LA POSADA DEL CAVALLO.
In the summer of last year, I was proceeding home to Britain on leave
of absence from my regiment, the --th Highlanders, which were then,
and are still, lying in garrison at Malta. Favoured by the
friendship of her commander, and my good friend and old
school-fellow, Lieutenant John Hall, I had a passage given to me in
Her Majesty's Sloop Blonde, of twenty-six guns; and after a pleasant
run for a few days, a smart breeze, which we encountered off
Almuneçar, when sailing along the coast of Spain, brought down some
of our top hamper, and we ran in to Malaga to repair the damage.
It was a beautiful and sunny evening when our anchor plunged into the
shining waters of that deep bay which presents so superb a line of
coast, and the background of which is formed by the undulating line
of the Sierra de Mija towering into the pure blue sky of Spain, and
bounding, in the distance, the flat and fertile Vega.
From the quarter-deck of the Blonde, we had a magnificent prospect of
Malaga, with its stately mansions, its domes, its spires and snowy
kiosks, bathed in a warm yellow tint as the sun's rays faded along
the Vega, and the shadows deepened on its hills, clothed with
vineyards and plantations of orange, almond, lemon and olive trees.
The gaudy Spanish flag descended from the dark ramparts of the old
Moorish fortress of Gibral-Faro as the evening gun was fired from the
guard-ship; and then, as the sun set behind tha mountains, the bells
tolled for vespers in the lofty steeple of the square Cathedral, and
a red lambent light began to glimmer on the tall brick chimneys of
that extensive iron-foundry, which (alas for romance!) a thoroughly
practical Scotsman has built in Malaga, where it finds food and work
for hundreds, in smelting the ore of the adjacent hills, while it
pollutes the cerulean sky of Granada.
Bent upon a ramble or adventure, the second-lieutenant (Jack Hall)
and I took our fowling-pieces, and, leaving our swords behind us--at
least I took only my regimental dirk--were pulled ashore in the
dingy, which landed us at one of those piers that project from the
city into the sea, forming part of that noble mole which measures
seven hundred yards in length.
Leaving our guns and shooting apparatus at our hotel, we wandered
about the town; visited the Alcazaba, which must once have been a
fortress of vast strength; then the old Roman Cathedral and Bishop's
Palace; but we lingered longest in the Alameda--that beautiful
promenade--which is eighty feet wide, and is bordered by rows of
orange and oleander trees, and in the centre of which a magnificent
marble fountain was tossing its sparkling waters into the starry sky.
Here we saw some bright-eyed Spanish women in their dark mantillas
and veils, and not a few in tha homely and assuredly less graceful
bonnet and shawl of London and Paris, whose fashions are gradually,
and, I think, unfortunately, superseding the more captivating dress
of old Spain; we saw too, ferocious-looking soldiers in dark dresses,
weaving yellow sashes, red forage caps, and enormous moustaches; old
priests gliding stealthily along, with an aspect of meekness, and
apparently crushed in spirit; for the Government presses with a heavy
hand on the ecclesiastics; citizens clad in light stuffs of bright
colours, with red sashes and low-crowned hats, having black silk
tufts at each side; queer-looking Caballeros in large brown cloaks
like that of Don Diego de Mendoza's "Poor Hidalgo," and wearing hats
'à la Kossuth.' As every man was smoking as if his salvation
depended upon his doing so with vigour, the whole air was redolent of
cigars.
I had on my undress, a forage cap, and plain red jacket, with tartan
trews, my sash and dirk; for I have found that the British uniform
always ensures the wearer attention and respect in every part of the
globe.
We wandered long in that lovely Alameda, until the last of its fair
promenaders had withdrawn; and then we returned to our hotel rather
disappointed, that of all the black eyes we had seen flashing under
veils of Madeira lace, not one had given us a glance of
encouragement; that of all the pretty lips, which had been lisping
dulcet Spanish mixed with the Arabic of Granada, none had invited us
to follow; that of all the sombre cavaliers, not one appeared to be
an assassin or a Grand Inquisitor; and that, of all the hideous old
duennas whom we had seen cruising about us, not one had approached,
and with finger on her lip, and an impressive glance in her eye,
placed a mysterious note into either of our hands, and "disappeared
in the crowd."
Nothing remarkable happened, save that Hall had his pocket picked of
his handkerchief and cigar-case, and we returned like other men to
our hotel, where we supped on devilled turkey and the wine of the
district, Tierno and Malaga; after which we turned into bed, warning
the waiter to summon us early, and have a guide to lead us toward the
neighbouring hills, where we intended to make some havock among the
game next day.
Punctually at five o'clock in the morning the mozo-de-cafe roused us,
and, after coffee, we shouldered our double-barrelled rifles, and
accompanied by a young 'gamin' named Pedrillo, for whose fidelity the
waiter pledged his "honour," we departed on our ramble.
If ever you saw the Spanish beggar-boys, as depicted by Murillo in
his famous picture, which is now in Dulwich College, they will know
perfectly the aspect of Pedrillo, our little guide.
He was about twelve years old; but, hardened by indigence and
sharpened by privation, his perceptive faculties were keener than
those of many a man. His sallow little visage was stamped with more
of the animal than the intellectual being; his eyes were black,
glossy, and glittered alternately with cunning and intelligence. His
sole attire consisted of a dilapidated shirt, a pair of
knee-breeches, and a cowl, which confined his luxuriant black hair;
he had zinc rings in his ears, and bore altogether the aspect of a
little Lazzarone.
He was intelligent withal, and he told us a vast number of anecdotes,
which increased in wonder and ferocity as we paid him one peseta
after another; but he dwelt particularly on the achievements of a
certain Juan Roa, otherwise styled de Antequera, who was then
prowling in that savage range of mountains, from whence he descended
sometimes alone, sometimes with many followers, especially when the
Solano blew from Africa, to commit outrages among the quiet quintas
and villages of the fertile Vega, where he was said to be in league
with every posada-keeper for forty miles around Malaga.
About mid-day we rested under the cool shadow of a cork wood, about
ten miles from the city; it was a beautiful place, where the sward
was soft as velvet, and where a thick border of blushing rose-trees,
and wild hydrangias flourished near us. Here we shared our
provisions with a paisano and two armed contrabandistas whom we met,
and who shared with us their wine in return. The two smugglers had
strong and active horses, and carried blunderbusses and pistols to
guard their bales of chocolate, soap, tobacco, and cigars; they were
fine, merry fellows, gaudily dressed, and full of fun and anecdote;
for in Spain the contrabandista is a species of travelling newspaper.
Now all their news were of the last feat or outrage of Juan Roa.
"I would give a guinea to meet this interesting vagabond; the
interview would tell famously in some of the monthlies," said Hall,
with a heedless laugh.
"I think I should know him," said I; "for we saw at least twenty
coloured prints of him in the shops on the Alameda, last night. He
is a ferocious-looking dog!"
The contrabandistas looked round with alarm, and then laughed
immoderately.
"Ferocious? Indeed, señor?" said the paisano; "I beg to differ from
you, having myself seen Juan of Antequera face to face; and so think
him quite like other men."
I gazed at the speaker, whom, by his green velvet jacket, adorned by
four dozen of brass buttons, his sombrero, with its broad yellow
ribband, his black plush breeches, red scarf and shoe-buckles, I
supposed to be the substantial farmer of one of the adjacent quintas.
He had a fine dark face, a powerful figure, and two black eyes that
seemed to be always looking through me. Over one eyebrow, he had a
large black patch. He carried a riding switch, had a knife in his
girdle; and altogether, as he lolled on the sward, smoking a paper
cigar and sipping red wine, I thought he would make a fine and
striking sketch, and equal to any by Pinelli.
"Juan Roa," said he, "has committed great outrages in the Vega of
Granada. The Duke of Wellington has there an estate, having on it
about three hundred tenants, who yield some fifteen thousand dollars
of rental; but Juan has thrice drawn every duro of it from the old
abagado, who acts as steward to the duke."
The contrabandistas again laughed at this immoderately.
"You have seen this Juan of Antequera, have you not?" said I.
"Face to face--often, señor."
"And so have I," said little Pedrillo.
"You! and when was this, my little fellow?" said Jack Hall.
"On the night old Barradas, the muleteer, was murdered."
The Spaniard with the patch knit his brows.
"Caramba!" said he; "ah! I remember that."
"Tell us about this murder," said Hall.
"You must know, señors," said Pedrillo, "that at the foot of the
Sierra de Mija, about five miles from this, there stands a wayside
inn, called La Posada del Cavallo, for the keeper, Martin Secco, had
a great horse painted on his signboard. This man is the uncle of
Juan Roa, or of Antequera. He has a wife, and had two daughters.
The place is lonely; and it often happens, that those who put up
there for the night forget the right path; for they are lost among
the mountains, or fall into the sand-pits--at least, they are seldom
heard of after. You understand, señors?"
The Spaniard with the patch smiled grimly, and played with his knife.
"One night last year, I guided Pedro Barradas, the Cordovan muleteer,
to the posada, when it was dark as pitch. Pedro was very old, and
half blind, and had never been that way before. A storm came on, and
he desired me to remain with him, saying he would pay me well; old
Barradas was rich; he had made money in the war of independence, and
in the last civil war between the Carlists and Christines; and had
given three silver images to the church of his native puebla in Jaen.
"We supped on baccallao, raisins, and plain bread, for the season was
Lent. While we were at supper, in the common hall of the posada, I
heard the rain pattering on the wooden shutters (there is not a glass
window in the house); I heard the thunder grumbling among the hills,
and the wind howling as it swept over the fields and vineyards of the
Vega. It was a lonely place for a poor boy who had neither father
nor mother, señors; but, then, I was not worth killing, though many
fears flitted through my mind; for Martin's wife--an ugly and
wicked-looking Basque provincial--put some very alarming questions to
old Pedro Barradas. She told him that the neighbourhood was infested
by bandidos and contrabandistas; and asked if he was a heavy sleeper.
"'No,' said Barradas, 'in the war against Joseph Buonaparte I learned
the art of sleeping lightly.'
"'But what will you do if attacked?'
"'That is as may be; but I have only twenty duros, and so shall sleep
soundly enough.'
"These questions alarmed me very much; visions of murder and
slaughter came before me. I crept close to Barradas, who, as I have
said, was very old and very frail; but his presence seemed a
protection to me for a time.
"When the hour for bed arrived, we, who were the only guests, were
somewhat imperatively requested to retire to our rooms by the wife of
Martin Secco.
"Barradas saw, perhaps, his danger, and said that I should sleep in
the same room with him.
"But Inez Secco told him roughly that he must be content to sleep
alone. Then the poor old man was half-led and half-dragged away. As
for me, I was but a boy; so they thrust me into a dark closet, where
some straw lay on the floor, and, desiring me to sleep there and be
thankful, left me.
"I lay down on the straw, and finding it wet, arose in horror,
fearing that it was blood; and so I remained in the dark, praying to
our Lady of the Seven Sorrows, and trembling and listening to the
howling of the storm for more than an hour, when all the other sounds
in that terrible posada died away.
"I was just beginning to dose when a ray of light streamed through
the keyhole of my door; I heard it opened, and lo! Martin's wife,
Inez Secco, appeared with a long and sharp cuchillo in her hand. A
man accompanied her. He was Juan Roa de Antequera! Terror paralysed
me; and she believed me to be asleep, for she felt all over my
clothes--that is, my poor shirt and breeches-pockets, from which she
took two quarter-duros--all I possessed in this world; and then,
passing the light thrice across my face, to assure herself that I
slept, the hag went away muttering--
"'Caramba! only a half-duro; this little wretch is neither worth
lodging nor killing.'
"Immediately after this I heard them whispering with Martin Secco;
and then they knocked at the door of old Pedro Barradas, who, like a
cautious man, had fastened it on the inside.
"'Get up,' said they, 'Señor Barradas--get up--you are wanted.'
"But old Barradas either slept like a top, or he was too wary to
open; for he heeded them not.
"Then I heard Juan and Martin muttering curses as they deliberately
forced open the door; next there came a terrible cry of--
"'Help! Pedrillo, help! Ayuda, por amor de neustra Señora
Santissima!'
"This was followed by sounds like those made by a sheep when the
knife of the carnicero is in its throat; and, in the meantime,
Martin's two daughters were singing as loud as they could, and
dancing a bolero in the passage, to conceal these terrible sounds,
which froze the blood within me."
Here Pedrillo paused.
"Go on," said Jack Hall, impatiently; "and how did you escape?"
"If the noble señors would help me to refresh my memory----"
"Ah, I comprehend," said I, tossing a peseta to him; "now fire away,
Pedrillo."
"You should not encourage this young picaro, Señor Caballero," said
the Spaniard, whose face was now darkened by a terrible frown; "for
it is my belief that he was the mere decoy, who led poor old Pedro
Barradas to that villanous posada."
Instead of being angry, Pedrillo lifted up his hands, and prayed that
Heaven and our Lady of the Seven Sorrows would forgive the speaker
for his vile suspicions.
"I never closed an eye that night. In the morning I was told by Inez
the Patrona, that old Barradas had departed across the hills of
Antequera without me. Martin Secco asked me how I had slept? I
said, like a dormouse; and as soon as I was free, I ran like a hare
back to Malaga; and to make up for the loss of my last night's rest,
slept like a torpedo under the trees of the Alameda."
"You acquainted the magistrates--the alguazils, of course," said
Hall, knocking the ashes from his third cigar.
"I was only a poor, ragged, little picaro," replied Pedrillo, in a
whining voice; "and who would believe me? Besides, old Barradas was
a stranger from Cordova or Jaen; and a man, more or less, is nothing
in Granada; but since that time Martin's two daughters have been sent
to the galleys at Barcelona, by the captain-general of the kingdom,
for intriguing in many ways with the contrabandistas of Jaen. Now,
señors, the noon is past; and if it please you, 't is time we were
moving, if you wish to reach the Sierra."
While we were placing fresh caps on our rifles, and preparing to
start, the Spaniard with the patch, who had listened to Pedrillo's
story with great impatience, now seized that young gamin by the arm,
and grasping it like a vice, gave him a savage scowl, and said
something in Spanish; but so rapidly, that I could only make out that
he was reprehending him severely for telling us "a succession of
falsehoods."
So I thought at that time; afterwards I was enabled to put a
different construction upon his indignation, at which Pedrillo seemed
to be considerably alarmed.
Bidding adieu to him and the contrabandistas, we departed under
Pedrillo's guidance, and (sans leave) shot all along the sides of the
mountain range, on the slope of which stands the small but ancient
city of Antequera, so noted for the revolt of the Moors in the
sixteenth century; and had some narrow escapes from falling into
those remarkable pits, where the water settles in the low places, and
is formed into salt by the mere heat of the sun.
We did not see much game, but knocked over a few brace of birds, and
with these, and two red foxes, our little guide Pedrillo was quite
laden. So he seemed to think; for, taking advantage of the
concealment afforded him by some olive groves, and the scattered
remnants of an abandoned vineyard, among which we had become
entangled, the young rogue slipped away with our game and made off,
either towards Malaga or Antequera; at least we saw no more of him,
or of his burden at that time.
This was just about the close of the day, when Hall and I were
draining the last drop of our flask, and surveying from the mountain
slope the magnificent prospect of the verdant Vega, spreading at our
feet like a brightly-tinted map, having that warm and roseate glow,
which well might win it the name of Tierra Caliente. Malaga, the
ancient bulwark of Spain against Africa, was shining in the distance,
with its towers and gates, its flat-roofed houses, and vast
cathedral; its Moorish castles and gothic spires, all bathed in a
warm and sunny yellow; while beyond lay the broad blue Mediterranean,
dotted by sails, and changing from gold to purple and to blue.
This was all very fine: but our pleasure was lessened by the
conviction that our little rascal Pedrillo was absconding with our
game; and we knew that it would never do to relate to the gun-room
mess how we had been outwitted, on returning to the Blonde next day.
The foreground of this beautiful panorama was broken by innumerable
small hillocks and clumps of wood of many kinds; but principally
olive, pine, and cork trees, that grew on the slope of the great
Sierra; and though the sky and landscape darkened fast after the sun
set, we instituted a strict and angry search for Pedrillo, shouting
and whistling as we stumbled on, we knew not very well whither,
looking for our lost spoils--two foxes, with gallant brushes, and
eight brace of birds.
No moon had risen: the wind began to whistle among the groves and
hollows; the night was very dark.
"What, if we should meet Master Juan of Antequera?" said I.
"If he had our game, I should be very well pleased," replied Hall;
"but I wish that Pedrillo had been with old Scratch when we hired him
yesterday. If I had the little lubber on board the Blonde, I would
show him the maintop."
"Spain is a land of mishaps and events," said I.
"Yesterday we were wishing for an adventure."
"And to-night we have one with a vengeance!" said I.
"Belay; I see some one moving in that hollow. Let us jump down--ahoy
below there!"
"But we may lose the track," I urged.
"True; so do you remain where you are, while I go down into the
hollow. Hollo now and then, to let me know your whereabouts."
With his rifle in his hand, Hall, who was a fine active fellow,
sprang down into a ravine that suddenly yawned before us, and I
remained with my rifle cocked, and stooped low to watch what might
follow. Hall disappeared in the obscurity below. I halloed; but the
night wind tossed back my own shout upon me. Then I thought I heard
his voice, and sprang after him; but fell upon a point of rock, and
sank, completely stunned, to the earth.
There I lay for nearly a quarter of an hour, unable to move, or rally
my senses. When I arose, I found myself at the bottom of the hollow,
and upon a narrow mule track; the moon was rising brightly at the
south end of the ravine, silvering the masses of rocks, tufts of
laurel-trees, and wild vines that grew in the clefts of the basalt.
I shouted, but received no reply; and after a long and fruitless
search could discover no trace of Hall in any direction.
Considerably alarmed for his safety as well as my own--for to lie at
night upon those hills of Antequera, with the devilish stories of
Pedrillo and the contrabandistas haunting one's memory, was anything
but pleasant--I tried the charges of my rifle, looked again to the
percussion-caps, and set off in that direction where, by the rising
of the moon, I knew that Malaga must lie; but frequently paused to
hollo for Jack Hall, and received no reply save the echoes of the
rocks.
The ravine descended and grew more open. Again I saw the Vega
sleeping at my feet in the haze; and, on turning an angle of the
road, found myself close to an inn or taberna, which I approached
with joy, concluding that my friend Jack must have gone that way, and
would probably be there.
Like all Spanish inns, it was a large and mis-shapen edifice, the
lower story of which was nothing better than a great open shed, for
mules and vehicles; and, ascending from thence by a stair, I reached
a gallery, at the door of which I was received by the host, who
carried in his hand a stable lantern.
"Entrar," said he, bowing profoundly; "entrar, señor."
"I have been shooting on the mountains," said I, "and have lost my
companion, a British naval officer. Has he passed this way?"
"No, señor," replied the host, (whose face I could not yet see,) as
he led me up another stair.
"Then get supper prepared; for he must soon be here, as I have no
doubt he knows pretty well the direction of Malaga. And now," said
I, drawing a long breath, as I seated myself, "what place is this?"
"La Posada del Cavallo." (!)
"Eh! ah--and you?" I asked, in a thick voice.
"Martin Secco, at your service, Señor Caballero!"
"Here was a dénouement!
"Good Heavens!" thought I, mechanically resuming my rifle; "if the
stories of Pedrillo should be true."
I scrutinised my host and hostess.
Martin had a broad and open visage, with keen eyes, and a black beard
as thick as a horse-brush; a wide mouth, that frequently expanded in
grins; but in those grins no radiance ever lit up his glassy eyes.
The mouth laughed; but they remained immovable--invariably a bad
sign. His forehead receded, and his ears were placed high upon his
head. At the first glance, I concluded that my señor patron was an
unmitigated brute. His figure was somewhat portly, and encased in a
brown jacket, brown knee-breeches, and black stockings; he wore his
hair confined in a caul, and had a yellow sash round his waist.
His wife was, as Pedrillo had described Inez Secco, a Basque, for her
Spanish was almost unintelligible; and her coarse black hair was
plaited in one thick tail, which reached to her heels. Her gown was
of rough red cloth, with tight sleeves and a short skirt, displaying
a pair of yellow worsted stockings and leather sandals, fastened by
thongs above the ancle. Her face was coarse and bloated; but the
expression of her eye was terrible. It hovered between the bright
ferocious glare of a snake, and the glazed orb of an arrant sot. She
scanned me closely; and I thought the old devil (she was a Spanish
woman, and past forty,) was accurately appraising the value of all I
had on.
"Well, señora patrona," said I, "what can I have for supper?"
"The señor has come at a bad time, for we have little or no
provisions in our larder." (The larder of every Spanish inn has been
in the same condition since the days of Cervantes and Gongora.) "For
now this road between Malaga and Antequera is but little frequented
after noon-day, owing to the terrible robberies and the four
assassinations committed by Juan Roa, during the last Solano.
Caramba! 't is very hard that we should suffer for him."
"What can I have, then?"
"A roasted galina, dressed with a few beans," said the patrona.
"And a glass of good aquadiente," added the host; "our Tierno has
soured in the wine-skins."
"'T is poor fare this, for hungry men. I have said that I expect my
friend's arrival momently."
The host gave a cold smile, and said, "We have had nothing ourselves,
for a week past, but Indian corn and boiled garbanzos (beans); but
the best we have is at the disposal of the señor caballero."
The inn was old and crazy; the wind came in at one cranny, and
whistled out by another. The roof, walls, and floor of the large
apartment in which we three were seated, consisted of a multitude of
beams and boards, placed horizontally and diagonally, without skill
and without regard to design or appearance. There was but one candle
in the house (as the host assured me), and it was rapidly guttering
down in the currents of air. The patrona transferred it from the
lantern to an iron holder, and it was placed on the table to light
the room and my supper.
An ostler, or nondescript servant, wearing fustian knee-breeches,
without braces, with a muleteer's embroidered shirt, and having a
yellow handkerchief tied round his head, spread a (not over-clean)
cloth on the table; knives, forks, and covers were laid for two, with
a cold fowl, a loaf of white bread, a dish of beans, garlic, and a
bottle of aquadiente.
I observed this wild-looking waiter frequently glancing at my rifle,
and the jewelled dirk that dangled at my waist-belt; I became
suspicious of everything.
"You are well armed, señor," said he.
"It is natural; for arms are my profession," said I.
I looked at my watch: the hands indicated eleven o'clock! Two hours
had elapsed since Hall and I had separated; still there was no
appearance of him. Twenty times I opened the shutters of the
unglazed windows, and listened intently; but the night wind that
swept down the dark ravine in the Sierra, brought neither shout nor
footstep; so I resolved to sup, go to bed, and trust to daylight for
discovering Jack, if he did not arrive at the posada before morning.
I had just concluded supper, when the last remains of the last candle
in this solitary inn, sank into its iron socket, and left us in
darkness; at least with no other light than the red wavering glow
that came from the hearth, where a few roots of pine and corkwood
smouldered beside the brown puchero, in which the amiable patrona had
boiled the beans for my repast.
"Here is a pretty piece of business!" said Martin Secco; "we have not
another candle were it to light a blessed altar; and the señor
Caballero must go to bed in the dark."
"Heed not that, señor patron," said I; "for I am a soldier, as you
may see, and am used to discomfort."
"'T is well; for I am sure that the señor has experienced nothing but
discomfort in our poor posada. When I am rich enough, señor, I hope
to have an hotel in the Alameda; and then should the Caballero ever
come to Malaga again, he will remember Martin Secco."
At this remark, I heard the patrona utter a low chuckling laugh; but
whether at the prospect of the fine hotel, or the doubtful chances of
my ever again visiting Malaga, I could not say.
"Now, señor patron," said I, rising and taking up my rifle, "I should
like to reach the town betimes to-morrow; so show me to my chamber,
and should my friend arrive, fail not to call me."
"Will you not leave your gun here?" suggested the host.
"Thank you--no," said I, while my undefined suspicions grew stronger
within me. "Do you lead the way, señor, and I shall follow. Good
night, señora patrona."
"Bueno noche, señor," said she, stirring up the embers; and we
separated.
To follow Martin was perhaps the most unpleasant part that I had yet
acted; for I had to grope my way after him along a dark passage,
about forty feet long, at the end of which he ushered me into a room,
where there was no other light than that given by the moon, which
shone through a small window glazed with little panes of coarse
glass. Here he bade me "Bueno noche;" and, after many apologies for
my miserable accommodation, left me.
The apartment was small. In one corner stood a French bed, having
light-coloured curtains; this, with a basin-stand, two chairs and a
mirror, made up the furniture. Like a true soldier, I turned to
secure the door.
Destitute of lock or bolt: it had only a small thumb-latch!
Dismounting the ewer and basin, I placed the stand end-wise between
the bed and the door, firmly fixing it, and thus forming a barricade,
which none could force without awaking me. To make all sure, I again
dropped the ramrod into each barrel of my rifle, passed a finger over
the caps, unbuckled the belt at which my dirk dangled; and, without
undressing, for every moment I expected to hear Jack Hall hallooing
outside the house; in short, to be prepared for anything, I threw
myself down on the coverlet, and weary and worn by a long day's
ramble among the mountains, prepared to sleep.
For a long time a species of painful wakefulness possessed me; the
moans of the passing wind, the flapping of a loose board in the
external gallery, the wavering shadows thrown by the moonlight on the
damp and discoloured walls; even the ticking of my watch disturbed
me, and kept me constantly thinking of poor Hall's unaccountable
absence, with many a fear that he might have fallen into the hands of
Juan of Antequera, and not a few reproaches for my having perhaps too
easily relinquished my search for him.
These thoughts completely obliterated any sense of my own immediate
danger; but I was about to drop asleep when something moist that
oozed over my neck and face aroused me. I started, fully awake in a
moment; and, passing a hand across my cheek, looked at it in the
moonlight.
"Blood!" said I, springing off the bed, while a thrill ran through
me. I had not been wounded or cut by my fall; then from whence came
this terrible moisture? I examined the pillow, and found the lower
part of it quite wet; I turned it, and lo! it was saturated with
blood!
This was the reason, that Martin Secco had declined to give me a
candle. My heart beat thick and fast; apprehension of something
horrible came over me, and I remembered the stories of Pedrillo. I
also recollected that I had some excellent Spanish cigar fusees, and
tearing three or four blank leaves from my note book, I twisted them
together, lit them, and surveyed the dingy chamber. The boards in
front of the bed were marked by recent spots of blood; I raised the
little fringe or curtain, and, guided by some terrible instinct,
looked below, and saw--what?
Poor Jack Hall lying there in his naval uniform, with his epaulette
torn off, and his throat literally cut from ear to ear!
He had found his way here before me, and been assassinated.
Almost paralysed, I continued for half a minute to gaze at this
terrible spectacle, till the paper burned down to my fingers and
expired. I heard my heart beating; and my head spun round as I
tightened my belt and grasped my loaded rifle. Before I could adopt
any plan of operations, I heard a rustling and whispering in the
passage near my door; and, looking through a crack in the panels,
saw, within a yard of me, Martin Secco, bearing in one hand the rifle
of my poor friend, and in the other a lighted candle, although he had
made to me so many apologies, about two hours before, for not having
another in the house. As he approached, he handed it to a boy, in
whom I discovered Pedrillo; and then the light flashed upon two other
men, in one of whom I recognised the ostler, and in the other, our
acquaintance of the noon, with the patch on his face, and wearing the
green velvet jacket and sombrero. This worthy had a pistol in one
hand and a knife in the other. The patrona was also there, with her
wolfish eyes and enormous Basque queue.
Outrage and assassination were impressed on the hard lines of all
their cruel and savage visages; and I perceived at once that without
a vigorous effort I was lost--that my life was forfeited; and all the
anticipations of newspaper paragraphs; "a mysterious disappearance"
in the "Times" and "Military Gazette," flashed upon my mind. I had
youth, a noble profession, many kind friends, my regiment, and home,
with "the best of expectations," as old dowagers say, on one hand; a
horrible and sudden death--a lonely scene of unknown butchery, on the
other!
I cocked the locks of my rifle, and resolutely removed the barricade
from the door.
"Take time, Juan Roa," said the patrona.
"Hold your tongue, old perra; I know well enough what I am doing,"
growled the personage in green, whom I now knew to be that terrible
outlaw, who since the Carlist war, had laughed at the carabineros and
alguazils, and kept all Malaga, the Sierra de Mija, and the Vega of
Granada astir and in terror.
Including the patrona, and the treacherous young rascal Pedrillo, I
had five desperate enemies, and only two bullets at their service.
"Let us prove whether the Inglese is asleep, before we enter," said
the patron, knocking at the door gently, and placing the candle
behind him.
"No answer--he is certainly asleep," whispered the patrona.
"Knock again," growled Juan Roa.
A smart blow was then given; but still I made no reply. Then the
patron applied his hand to the latch; but before he could open the
door, I fired right through the slender panels, and shot him dead by
one bullet, knocking over the ostler by the other, which he received
through his neck and shoulder.
Clubbing my rifle, I then rushed out; and charging them in the smoke
and confusion, dealt Juan Roa a tremendous blow with the butt end,
which levelled him beside the two ruffians who lay bleeding in the
narrow passage. Escaping a pistol shot from Juan, but receiving two
desperate cuts from the termagant patrona and the wasp Pedrillo, I
reached the end of the passage, sprang through the common hall, and
found the outer door fastened. By main strength I tore it open, and
reached the external gallery, over which I dropped, though it was
fully twelve feet from the ground; and, just as I did so, the boy
Pedrillo fired one of Juan's pistols after me; but I escaped it, and
ran down the mountain slope, loading my rifle as I went, and driving
a bullet home into each barrel.
Grey morning was spreading along the east, and the red flush of the
coming sun was brightening behind the dark towers of Gibral-Faro, and
sparkling on the lattices of Malaga. The aromatic plants were
putting forth their sweetest perfume, and the light foliage of the
sugar-cane, the cotton plant, and the citron tree, were shaking off
the heavy dews of night. The air was clear and cool; after the toils
of the past day, the sleepless night and its terrors, the fresh dewy
atmosphere revived me, and, dashing down the lonely mountain-side, I
reached a little puebla, and reported the whole affair to the officer
who there commanded a party of the carabineros of Antequera.
A sergeant and twenty troopers galloped away to the posada, which
they found completely deserted by all its living tenants; but they
hung the body of the patron upon a tree, burned the house to the
ground, and conveyed the mangled remains of poor Jack Hall to Malaga,
where they were interred next day, with all the honours of war, in
that corner of the Campo Santo which is appropriated for the burial
of strangers; and there the marines of the Blonde fired three volleys
over the grave, where as noble a heart as Her Majesty's service
possessed was committed to the earth of Spain.
An hour's examination before a magistrate, who swore me across my
sword as to the particulars, was all the judicial inquiry ever made;
we sailed next day, and reached Portsmouth, after a fine run, and
without any other mishaps; but I shall never forget that terrible
night among the mountains of Antequera, Martin Secco, his wife's
tail, and the horrors of La Posada del Cavallo.
Jack's adventure elicited a burst of applause, and was voted the
story of the evening, notwithstanding the great spice of the
miraculous and holy, which had seasoned the narrative of the Major
Don Joaquim.