night, were being hauled, pulled, jerked, pushed, and dumped along
the deck, over the side, and into the lighter that was to take them
ashore, as they went raising their voices in shrill protest. As the
Boy remarked, quoting Uncle Remus, "These pigs know whar dey come
from, but dey don' know whar they gwine!"
As the _Monte Toro_ steamed slowly round the low cliffs that seemed
to descend sheer into deep water, so little sign of broken beach or
of outlying reef was there, we could see how through the ages the
restless sea had nibbled and gnawed at the edges of the cliffs,
which in many places were deeply honeycombed, and even hollowed into
caves.
There were no first-class passengers. The accommodation reserved for
them just over the screw was vacant. Third-class included an
interesting quartette of stubby Spanish soldiers, and one slim naval
stoker, whose flexible movements and sportive bonhomie were in
striking contrast to the stolid immobility of his companions.
Possibly the stoker felt more at home on shipboard. Certainly he had
all the life of the party; for while the others muffled their heads
in shawls, and squatted on their carefully spread cotton
pocket-handkerchiefs, he was never still, helping an overburdened
young mother by shouldering her small boy and taking him round to
visit the pet donkey, making friends with the ship's dog, or playing
good-humoured tricks upon the others.
The sky was flecked with white clouds--the first we had seen for
many days--and the houses scattered over the flat and almost
treeless table-land were all white--gleamingly white, after the old
russet towns of Pollensa and Alcudia. Here and there we could see
one of the great beehive-like heaps of stones that the sailors have
christened "watch-towers." Though Majorca was only twenty miles
distant, we already felt in a new world.
There was something oddly familiar in the nip of the air. And while
we breakfasted on a satisfying "home" meal of omelet, ham, hot
buttered toast, and coffee, we recalled what we had heard of the
lingering effects of British rule in Minorca, and felt inclined to
give it the credit of the breakfast, even though the ham was served
raw, and decanters of wine and jars of wooden toothpicks jostled our
coffee-cups.
When we again went on deck there were signs that the short voyage
was approaching its end. The bearded mate of the _Monte Toro_, who
had made the trip in a red nightcap, had, with a toothpick behind
his ear, appeared in a uniform cap, though he retained his velveteen
coat. And the most stolid-looking of the soldiers, producing a comb
and a tube of pomade, proceeded to make quite an elaborate toilet on
deck. Still seated on his outspread handkerchief, he combed and
recombed his hair, and greased it with extreme thoroughness; though
it must be admitted that when it came to washing he contented
himself with a cursory dipping of his hands in the water-bucket. His
face he left to Nature.
The pride of Port Mahon is its three-mile-long harbour. As we
steamed up its length the trim fortifications recalled certain of
our own naval and military stations, notably Portsmouth. But never
did Portsmouth show such a glory of scarlet-blossomed aloes as
burned on the face of these fortified rocks.
Our first impression of Mahon was one of unexpected brilliance.
Until we were well up the harbour the town was invisible. Then, as
it came in sight with its dazzlingly white red-roofed buildings
perched high on the crest of the brown serrated rock, the unexpected
picturesque beauty of the scene filled us with surprise and delight.
Already the military influence that is so noticeable a feature of
Mahon coloured the scene. Boats manned by soldiers were rowing to
and from the forts on the opposite shore. Soldiers were standing on
the quay as we stepped down the gangway--for, happily, there is no
need to land by small boats in a harbour of such accommodating
depth. And as we followed the porter bearing our luggage up the
rough twisted slope of the Calle Vieja--that old street whose
haphazard construction is so different from the carefully planned
new ones--we passed a group of officers going down. Throughout our
stay in Mahon I do not believe we ever glanced up or down a street
that was not enlivened by the glamour of a uniform.
There isn't a river or even a stream on the entire island, yet, in
spite of the apparently limited supply of fresh water, the whole
effect of the town, with its green shutters, red-tiled roofs, its
pavements and carefully whitened houses, is that of extreme
cleanliness. To judge by results, the pail of whitewash must be
almost an equal factor in a Minorcan housewife's daily task with a
broom or a duster. During our few days in Mahon we became quite
accustomed to seeing women touching up the street fronts of their
dwellings with a whitewash brush.
Minorca is said to be rarely visited by tourists, consequently it
offers but small choice of hotels. The one we had been recommended
to try--the Fonda Central--was a favourite stopping-place with
commercial travellers. There could be no doubt of that. Their
iron-clamped chests of samples lumbered the passages and stairway.
Their sprightly presence filled the large principal table in the
dining-room.
At a hotel that is popular with these gentlemen of the road the
cooking is said to be certain to be good. At the Fonda Central it
could scarcely have been excelled. The proprietor, a reverend-looking
senor, superintended it in person. And his efforts on their behalf
were heartily appreciated by his guests, the summons to a meal at the
Fonda Central invariably falling on eagerly expectant ears.
"_Arroz_ to-day?" I overheard one guest inquire as he entered the
dining-room for luncheon. And having received an affirmative reply,
he sat down, adjusted his napkin, grasped his spoon, and awaited
its appearance with an expression of anticipatory satisfaction.
The rooms were scrupulously clean, the table service brisk and
punctual. Yet the house was hardly one that could be recommended to
ladies. Owing to the popularity of the hotel, all the available
space had been turned into sleeping accommodation; there was no
sitting-room proper. One of our bedrooms that faced the street and
had two good writing-tables made us partly independent, and we had a
side table to ourselves at meals, but I was the only woman in a
company that numbered over two dozen.
The beds were comfortable, but there were no bells in the rooms.
When our chamber-man wanted to attract our attention, he did it by
clapping his hands loudly in the corridor outside our doors. And
when we wanted anything the Boy went downstairs and demanded it.
Going out to explore the town, we could not help noticing certain of
the lingering effects of the British occupations which came to an
end early in the last century. The windows almost invariably had the
regulation English window sashes, and many of them showed white lace
curtains or little muslin window blinds; and the front doors opened
into passages, not into either _patios_ or sitting-rooms, as in
Majorca.
The British craving for sweets seemed to have proved infectious. At
the hotel luncheon we had been agreeably surprised by the appearance
of a sweet course, and the shop windows revealed a tempting array of
bon-bons and of jams and pickles, commodities in which Majorca is
sadly deficient. And one grocer had quite a number of tins of Crosse
& Blackwell's Scotch oatmeal. Tobacco pipes, which are seldom seen
in Majorca, were both in use and displayed for sale.
Wandering up and down in the short January afternoon we came upon
many odd nooks and steep streets that had a picturesque character
all their own. From the top of the quaint Calle de San Roque we got
an extensive view inland, with Monte Toro, some eleven hundred
feet, the higher of the two Minorcan hills, in the distance.
[Illustration: Calle San Roque, Mahon]
Down by the curve of the bay we found the Alameda, a charming little
Italian-garden-like promenade, where on summer evenings Mahon society
assembles. It must be pleasant and shady there under the trees by the
cool water. Even in winter it was attractive, with its close-cropped
low hedges and great clumps of the vivid scarlet-blossomed aloes.
Just beyond the Alameda is a great cistern, from which is drawn much
of the water for supplying the town. And from that point mules toil
patiently up the rock-sided slopes, laden with barrels of water for
the solace of thirsty folks.
Next morning, while breakfasting, we arranged our plans for the day.
The Man was bent upon going at once to sketch the town as we had
first seen it from the harbour. The Boy and I agreed to ramble about
during the morning; and after luncheon we all arranged to go in
search of some of the famous stone monuments, respecting whose
origin nobody appears to have been able to arrive at any
satisfactory conclusion.
But before breakfast was ended the sky had become darkly overcast.
We reached our rooms to find hail tapping with ice-tipped fingers at
the window panes, to see lightning flashing, and to hear the rattle
of thunder.
Our plans perforce being modified, we waited indoors until the storm
had abated a little, then sought the _Ateneo Cientifico Literario y
Artistico_, of whose existence the landlord had told us. The town,
which has many cultured inhabitants, boasts three Athenaeums. Two are
for the use of the general public. The third, which we visited, is
said to be the centre of literary and artistic Mahon, and is
something of the nature of a club.
The Museum is open to the townsfolk only on stated days. This did
not happen to be one of those days. It was to the fact that we were
foreigners that we owed our instant admission. And while the storm
raged without, we enjoyed a private view of the many interesting
things in the _Ateneo_, notably the old ware and natural history
specimens.
A very fine private collection of marine flora is housed in the
Museum, but it is shown only when specially inquired for, and we
were unfortunate in calling at a time when the custodian of the keys
chanced to be absent.
Among the pictures and drawings was a merciless but irresistibly
amusing caricature of what had presumably been the English Governor
of the date, riding upon a donkey. The nice young lad who was
showing us round blushed a little when he saw us examine it. Though
he did not say so, we felt that he would have liked to apologize to
us for its intrusion in the show; but our withers were unwrung.
The members of the _Ateneo_ were delightfully cosmopolitan in their
interests. Besides the current Spanish papers the snug reading-room
showed a comprehensive array of contemporary literature, from the
_Graphic_, the _Studio_, _Review of Reviews_, and _Harper's Weekly_,
to French, German, Belgian, Italian, and South American journals.
When we left the _Ateneo_ the hail had ceased; and though the wind
was still high, the Man hurried off to see what he could make of his
subject, while the Boy and I strolled into the vegetable market.
The big open enclosure in the middle was empty. Round the covered
sides women were sitting beside their little heaps of fruit and
vegetables. After the prolonged drought from which the island was
suffering, it was perhaps only natural that the supply of fresh
vegetables should be limited. But with the recollection still vivid
in our memory of the mountains of green cabbages that we had seen at
Pollensa market, the stock appeared especially meagre.
The cactus, a shrub whose existence is almost independent of
moisture, flourishes on the dry rocky soil, and the specimens of its
fruit that, prepared in some way, were served at dinner on the
previous night, seemed larger and much finer than any we had seen in
Majorca. But even at its finest the prickly pear is hardly a thing
to pine for.
One thing that struck us as a particularly charming survival of
English tastes was the discovery of cut flowers--chiefly little
clusters of roses--for sale on several of the stalls. And one woman
offered us sturdy pansy roots for planting. Up to this period of our
stay in Palma I had never seen either cut flowers or flower-plants
offered for sale in the market, though, indeed, we saw them later.
The wind had been steadily increasing. It would have been decidedly
more comfortable to pass the afternoon indoors, but we were
determined to seek some of the countless prehistoric remains with
which Minorca is lavishly sprinkled. And after an unavoidable delay
we started. The delay, be it explained, was caused by waiting for
the cleaning of the Boy's boots. The service in the Fonda Central
had certain limitations. It did not brush boots. The night before,
the Boy had put his outside his bedroom door, and had taken them in
in the morning untouched. Before lunch he sent them downstairs with
special instructions that he wanted them cleaned at once. But when
luncheon was over and we were ready to go out there was no sign of
the boots.
Inquiries brought plausible promises of their return in ten
minutes--in five minutes--at once. But still they failed to put in
an appearance. At length a peremptory demand for their return clean
or dirty sent Pedro flying down the street, to hasten back
triumphantly bearing the cleaned boots. They had been sent to a
shoemaker's to be brushed!
From the deck of the steamer as we rounded the coast we had caught
many passing glimpses of the great stone heaps called _talayots_,
and imagining that they would be easily found, we rashly set off,
without either guide or direction, in search of them.
After walking a little way along the San Luis road, which we had
taken partly by chance, and partly, I think, because there the wind
would be at our backs, we saw in the distance a large _talayot_, and
rejoiced at having so quickly come within easy reach of what we were
looking for. Our rejoicing was premature, for when we sought a path
that would lead us there we failed utterly to find it. On either
side of the long straight road were high walls a yard thick,
enclosing small stony fields. Beyond these were walls, and yet again
walls. It was our first near view of Minorcan country, and the
impression was one of stones, stones, and yet more stones--stones
absolutely without limit.
The attitude of the few olive-trees within sight showed the
prevalence of the north wind. They bent away from that direction,
their foliage twisted awry, looking exactly like people cowering
before a blast that has blown their cloaks over their heads.
The gale was waxing stronger. _Our_ cloaks were blown over our
heads, but still we struggled on. A peasant boy, on being
interrogated, directed us to proceed farther, then take a road to
the left. Hopefully following his instructions, we "gaed and we
gaed," like the classic Henny-penny, until we ultimately found
ourselves entangled in a maze of these same thick walls of stone.
And a maddeningly ingenious maze it proved. For as we wound about,
the _talayot_ appeared to dodge us, sometimes popping up before us,
sometimes lurking behind; often seeming comparatively near, more
often looming at a wholly unexpected distance away, and always
encircled by these impenetrable gateless walls of stone.
Finally, leaving me on the lee-side of a wall--it wasn't really the
lee-side: in such a wind there is no lee side; but they thought it
was the lee-side--the men departed, determined to scale the
offending obstacles and to get there somehow. After a time the Boy
returned to free me from the brambles round which the tempest had
twisted my veil and chiffon scarf, holding me prisoner; and to
report that, after some climbing, the Man and he had succeeded in
reaching the _talayot_, and that they thought if I didn't mind some
rough scrambling I _might_ manage to get there.
So ten minutes later, breathless, wind-tossed and earth-stained,
with torn gloves and scratched boots, I too reached the goal of our
desires, to find it nothing but an immense heap of stones, with no
trace of opening or any apparent reason for existence.
The Man, who, in spite of the decided opposition offered by the
elements, had succeeded in scaling the top of the _talayot_,
declared it to be merely a greatly magnified cairn, and there and
then announced his adoption of Dr. Guillemand's theory that the
primary reason for the origin of these much-disputed heaps was
simply the need for clearing the fields of stones. I must confess
that to me the really interesting thing regarding these vast
memorials of a vanished race is the fact that, while everybody is
free to conjecture, no one, not even the wisest, can boast the
smallest knowledge of their meaning.
Just behind the _talayot_, separated from it by certain thick walls,
stands another relic of prehistoric times in the shape of a _taula_,
or table stone--one huge slab placed horizontally on the top of a
massive upright stone. And while the Man held on to something with
one hand and tried to sketch with the other, I sheltered from the
blast on the farther side.
It was curious to see flowers blooming even in these conditions.
Amongst the loose stones at the base of the _taula_ the periwinkle
was in bloom. On the patch of stone-littered soil we had crossed we
noticed some small lilac daisies, their heads bent close to the
ground. And all about the broad tops of the maze of stone dykes
clambered the curious and beautiful clematis-like creeper that
delights to luxuriate in the most arid position it can secure, and
is said to pine away and die when transplanted to a garden.
The sole incident of our return journey was the sudden appearance of
a cap, which, floating high in air, advanced towards us round a
corner towards which we were battling.
[Illustration: Mahon, Minorca]
XVII
STORM-BOUND
The Man had declared his fixed intention of taking ship for Palma
that night, no matter what weather conditions should prevail. So it
was with unfeigned relief I learned at breakfast that, owing to the
violence of the tempest, the mail steamer we expected to travel in
had been unable to leave Barcelona.
The wind still continuing high, there was some doubt as to how long
we would be held prisoners. But even if the steamer direct to Palma
was not able to run, we might return by the shorter sea route by
which we had come, landing at the Port of Alcudia, and, after a
night passed at our comfortable _fonda_ there, taking diligence and
train back to Palma.
A return trip in the steady little _Monte Toro_ would have been a
pleasure, but when we made inquiry at the shipping-office in the
harbour we learned that the _Monte Toro_ had already been laid aside
for cleaning and that the _Vicente Sanz_ had been deputed to take up
her running.
The young clerk of the shipping company, who was muffled over the
ears by the upturned collar of his astrakhan-trimmed top-coat and had
his cap's chin-string in active service, shook a dubious head over
the prospect of the _Isla de Menorca_ being able to cross from
Spain, not only on that night but for many nights to come. The
prevalent wind, according to him, often raged for considerable
periods. Once for two months, he solemnly declared, no mails had
been able to reach Minorca.
We devoutly hoped he lied. Still, in case a grain of truth might
lurk at the bottom of his gloomy prognostications, we decided to
have a look at the cabin accommodation of the _Vicente Sanz_, which
was lying a few yards away.
The black and grimy _Vicente Sanz_ looked what she was--a cargo-boat
that had been hastily adapted to the passenger service. One glance
at her build was enough to convince even a tyro that as a roller she
would be unequalled. Right aft over the screw a few cramped
four-berth cabins formed the first-class accommodation, while the
sailors' bunks in the forecastle head had been fitted up as
second-class.
We fled the _Vicente Sanz_, convinced that only dire necessity would
compel us to voyage in her.
The few people we encountered in the streets were huddled in cloaks
and shawls, and the custom of muffling the lower part of the face
gave the women something of an Eastern appearance. Perhaps it was
due to the chilling effect of the weather, but to us foreigners the
Minorcans appeared to lack the gracious charm of the Majorcans.
Though we saw plenty of pretty faces, the girls of Mahon did not
appear so universally attractive as those of Palma. The conditions
of life are harder, the climate more severe, and the hard water used
may have a bad effect on the complexions. There was no distinctive
native dress either, and we missed it.
The blood of many nations mingles in Minorcan veins--Vandal,
Carthaginian, Moorish, Spanish, British and French. Port Mahon was
originally called after Mago, the youngest son of Hamilcar, brother
of Hannibal. The passage of time is responsible for the corruption
of _Portus Magonis_ into Port Mahon.
The island, which is about the size of the Isle of Wight, has known
many rulers. For several hundred years the Romans held it. About the
ninth century it lapsed into the hands of the Moors, who possessed
it until in the thirteenth century King Jaime, the Conquistador of
Majorca, demanded and received its capitulation. Two hundred years
later, Barbarossa, the pirate chief, having entered the harbour by
stratagem, besieged Mahon and captured it. Early in the eighteenth
century the British took Minorca and held it for fifty years, until
Admiral Byng allowed the French to capture it--a "misconduct" for
which, after eight months of close arrest, he was shot.
To her social and commercial advantage Minorca was restored to
Britain at the peace of 1763, only to be seized by France and Spain
while Britain was engrossed by the American War. Watching the
opportunity, Britain retaliated at the time of the French Revolution
by retaking Minorca, which remained hers until, by the conditions of
the peace of Amiens, the island was ceded to Spain.
"Well," said the Man, as a fierce gust blew us into the portal of
the Fonda Central, "when I saw this place I felt grieved that the
British had ever given it up to Spain, but I must confess that at
this moment I'd gladly hand it over to any nation that would take a
gift of it!"
In the afternoon the wind, though still turbulent, had moderated a
little. We let it blow us out to San Luis, along a fine level and
absolutely straight road that in summer, when the trees are in leaf,
must be charming.
San Luis has all the outward semblance of a French village. Even the
church looked French, and was light and airy, in striking contrast
to the sombre church interiors of Majorca. The streets of the
village were broad, and the roads leading to it were planted on
either side with trees.
The whole atmosphere was so reminiscent of Northern France that it
was no surprise on entering the general shop to be greeted in French
by the young man in charge. He, as he confessed, had secretly been
studying the language for some months, and he was evidently spoiling
to try his new acquirement upon foreigners of any nationality. The
French, which he spoke very fairly, but which speedily lapsed into
Spanish, naturally recalled our first impression of the place, and
we remarked upon it.
A bright small boy, who with his father was in the shop, explained
matters. San Luis _was_ a French village, he said. It was named
after the French king and had been built during the French
occupation of the island. The site had been laid out and the church
designed by French architects.
For the moment we had forgotten that the French flag had flown over
Minorca, but the boy's words brought back something we had read of
the fete Madame de Pompadour gave at the Hermitage of Compiegne,
where the Court happened to be when the news arrived of the taking
of Port Mahon. A royal fete, when fountains flowed wine, and ribbons
and sword-knots _a la Mahon_ were distributed to the guests.
While buying sweets in the shop, we noticed a glass jar of the black
sticks of Spanish liquorice beloved of our childhood. And on a shelf
was a row of genuine English cottage-loaves.