Departure from Oviedo—Villa Viciosa—The Young Man of the Inn—Antonio’s
Tale—The General and his Family—Woful Tidings—To-morrow we die—San
Vicente—Santander—An Harangue—Flinter the Irishman.
So we left Oviedo and directed our course towards Santander. The man who
accompanied us as guide, and from whom I hired the pony on which I rode,
had been recommended to me by my friend the merchant of Oviedo. He
proved, however, a lazy, indolent fellow; he was generally loitering two
or three hundred yards in our rear, and instead of enlivening the way
with song and tale, like our late guide, Martin of Rivadeo, he scarcely
ever opened his lips, save to tell us not to go so fast, or that I should
burst his pony if I spurred him so. He was thievish withal, and though
he had engaged to make the journey _seco_, {82} that is, to defray the
charges of himself and beast, he contrived throughout to keep both at our
expense. When journeying in Spain, it is invariably the cheapest plan to
agree to maintain the guide and his horse or mule, for by so doing the
hire is diminished at least one-third, and the bills upon the road are
seldom increased; whereas, in the other case, he pockets the difference,
and yet goes shot free, and at the expense of the traveller, through the
connivance of the innkeepers, who have a kind of fellow-feeling with the
guides.
Late in the afternoon we reached Villa Viciosa, a small dirty town, at
the distance of eight leagues from Oviedo: it stands beside a creek which
communicates with the Bay of Biscay. It is sometimes called La Capital
de las Avellanas, or the Capital of the Filberts, from the immense
quantity of this fruit which is grown in the neighbourhood; and the
greatest part of which is exported to England. As we drew nigh we
overtook numerous carts laden with _avellanas_ proceeding in the
direction of the town. I was informed that several small English vessels
were lying in the harbour. Singular as it may seem, however,
notwithstanding we were in the Capital of the Avellanas, it was with the
utmost difficulty that I procured a scanty handful for my dessert, and of
these more than one-half were decayed. The people of the house informed
me that the nuts were intended for exportation, and that they never
dreamt either of partaking of them themselves or of offering them to
their guests.
At an early hour on the following day we reached Colunga, a beautiful
village on a rising ground, thickly planted with chestnut trees. It is
celebrated, at least in the Asturias, as being the birthplace of
Arguëlles, the father of the Spanish constitution.
As we dismounted at the door of the _posada_, where we intended to
refresh ourselves, a person who was leaning out of an upper window
uttered an exclamation and disappeared. We were yet at the door, when
the same individual came running forth and cast himself on the neck of
Antonio. He was a good-looking young man, apparently about
five-and-twenty, genteelly dressed, with a _montero_ cap on his head.
Antonio looked at him for a moment, and then with an “_Ah_, _Monsieur_,
_est ce bien vous_?” shook him affectionately by the hand. The stranger
then motioned him to follow him, and they forthwith proceeded to the room
above.
Wondering what this could mean, I sat down to my morning repast. Nearly
an hour elapsed, and still Antonio did not make his appearance. Through
the boards, however, which composed the ceiling of the kitchen where I
sat, I could hear the voices of himself and his acquaintance, and thought
that I could occasionally distinguish the sound of broken sobs and
groans. At last there was a long pause. I became impatient, and was
about to summon Antonio, when he made his appearance, but unaccompanied
by the stranger. “What, in the name of all that is singular,” I
demanded, “have you been about? Who is that man?” “_Mon maître_,” said
Antonio, “_c’est un monsieur de ma connaissance_. With your permission I
will now take a mouthful, and as we journey along I will tell you all
that I know of him.”
“_Monsieur_,” said Antonio, as we rode out of Colunga, “you are anxious
to know the history of the gentleman whom you saw embrace me at the inn.
Know, _mon maître_, that these Carlist and _Cristino_ wars have been the
cause of much misery and misfortune in this country; but a being so
thoroughly unfortunate as that poor young gentleman of the inn, I do not
believe is to be found in Spain, and his misfortunes proceed entirely
from the spirit of party and faction which for some time past has been so
prevalent.
“_Mon maître_, as I have often told you, I have lived in many houses and
served many masters, and it chanced that about ten years ago I served the
father of this gentleman, who was then a mere boy. It was a very high
family, for _monsieur_ the father was a general in the army, and a man of
large possessions. The family consisted of the general, his lady, and
two sons; the youngest of whom is the person you have just seen, the
other was several years older. _Pardieu_! I felt myself very
comfortable in that house, and every individual of the family had all
kind of complaisance for me. It is singular enough, that though I have
been turned out of so many families, I was never turned out of that; and
though I left it thrice, it was of my own free will. I became
dissatisfied with the other servants, or with the dog or the cat. The
last time I left was on account of the quail which was hung out of the
window of _madame_, and which waked me in the morning with its call. _Eh
bien_, _mon maître_, things went on in this way during the three years
that I continued in the family, out and in; at the end of which time it
was determined that the young gentleman should travel, and it was
proposed that I should attend him as valet. This I wished very much to
do. However, _par malheur_, I was at this time very much dissatisfied
with _madame_ his mother about the quail, and insisted that before I
accompanied him the bird should be slaughtered for the kitchen. To this
_madame_ would by no means consent; and even the young gentleman, who had
always taken my part on other occasions, said that I was unreasonable: so
I left the house in a huff, and never entered it again.
“_Eh bien_, _mon maître_, the young gentleman went upon his travels, and
continued abroad several years; and from the time of his departure until
we met him at Colunga, I have not set eyes upon, nor indeed heard of him.
I have heard enough, however, of his family; of _monsieur_ the father, of
_madame_, and of the brother, who was an officer of cavalry. A short
time before the troubles, I mean before the death of Ferdinand,
_monsieur_ the father was appointed captain-general of Corunna. Now
_monsieur_, though a good master, was rather a proud man, and fond of
discipline, and all that kind of thing, and of obedience. He was,
moreover, no friend to the populace, to the _canaille_, and he had a
particular aversion to the nationals. So, when Ferdinand died, it was
whispered about at Corunna that the general was no liberal, and that he
was a better friend to Carlos than Christina. _Eh bien_, it chanced that
there was a grand _fête_, or festival, at Corunna, on the water, and the
nationals were there, and the soldiers. And I know not how it befell,
but there was an _émeute_, and the nationals laid hands on _monsieur_ the
general, and tying a rope round his neck, flung him overboard from the
barge in which he was, and then dragged him astern about the harbour
until he was drowned. They then went to his house, and pillaged it, and
so ill-treated _madame_, who at that time happened to be _enceinte_, that
in a few hours she expired.
“I tell you what, _mon maître_, when I heard of the misfortune of
_madame_ and the general, you would scarcely believe it, but I actually
shed tears, and was sorry that I had parted with them in unkindness on
account of that pernicious quail.
“_Eh bien_, _mon maître_, _nous poursuivrons notre histoire_. The eldest
son, as I told you before, was a cavalry officer, and a man of
resolution, and when he heard of the death of his father and mother, he
vowed revenge. Poor fellow! So what does he do but desert, with two or
three discontented spirits of his troop, and going to the frontier of
Galicia, he raised a small faction, and proclaimed Don Carlos. For some
little time he did considerable damage to the liberals, burning and
destroying their possessions, and putting to death several nationals that
fell into his hands. However, this did not last long; his faction was
soon dispersed, and he himself taken and hanged, and his head stuck on a
pole.
“_Nous sommes déjà presque au bout_. When we arrived at the inn, the
young man took me above, as you saw, and there for some time he could do
nothing but weep and sob. His story is soon told:—he returned from his
travels, and the first intelligence which awaited him on his arrival in
Spain was, that his father was drowned, his mother dead, and his brother
hanged, and, moreover, all the possessions of his family confiscated.
This was not all: wherever he went, he found himself considered in the
light of a factious and discontented person, and was frequently assailed
by the nationals with blows of sabres and cudgels. He applied to his
relations, and some of these, who were of the Carlist persuasion, advised
him to betake himself to the army of Don Carlos, and the Pretender
himself, who was a friend of his father, and remembered the services of
his brother, offered to give him a command in his army. But, _mon
maître_, as I told you before, he was a pacific young gentleman, and as
mild as a lamb, and hated the idea of shedding blood. He was, moreover,
not of the Carlist opinion, for during his studies he had read books
written a long time ago by countrymen of mine, all about republics and
liberties, and the rights of man, so that he was much more inclined to
the liberal than the Carlist system; he therefore declined the offer of
Don Carlos, whereupon all his relations deserted him, whilst the liberals
hunted him from one place to another like a wild beast. At last, he sold
some little property which still remained to him, and with the proceeds
he came to this remote place of Colunga, where no one knew him, and where
he has been residing for several months, in a most melancholy manner,
with no other amusement than that which he derives from a book or two, or
occasionally hunting a leveret with his spaniel.
“He asked me for counsel, but I had none to give him, and could only weep
with him. At last he said, ‘Dear Antonio, I see there is no remedy. You
say your master is below; beg him, I pray, to stay till tomorrow, and we
will send for the maidens of the neighbourhood, and for a violin and
bagpipe, and we will dance and cast away care for a moment.’ And then he
said something in old Greek, which I scarcely understood, but which I
think was equivalent to, ‘Let us eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow
we die!’
“_Eh bien_, _mon maître_, I told him that you were a serious gentleman,
who never took any amusement, and that you were in a hurry. Whereupon he
wept again, and embraced me, and bade me farewell. And now, _mon
maître_, I have told you the history of the young man of the inn.”
We slept at Ribida de Sella, and the next day at noon arrived at Llanes.
Our route lay between the coast and an immense range of mountains, which
rose up like huge ramparts at about a league’s distance from the sea.
The ground over which we passed was tolerably level, and seemingly well
cultivated. There was no lack of vines and trees, whilst at short
intervals rose the _cortijos_ of the proprietors—square stone buildings
surrounded with an outer wall. Llanes is an old town, formerly of
considerable strength. In its neighbourhood is the convent of San
Cilorio, one of the largest monastic edifices in all Spain. It is now
deserted, and stands alone and desolate upon one of the peninsulas of the
Cantabrian shore. Leaving Llanes, we soon entered one of the most dreary
and barren regions imaginable, a region of rock and stone, where neither
grass nor trees were to be seen. Night overtook us in these places. We
wandered on, however, until we reached a small village, termed Santo
Colombo. Here we passed the night, in the house of a carabineer of the
revenue, a tall athletic figure, who met us at the gate, armed with a
gun. He was a Castilian, and with all that ceremonious formality and
grave politeness for which his countrymen were at one time so celebrated.
He chid his wife for conversing with her handmaid about the concerns of
the house before us. “Barbara,” said he, “this is not conversation
calculated to interest the strange cavaliers; hold your peace, or go
aside with the _muchacha_.” In the morning he refused any remuneration
for his hospitality, “I am a _caballero_,” said he, “even as yourselves.
It is not my custom to admit people into my house for the sake of lucre.
I received you because you were benighted and the _posada_ distant.”
Rising early in the morning, we pursued our way through a country equally
stony and dreary as that which we had entered upon the preceding day. In
about four hours we reached San Vicente, a large and dilapidated town,
chiefly inhabited by miserable fishermen. It retains, however, many
remarkable relics of former magnificence: the bridge, which bestrides the
broad and deep firth on which stands the town, has no less than
thirty-two arches, and is built of grey granite. It is very ancient, and
in some parts in so ruinous a condition as to be dangerous.
Leaving San Vicente behind us, we travelled for some leagues on the
seashore, crossing occasionally a narrow inlet or firth. The country at
last began to improve, and in the neighbourhood of Santillana was both
beautiful and fertile. About a league before we reached the country of
Gil Blas we passed through an extensive wood, in which were rocks and
precipices; it was exactly such a place as that in which the cave of
Rolando was situated, as described in the novel. The wood has an evil
name, and our guide informed us that robberies were occasionally
committed in it. No adventure, however, befell us, and we reached
Santillana at about six in the evening.
We did not enter the town, but halted at a large _venta_, or _posada_, at
the entrance, before which stood an immense ash tree. We had scarcely
housed ourselves when a tremendous storm of rain and wind commenced,
accompanied with thunder and lightning, which continued without much
interruption for several hours, and the effects of which were visible in
our journey of the following day, the streams over which we passed being
much swollen, and several trees lying uptorn by the wayside. Santillana
contains four thousand inhabitants, and is six short leagues’ distance
from Santander, where we arrived early the next day.
Nothing could exhibit a stronger contrast to the desolate tracts and the
half-ruined towns through which we had lately passed, than the bustle and
activity of Santander, which, though it stands on the confines of the
Basque provinces, the stronghold of the Pretender, is almost the only
city in Spain which has not suffered by the Carlist wars. Till the close
of the last century it was little better than an obscure fishing town,
but it has of late years almost entirely engrossed the commerce of the
Spanish transatlantic possessions, especially of the Havannah. The
consequence of which has been, that whilst Santander has rapidly
increased in wealth and magnificence, both Corunna and Cadiz have been as
rapidly hastening to decay. At present it possesses a noble quay, on
which stands a line of stately edifices, far exceeding in splendour the
palaces of the aristocracy of Madrid. These are built in the French
style, and are chiefly occupied by the merchants. The population of
Santander is estimated at sixty thousand souls.
On the day of my arrival I dined at the _table-d’hôte_ of the principal
inn, kept by a Genoese. The company was very miscellaneous—French,
Germans, and Spaniards, all speaking in their respective languages,
whilst at the ends of the table, confronting each other, sat two Catalan
merchants, one of whom weighed nearly twenty stone, grunting across the
board in their harsh dialect. Long, however, before dinner was concluded
the conversation was entirely engrossed and the attention of all present
directed to an individual who sat on one side of the bulky Catalan. He
was a thin man of about the middle height, with a remarkably red face,
and something in his eyes which, if not a squint, bore a striking
resemblance to it. He was dressed in a blue military frock, and seemed
to take much more pleasure in haranguing than in the fare which was set
before him. He spoke perfectly good Spanish, yet his voice betrayed
something of a foreign accent. For a long time he descanted with immense
volubility on war and all its circumstances, freely criticizing the
conduct of the generals, both Carlist and _Cristinos_, in the present
struggle, till at last he exclaimed, “Had I but twenty thousand men
allowed me by the government, I would bring the war to a conclusion in
six months.”
“Pardon me, sir,” said a Spaniard who sat at the table, “the curiosity
which induces me to request the favour of your distinguished name.”
“I am Flinter,” replied the individual in the military frock, “a name
which is in the mouth of every man, woman, and child in Spain. I am
Flinter {92} the Irishman, just escaped from the Basque provinces and the
claws of Don Carlos. On the decease of Ferdinand, I declared for
Isabella, esteeming it the duty of every good cavalier and Irishman in
the Spanish service to do so. You have all heard of my exploits, and
permit me to tell you they would have been yet more glorious had not
jealousy been at work and cramped my means. Two years ago I was
despatched to Estremadura, to organize the militias. The bands of Gomez
and Cabrera entered the province, and spread devastation around. They
found me, however, at my post; and had I been properly seconded by those
under my command, the two rebels would never have returned to their
master to boast of their success. I stood behind my intrenchments. A
man advanced and summoned us to surrender. ‘Who are you?’ I demanded.
‘I am Cabrera,’ he replied; ‘and I am Flinter,’ I retorted flourishing my
sabre; ‘retire to your battalions, or you will forthwith die the death.’
He was awed, and did as I commanded. In an hour we surrendered. I was
led a prisoner to the Basque provinces; and the Carlists rejoiced in the
capture they had made, for the name of Flinter had long sounded amongst
the Carlist ranks. I was flung into a loathsome dungeon, where I
remained twenty months. I was cold; I was naked; but I did not on that
account despond—my spirit was too indomitable for such weakness. My
keeper at last pitied my misfortunes. He said that ‘it grieved him to
see so valiant a man perish in inglorious confinement.’ We laid a plan
to escape together; disguises were provided, and we made the attempt. We
passed unobserved till we arrived at the Carlist lines above Bilbao:
there we were stopped. My presence of mind, however, did not desert me.
I was disguised as a carman, as a Catalan, and the coolness of my answers
deceived my interrogators. We were permitted to pass, and soon were safe
within the walls of Bilbao. There was an illumination that night in the
town, for the lion had burst his toils, Flinter had escaped, and was once
more returned to reanimate a drooping cause. I have just arrived at
Santander, on my way to Madrid, where I intend to ask of the government a
command, with twenty thousand men.”
Poor Flinter! a braver heart and a more gasconading mouth were surely
never united in the same body. He proceeded to Madrid, and through the
influence of the British ambassador, who was his friend, he obtained the
command of a small division, with which he contrived to surprise and
defeat, in the neighbourhood of Toledo, a body of the Carlists, commanded
by Orejita, whose numbers more than trebled his own. In reward for this
exploit he was persecuted by the government, which, at that time, was the
_moderado_ or _juste milieu_, with the most relentless animosity; the
prime minister, Ofalia, supporting with all his influence numerous and
ridiculous accusations of plunder and robbery brought against the too
successful general by the Carlist canons of Toledo. He was likewise
charged with a dereliction of duty, in having permitted, after the battle
of Valdepeñas, which he likewise won in the most gallant manner, the
Carlist force to take possession of the mines of Almaden, although the
government, who were bent on his ruin, had done all in their power to
prevent him from following up his successes, by denying him the slightest
supplies and reinforcements. The fruits of victory thus wrested from
him, his hopes blighted, a morbid melancholy seized upon the Irishman; he
resigned his command, and, in less than ten months from the period when I
saw him at Santander, afforded his dastardly and malignant enemies a
triumph which satisfied even them, by cutting his own throat with a
razor.
Ardent spirits of foreign climes, who hope to distinguish yourselves in
the service of Spain, and to earn honours and rewards, remember the fate
of Columbus, and of another as brave and as ardent—Flinter!