CONTRABAND
‘What rights are his that dares not strike for them?’
AN hour before sunrise two horses stood shuffling their feet and chewing
their bits before the hotel of the Marina at Algeciras, while their
owner, a short and thick-set man of an exaggeratedly villanous
appearance, attended to such straps and buckles as he suspected of latent
flaws. The horses were lean and loose of ear, with a melancholy
thoughtfulness of demeanour that seemed to suggest the deepest misgivings
as to the future. Their saddles and other accoutrements were frankly
theatrical, and would have been at once the delight of an artist and the
despair of a saddler. Fringes and tassels of bright-coloured worsted
depended from points where fringes and tassels were distinctly out of
place. Where the various straps should have been strong they looked
weak, and scarce a buckle could boast an innocence of knotted string.
The saddles were of wood, and calculated to inflict serious internal
injuries to the rider in case of a fall. They stood at least a foot
above the horse’s backbone, raised on a thick cushion upon the ribs of
the animal, and leaving a space in the middle for the secretion of
tobacco and other contraband merchandise.
‘I’ll take the smallest cut-throat of the crew,’ Conyngham had said on
the occasion of an informal parade of guides the previous evening. And
the host of the Fonda, in whose kitchen the function had taken place,
explained to Concepçion Vara that the English Excellency had selected him
on his—the host’s—assurance that Algeciras contained no other so honest.
‘Tell him,’ answered Concepçion with a cigarette between his lips and a
pardonable pride in his eyes, ‘that my grandfather was a smuggler and my
father was shot by the Guardia Civil near Algatocin.’
Concepçion, having repaired one girth and shaken his head dubiously over
another, lighted a fresh cigarette and gave a little shiver, for the
morning air was keen. He discreetly coughed. He had seen Conyngham
breakfasting by the light of a dim oil lamp of a shape and make unaltered
since the days of Nebuchadnezzar, and, without appearing impatient,
wished to convey to one gentleman the fact that another awaited him.
Before long Conyngham appeared, having paid an iniquitous bill with the
recklessness that is only thoroughly understood by the poor. He appeared
as usual to be at peace with all men, and returned his guide’s grave
salutation with an easy nod.
‘These the horses?’ he inquired.
Concepçion Vara spread out his hands. ‘They have no equal in Andalusia,’
he said.
‘Then I am sorry for Andalusia,’ answered Conyngham with a pleasant
laugh.
They mounted and rode away in the dim cool light of the morning. The sea
was of a deep blue, and rippled all over as in a picture. Gibraltar,
five miles away, loomed up like a grey cloud against the pink of sunrise.
The whole world wore a cleanly look as if the night had been passed over
its face like a sponge, wiping away all that was unsightly or evil. The
air was light and exhilarating, and scented by the breath of aromatic
weeds growing at the roadside.
Concepçion sang a song as he rode—a song almost as old as his
trade—declaring that he was a smuggler bold. And he looked it, every
inch. The road to Ronda lies through the cork woods of Ximena, leaving
St. Roque on the right hand—such at least was the path selected by
Conyngham’s guide; for there are many ways over the mountains, and none
of them to be recommended. Beguiling the journey with cigarette and
song, calling at every venta on the road, exchanging chaff with every
woman and a quick word with all men, Concepçion faithfully fulfilled his
contract, and, as the moon rose over the distant snow-clad peaks of the
Sierra Nevada, pointed forward to the lights of Gaucin, a mountain
village with an evil reputation.
The dawn of the next day saw the travellers in the saddle again, and the
road was worse than ever. A sharp ascent led them up from Gaucin to
regions where foliage grew scarcer at every step, and cultivation was
unknown. At one spot they turned to look back, and saw Gibraltar like a
tooth protruding from the sea. The straits had the appearance of a
river, and the high land behind Ceuta formed the farther bank of it.
‘There is Africa,’ said Concepçion gravely, and after a moment turned his
horse’s head uphill again. The people of these mountain regions were as
wild in appearance as their country. Once or twice the travellers passed
a shepherd herding sheep or goats on the mountain side, himself clad in
goatskin, with a great brown cloak floating from his shoulders—a living
picture of Ishmael or those sons of his who dwelt in the tents of Kedar.
A few muleteers drew aside to let the horses pass, and exchanged some
words in an undertone with Conyngham’s guide. Fine-looking brigands were
these, with an armoury of knives peeping from their bright-coloured
waistbands. The Andalusian peasant is for six days in the week
calculated to inspire awe by his clothing and general appearance. Of a
dark skin and hair, he usually submits his chin to the barber’s office
but once a week, and the timid traveller would do well to take the road
on Sundays only. Towards the end of the week, and notably on a Saturday,
every passer-by is an unshorn brigand capable of the darkest deeds of
villany, while twenty-four hours later the land will be found to be
peopled by as clean and honest and smart, and withal as handsome, a race
of men as any on earth.
Before long all habitations were left behind, and the horses climbed from
rock to rock like cats. There was no suggestion of pathway or landmark,
and Concepçion paused once or twice to take his bearings. It was about
two in the afternoon when, after descending the bed of a stream long
since dried up, Concepçion called a halt, and proposed to rest the horses
while he dined. As on the previous day, the guide’s manner was that of a
gentleman, conferring a high honour with becoming modesty when he sat
down beside Conyngham and untied his small sack of provisions. These
consisted of dried figs and bread, which he offered to his companion
before beginning to eat. Conyngham shared his own stock of food with his
guide, and subsequently smoked a cigarette which that gentleman offered
him. They were thus pleasantly engaged when a man appeared on the rocks
above them in a manner and with a haste that spoke but ill of his
honesty. The guide looked up knife in hand, and made answer to a gesture
of the arm with his own hand upraised.
‘Who is this?’ said Conyngham. ‘Some friend of yours? Tell him to keep
his distance, for I don’t care for his appearance.’
‘He is no friend of mine, Excellency. But the man is, I dare say, honest
enough. In these mountains it is only of the Guardia Civil that one must
beware. They have ever the finger on the trigger and shoot without
warning.’
‘Nevertheless,’ said the Englishman, now thoroughly on the alert, ‘let
him state his business at a respectable distance. Ah! he has a comrade
and two mules.’
And indeed a second man of equally unprepossessing exterior now appeared
from behind a great rock leading a couple of heavily laden mules.
Concepçion and the first traveller, who was now within a dozen yards,
were already exchanging words in a patois not unlike the Limousin
dialect, of which Conyngham understood nothing.
‘Stop where you are,’ shouted the Englishman in Spanish, ‘or else I shoot
you! If there is anything wrong, Señor Vara,’ he added to the guide, ‘I
shoot you first, understand that.’
‘He says,’ answered Concepçion with dignity, ‘that they are honest
traders on the road to Ronda, and would be glad of our company. His
Excellency is at liberty to shoot if he is so disposed.’
Conyngham laughed.
‘No,’ he answered, ‘I am not anxious to kill any man, but each must take
care of himself in these times.’
‘Not against an honest smuggler.’
‘Are these smugglers?’
‘They speak as such. I know them no more than does his Excellency.’
The second new-comer was now within hail, and began at once to speak in
Spanish. The tale he told was similar in every way to that translated by
Concepçion from the Limousin dialect.
‘Why should we not travel together to Ronda?’ he said, coming forward
with an easy air of confidence, which was of better effect than any
protestation of honesty. He had a quiet eye, and the demeanour of one
educated to loftier things than smuggling tobacco across the Sierra,
though indeed, he was no better clad than his companion. The two guides
instinctively took the road together, Concepçion leading his horse, for
the way was such that none could ride over it. Conyngham did the same,
and his companion led the mule by a rope, as is the custom in Andalusia.
The full glare of the day shone down on them, the bare rock giving back a
puff of heat that dried the throat. Conyngham was tired and not too
trustful of his companion, who, indeed, seemed to be fully occupied with
his own thoughts. They had thus progressed a full half-hour when a shout
from the rocks above caused them to halt suddenly. The white linen head
coverings of the Guardia Civil and the glint of the sun on their
accoutrements showed at a glance that this was not a summons to be
disregarded.
In an instant Concepçion’s companion was leaping from rock to rock with
an agility only to be acquired in the hot fear of death. A report rang
out and echoed among the hills. A bullet went ‘splat’ against a rock
near at hand, making a frayed blue mark upon the grey stone. The man
dodged from side to side in the panic-stricken irresponsibility of a
rabbit seeking covert where none exists. There was not so much as to
hide his head. Conyngham looked up towards the foe in time to see a puff
of white smoke thrown up against the steely sky. A second report, and
the fugitive seemed to trip over a stone. He recovered himself, stood
upright for a moment, gave a queer spluttering cough, and sat slowly down
against a boulder.
‘He is killed!’ said Concepçion, throwing down his cigarette. ‘Mother of
God! these Guardias Civiles!’
The two guards came clambering down the face of the rock. Concepçion
glanced at his late companion writhing in the sharpness of death.
‘Here or at Ronda, to-day, or to-morrow, what matters it?’ muttered the
quiet-eyed man at Conyngham’s side. The Englishman turned and looked at
him.
‘They will shoot me too, but not now.’
Concepçion sullenly awaited the arrival of the guards. These men ever
hunt in couples of a widely different age, for the law has found that an
old head and a young arm form the strongest combination. The elder of
the two had the face of an old grey wolf. He muttered some order to his
companion, and went towards the mule. He cut away the outer covering of
the burden suspended from the saddle, and nodded his head wisely. These
were boxes of cartridges to carry one thousand each. The grey old man
turned and looked at him who lay on the ground.
‘A la longa,’ he said with a grim smile. ‘In the long run, Antonio.’
The man gave a sickly grin and opened his mouth to speak, but his jaw
dropped instead, and he passed across that frontier which is watched by
no earthly sentinel.
‘This gentleman,’ said the quiet-eyed man, whose guide had thus paid for
his little mistake in refusing to halt at the word of command, ‘is a
stranger to me—an Englishman, I think.’
‘Yes,’ answered Conyngham.
The old soldier looked from one to the other.
‘That may be,’ he said, ‘but he sleeps in Ronda prison to-night.
To-morrow the Captain-General will see to it.’
‘I have a letter to the Captain-General,’ said Conyngham, who drew from
his pocket a packet of papers. Among these was the pink scented envelope
given to him by the man called Larralde at Algeciras. He had forgotten
its existence, and put it back in his pocket with a smile. Having found
that for which he sought, he gave it to the soldier, who read the address
in silence and returned the letter.
‘You I know,’ he said, turning to the man at Conyngham’s side, who merely
shrugged his shoulders. ‘And Concepçion Vara, we all know him.’
Concepçion had lighted a cigarette, and was murmuring a popular air with
the indifferent patience and the wandering eye of perfect innocence. The
old soldier turned and spoke in an undertone to his comrade, who went
towards the dead man and quietly covered his face with the folds of his
own faja or waistcloth. This he weighted at the corners with stones,
carrying out this simple office to the dead with a suggestive
indifference. To this day the Guardias Civiles have plenary power to
shoot whomsoever they think fit—flight and resistance being equally
fatal.
No more heeding the dead body of the man whom he had shot than he would
have heeded the carcase of a rat, the elder of the two soldiers now gave
the order to march, commanding Concepçion to lead the way.
‘It will not be worth your while to risk a bullet by running away,’ he
said. ‘This time it is probably a matter of a few pounds of tobacco
only.’
The evening had fallen ere the silent party caught sight of the town of
Ronda, perched, as the Moorish strongholds usually are, on a height.
Ronda, as history tells, was the last possession of the brave and gifted
Moslems in Spain. The people are half Moorish still, and from the barred
windows look out deep almond eyes and patient faces that have no European
feature. The narrow streets were empty as the travellers entered the
town, and the clatter of the mules slipping and stumbling on the cobble
stones brought but few to the doors of the low-built houses. To enter
Ronda from the south the traveller must traverse the Moorish town, which
is divided from the Spanish quarter by a cleft in the great rock that
renders the town impregnable to all attack. Having crossed the bridge
spanning the great gorge into which the sun never penetrates even at
midday, the party emerged into the broader streets of the more modern
town, and, turning to the right through a high gateway, found themselves
in a barrack yard of the Guardias Civiles.