below, a little band of Goths, clad in the homespun
jerkins which distinguish them at once from their gaudily attired
conquerors, ascend the path, stepping from rock to rock. The dry leaves
of winter rustle beneath their feet as they pass up under the gnarled
boughs of scraggy oaks.
Carefully the foremost ones plant their steps upon the stones, as they
bear upon a crossed frame the body of Onesinda, which the Christians of
Gijon secured in the confusion following her death and the arrival of
the herald summoning Kerim to Cordoba.
A dark pall covers her, and so slight and fragile is her form that the
outline of her figure scarcely raises the folds.
Behind appears the stalwart figure of Pelayo, wearing the Gothic cap of
steel and armed with the simple accoutrements of a Dacian warrior.
Not a tear moistens his eye. His face is set and white, marked by the
vicissitudes and hardships of his life; a countenance on which Nature
has set her seal as a leader of men--the sole remaining link of the
early Gothic kings.
Behind him follow three other chiefs, who have joined in an eternal
hatred to the Moor, Friula, Teudis, and Recesvinto.
A sorrowful procession, fitly set in the impenetrable wilds which
surround them, solemn as themselves, who want no spur to their resolve
to sell their blood dear in the cause of their country. But if they did,
surely the slight form they are bearing, so cruelly sacrificed to the
Moor, is enough to stir up their souls to never-ending vengeance.
[Illustration: THE ROMAN BRIDGE AT SALAMANCA.]
Silently the bearers rest the bier upon the green platform of grass
before the cave.
Then Pelayo advances to the front, and putting back with his hands the
thickly trailing thorns that impede the opening, the bier is placed
within under the shadows of an overlapping stone.
Not a word has been spoken, but many streams murmur as they go bubbling
in the sun, and the splash of the distant waterfalls answers, and the
sighing of the wind passes with hollow sound. Only the shrill cry of an
eagle catches the ear as it swoops upon its prey, unconscious of the
presence of man.
By a common instinct the Gothic chiefs gather before the cave, the lofty
figure of Pelayo towering above them all. These men represent a nation
conquered, fugitive, helpless, but still a nation which will never die,
but live to bring forth long lines of kings in succeeding centuries to
rule over two hemispheres.
They know it, these Gothic chiefs, the prophecy is in them--a solemn
faith in the justice of their cause, which tells them the hordes of
unbelievers shall not prevail.
And as they wait, by other paths, invisible to the eye but known to the
fugitives, emerge the dark forms of other brothers-in-arms, who now join
the group.
Every eye seeks Pelayo, by whose invincible courage, wisdom, and
endurance this small remnant has been saved. Every eye seeks his as he
stands aside leaning against a rock, insensible, as it seems, to all but
his own affliction.
Then Friula, nearest in kinship to the royal line, speaks:
“The time is come, brothers, that we must choose a chief. Long has the
noble Pelayo led us. He has now another vengeance to fulfil. The moment
is opportune. Onesinda is dead. The butcher Kerim has been summoned to
Cordoba. The garrison of Gijon lacks a defender. Let him lead us there
as king.”
“As king,” comes ringing from every side of the shrouded summits, which
catch the words and bear them from hollow, spanless depths to wild,
yawning gorges among the black cliffs, down which green waters pour from
the gloomy precincts of the cave where rest the remains of Onesinda.
“Let him be king!” sounds in many tones like a chant of freedom, intoned
by these Asturian wilds, which never had felt the foot of mortal foe.
As the voices die away amid a thousand echoes, Pelayo turns and raises
his steel helmet, showing the careworn lines of his deeply wrinkled face
lit up by no gleam of triumph. Ere he speaks he raises his hand, and
points to the deep shadow of the cave.
“We are in the presence of the dead. The shade of Onesinda yet lingers
in that body she died to save. Before her corpse, speak softly. Let the
dead rest in peace.”
“Then in her presence let us crown him!” cries Friula, taking up the
word. “For her sake let the vengeance of the Goths not tarry.”
“We are but as a handful against a nation,” says Recesvinto, “numberless
as the sands of the desert; but we will fight for Pelayo and for Spain.”
“For Pelayo and for Spain!” again thunders round. Even the tiny
streamlet which cleaves the grass they stand on seems to snatch the
words, and goes dancing downwards, bearing them to the world.
“My friends and brothers,” cries Pelayo, rousing himself from the cloud
of sorrow into which the death of his sister has plunged him, “I accept
your trust. We have been together in many a hard-fought day since the
rout of the Guadalete sent us to these wilds. It is no crown I crave,
even were it the glorious iron circlet which bound the brows of Alaric,
but to lead you in danger and in toil. For this I will be your king. God
willing, I will cut off the Moors to the depth of my hatred, root and
branch. They shall learn to curse the day when Pelayo was proclaimed. At
the cave of Cavadonga a new nation commences, which, with God’s help,
shall exceed the old. In the name of Onesinda we will triumph.”
A burst of joyful enthusiasm follows this address. He speaks with a
dignity and confidence which inspires his followers with the reckless
courage he feels within his breast.
The Gothic chiefs gather round him as the sheep round the faithful
shepherd when the howl of the wolf is borne upon the wind. No lack of
valour is visible upon their dark brows, and looks of deadly defiance
shoot from eye to eye as they hasten to bind the shields they carry
together, place Pelayo on them, and bear him three times round the face
of the cave of Cavadonga, the rest following with bare heads and naked
swords.
* * * * *
The Moslems of Gijon, when they heard that the fugitive Goths had
elected a king in the Asturian mountains, laughed with scorn. But he
soon made his presence felt by frequent incursions, causing great havoc
among the Moors.
At length he collected a sufficient force to meet them in a pitched
battle. The great victory of Caincas followed, and ere the eighteen
years were passed during which Pelayo ruled over the Goths, the garrison
of Gijon surrendered, and El Conde de Gijon was one of the titles he
bore upon his shield.
In the solitude of the Asturias the cave of Cavadonga is still to be
found; the very spot or _campo_ before it on which Pelayo was carried on
the shields of his followers, is somewhat vulgarised by a commemorative
obelisk erected by the Duc de Montpensier. The valley, a perfect
_cul-de-sac_, ascends abruptly to the site. Pelayo lies within the small
church of Saint Eulalia, near at hand at Abaima. A simple stone is
engraved with his name and a carved sword of Roman pattern.
It was he who dealt the first serious blow to the invaders. From that
time they grew cautious in their approaches to the north.
Again the Goths became a name in the old kingdom. At Oviedo, south of
Gijon, the new dynasty took root, concealed at first in the obscure
reigns of Friula, Orelio, Ramiro, and Ordoño, calling themselves Kings
of Galicia and Oviedo, up to Alonso the Second, surnamed “the Chaste,”
791, when Leon came to be both the court and capital of the kingdom of
the Goths.