Don Alfonso Gutierrez de Cisniega belonged to an old family of Vejer,
where he lived. He had been devoted at an early age to a naval career
and, while still quite young, had distinguished himself in defending
Havana against the English in 1748. He was afterwards engaged in the
expedition which sailed from Cartagena against the Algerines in 1775,
and was present at the attack upon Gibraltar under the Duke de Crillon
in 1782. He subsequently joined the expedition to the Straits of
Magellan in the corvette _Santa María de la Cabeza_, commanded by Don
Antonio de Córdova, and fought in the glorious engagements between the
Anglo-Spanish fleet and the French before Toulon in 1793, terminating
his career of glory at the disastrous battle of Cape St. Vincent,
where he commanded the _Mejicano_, one of the ships which were forced
to surrender.
From that time my master, whose promotion had been slower than his
laborious and varied career had merited, retired from active service.
He suffered much in body from the wounds he had received on that
fatal day, and more in mind from the blow of such a defeat. His wife
nursed and tended him with devotion though not in silence, for abuse
of the navy and of seamen of every degree were as common in her mouth
as the names of the saints in that of a bigot.
Doña Francisca was an excellent woman, of exemplary conduct and noble
birth, devout and God-fearing--as all women were in those days,
charitable and judicious, but with the most violent and diabolical
temper I ever met with in the whole course of my life. Frankly I do
not believe that this excessive irritability was natural to her, but
the result and outcome of the worries in her life arising out of her
husband's much-hated profession; it must be confessed that she did not
complain wholly without reason, and every day of her life Doña
Francisca addressed her prayers to Heaven for the annihilation of
every fleet in Europe. This worthy couple had but one child, a
daughter--the incomparable Rosita, of whom more anon.
The veteran, however, pined sadly at Vejer, seeing his laurels covered
with dust and gnawed to powder by the rats, and all his thoughts and
most of his discourse, morning, noon, and night, were based on the
absorbing theme that if Córdova, the commander of the Spanish fleet,
had only given the word "Starboard" instead of "Port" the good ships
_Mejicano_, _San José_, _San Nicolás_ and _San Isidro_ would never
have fallen into the hands of the English, and Admiral Jervis would
have been defeated. His wife, Marcial, and even I myself, exceeding
the limits of my duties--always assured him that there was no doubt of
the fact, to see whether, if we acknowledged ourselves convinced, his
vehemence would moderate--but no; his mania on that point only died
with him.
Eight years had passed since that disaster, and the intelligence that
the whole united fleet was to fight a decisive battle with the English
had now roused my master to a feverish enthusiasm which seemed to have
renewed his youth. He pictured to himself the inevitable rout of his
mortal enemies; and although his wife tried to dissuade him, as has
been said, it was impossible to divert him from his wild purpose. To
prove how obstinate his determination was it is enough to mention that
he dared to oppose his wife's strong will, though he avoided all
discussion; and to give an adequate idea of all that his opposition
implied I ought to mention that Don Alonso was afraid of no mortal
thing or creature--neither of the English, the French, nor the
savages of Magellan, not of the angry sea, nor of the monsters of the
deep, nor of the raging tempest, nor of anything in the earth or
sky--but only of his wife.
The last person I must mention is Marcial the sailor, the object of
Doña Francisca's deepest aversion, though Don Alonso, under whom he
had served, loved him as a brother.
Marcial--no one knew his other name--called by all the sailors "the
Half a Man," had been boatswain on various men-of-war for forty years.
At the time when my story begins this maritime hero's appearance was
the strangest you can imagine. Picture to yourself an old man, tall
rather than short, with a wooden leg, his left arm shortened to within
a few inches of the elbow, minus an eye, and his face seamed with
wounds in every direction--slashed by the various arms of the enemy;
with his skin tanned brown, like that of all sea-faring men, and a
voice so hoarse, hollow and slow, that it did not seem to belong to
any rational human creature, and you have some idea of this eccentric
personage. As I think of him I regret the narrow limits of my palette,
for he deserves painting in more vivid colors and by a worthier
artist. It was hard to say whether his appearance was most calculated
to excite laughter or command respect--both at once I think, and
according to the point of view you might adopt.
His life might be said to be an epitome of the naval history of Spain
during the last years of the past century and the beginning of this--a
history in whose pages the most splendid victories alternate with the
most disastrous defeats. Marcial had served on board the _Conde de
Regla_, the _San Joaquin_, the _Real Cárlos_, the _Trinidad_ and other
glorious but unfortunate vessels which, whether honorably defeated or
perfidiously destroyed, carried with them to a watery grave the naval
power of Spain. Besides the expeditions in which my master had taken
part Marcial had been present at many others, such as that of
Martinica, the action of Cape Finisterre, and before that the terrible
battle close to Algeciras in July, 1801, and that off Cape Santa María
on the 5th of October, 1804. He quitted the service at sixty-six years
of age, not however for lack of spirit but because he was altogether
"unmasted" and past fighting. On shore he and my master were the best
of friends, and as the boatswain's only daughter was married to one of
the servants of the house, of which union a small child was the token,
Marcial had made up his mind to cast anchor for good, like a hulk
past service, and even succeeded in making himself believe that peace
was a good thing. Only to see him you would have thought that the most
difficult task that could be set to this grand relic of a hero was
that of minding babies; but, as a matter of fact, Marcial had no other
occupation in life than carrying and amusing his grandchild, putting
it to sleep with his snatches of sea-songs, seasoned with an oath or
two--excusable under the circumstances.
But no sooner had he heard that the united fleets were making ready
for a decisive battle than his moribund fires rose from their ashes,
and he dreamed that he was calling up the crew in the forecastle of
the _Santísima Trinidad_. Discovering in Don Alfonso similar symptoms
of rejuvenescence, he confessed to him, and from that hour they spent
the chief part of the day and night in discussing the news that
arrived and their own feelings in the matter; "fighting their battles
o'er again," hazarding conjectures as to those to be fought in the
immediate future, and talking over their day-dreams like two ship's
boys indulging in secret visions of the shortest road to the title of
Admiral.
In the course of these _tête-à-tête_ meetings, which occasioned the
greatest alarm to Doña Francisca, the plan was hatched for setting
out to join the fleet and be present at the impending battle. I have
already told the reader what my mistress's opinion was and all the
abuse she lavished on the insidious sailor; he knows too that Don
Alonso persisted in his determination to carry out his rash purpose,
accompanied by me, his trusty page, and I must now proceed to relate
what occurred when Marcial himself appeared on the scene to take up
the cudgels for war against the shameful _status quo_ of Doña
Francisca.