THE HALT IN A CORK WOOD
Next morning betimes we left the venta of Castellar where, overnight,
we had spent so many pleasant hours. The Major Don Joaquim was very
curious to know the object of our mission to Seville, of which he
announced himself a well-known citizen; but we declined to state the
reason of our visit in uniform to that far-famed city; neither did we
mention that our business lay with no less a personage than the
captain-general of Los Cuatros Reinos.
In a country like Spain, where the people are so jealous of their
national honour and so revengeful, we did not conceive that it would
be conducive to our safety to state that we were the identical
officers whose affair with the guarda costa had caused so much
heartburning for some weeks past, and so much correspondence between
our governor and the minister Espartero; so, somewhat piqued by our
reserve, the major gave us a formal bow, and clambered into the
vehicle which was to convey him to Medina. We separated, the convoy
of calessos got into motion after much noise and vociferation on the
part of the drivers, the stable-boys, the hostalero, and the
passengers, who were all gabbling at once in full-toned Spanish as
they rolled away under the escort of a party of very ill-appointed
dragoons in the service of Donna Isabella la Catolica, while we rode
off in the opposite direction towards Alcala de los Gazules, a small
town, which lies on the Seville road, and through which we passed
soon after.
"Let us push on," said I, to interrupt Jack, who had been rallying me
pretty smartly about Donna Paulina, and vowing that all this affair
of a trip to Seville had been foreseen and preconcerted by me for the
purpose of meeting her again and continuing a flirtation which was a
source of great merriment to the regiment. "Let us push on, Jack,
for I feel very anxious----"
"To reach Seville, of course; but it won't run away; we shall find it
in its proper place on the left bank of the Guadalquiver."
"You mistake me. I was thinking how awkward it would be for us if
the Himalaya was to come round during our absence; and if on our
return we should find the whole regiment embarked and steaming away
for the Crimea."
"Awkward! I should think so, rather; but it is not likely they can
decamp in such a hurry. After all we heard last night about the
restless habits of the good people in these mountains, and their
vague or peculiar ideas regarding property, together with the
eccentricities of this Don Fabrique, do we not run a little risk in
proceeding without an escort?"
"There is risk, certainly; but our return is not to be thought of
till the duty is done."
"Of course not--what would the regiment say?"
"And what should we think of ourselves?"
"We are, I hope, a match for any six Spaniards, with our swords and
revolvers, in fighting; and with these good nags under us I should
think we are more than a match for them in flying. But the noon is
becoming so hot that I propose we should halt under that grove of
cork-trees and there take a siesta."
We halted accordingly at the base of a steep mountain chain, between
the cleft peaks of which a noonday-flood of yellow light was gushing.
Sterile, abrupt, and bare above us rose the ridgy rocks: the little
valley at the base was teeming with verdure and fertility, but it was
silent and solitary, for not a sound was heard save the murmur of a
stream which bubbled from a fissure in a vine-covered cliff. It
meandered between meadows of aromatic plants, and sought deep pools
over which the oleander and the bay threw their branches, and the
cool shady thickets of the dark wood of olive and cork-trees.
Just where we dismounted, we found a personage lounging on the grass.
He was smoking a cigar, and had a long gun beside him. Without
rising for a minute nearly, he scrutinised us and our horses with
marked curiosity. His costume was somewhat gay, being in the highest
style of the bull-ring, or that of a majo or dandified Spanish
ladrone, whose free aspect and gallant air make him the admiration of
the dark-eyed paisanas and the envy of their more peaceful male
relatives; for the majo is the bravo of our own time.
This personage wore an ample brown cloak, which hung loosely about
his shoulders, a black velvet sombrero, with a large tuft of black
plush on one side thereof, and under its deep rim his coal-black hair
fell in heavy locks, and his flashing eyes watched all our motions,
with an indescribable expression of stealth and suspicion. A long
knife and a pair of brass-butted pistols were in his gaudy sash; he
wore leathern gaiters, and was playing with the blade of a navaja, or
clasp-knife, about ten inches long--a deadly instrument, which the
Spaniard is never without, for therewith he cuts his 'carne' and
bread, or his bacallao in Lent, slices his melon in summer, and
slashes the face of any person with whom he may chance to differ in
opinion. Indeed, the visage of this lounger bore the very
unmistakable mark of a long slash which had once laid it open from
eye to chin. Beside him stood a beautiful Andalusian jennet, high of
head, and bold in chest; its gaily-fringed bridle was thrown over the
branch of an olive tree, and it was accoutred with a high-peaked
saddle of antique form, covered by a piece of white sheepskin, which
was spread also over a pair of holsters.
"Buenos dias, señor," said I; "a good morning--I fear we are
disturbing you."
"Not at all, señores--the greensward, the shadow of those trees, and
the waters of this stream, flowing from yonder sierra, belong to us
all in common. Sit down, señores, and halter your horses, as you see
I have haltered mine. You belong to the Gibraltar garrison, I
presume--right--you are Inglesos."
"No, Brittanicos," said I, with a smile.
"And whither go ye?"
"To Seville."
"Ah, would I were going with you: it is a place of joy and merriment,
Seville. The sun shines on it once every day of the year; yet I go
there but seldom. Allow me to make you each a cigarillo."
"With pleasure."
To have declined would have been an affront as great as to refuse a
proffered snuff-mull in the country of the clans. Our Spaniard
produced one of those little books of soft blank paper (almost the
only volumes used in Spain), and tore out three leaves; he then took
tobacco from his silk pouch and made up three little cigars very
neatly and adroitly; but twice during the operation I detected his
stealthy eyes scanning us from under his bushy eyebrows.
My little box of patent lights excited his wonder and admiration, as
he was about to exert his patience by having recourse to the
antiquated flint and steel. Then Jack Slingsby produced his
travelling flask; I brought forth mine, and the Spaniard had a
capacious bota of wine, a drinking cup of leather, a piece of
bacallao and biscuits; and we were just proceeding to lunch, when his
Andalusian jennet pricked up its ears and neighed uneasily.
"Maldito!" said our companion, as a scowl came over his visage and
his hand fell mechanically on the lock of his gun; "some one
approaches."
"An old woman on a donkey, and nothing more," said Slingsby,
carelessly; "amigo mio, you look as much alarmed as if you expected
the terrible Fabrique de Urquija, or Juan Roa of Antequera."
The keen eyes of the Spaniard flashed, and he looked at Jack as if he
would have pierced him through.
"I fear neither Don Fabrique nor any other man," said he gruffly; "a
woman on a burro--oh--it must be poor Sister Santa Veronica, of
Estrelo, a town about a league distant."
"How is she named so?" I asked.
"After the blessed Santa Veronica who wiped the pale face of our
Lord, when dying upon his cross," replied the Spaniard, lowering his
head; "and as she did so, on her kerchief there became impressed the
most wondrous of religious miracles--the Santa Faz--the holy
countenance of Jaen, where it is still preserved in our cathedral,
and from which the portraits of our Saviour are all taken; hence it
is that his sad and upturned face, with its crown of bloody thorns
and curling heard, and the long yellow hair parted over the smooth
pale brow, are so well known over all the Christian world."
As he spoke, an elderly woman, habited like a nun, in a coarse and
well-patched dress of black serge, with a hood of spotless white
linen folded across her brow and chin, and having its long ends
drooping lappetwise down her withered cheeks, rode up to us on a
donkey, which displayed--what one seldom sees in a Spanish
ass--evident signs of being ill-fed and ill-groomed. The nun, who
had a careworn, grave, and, though stern, not unpleasing expression
of face, carried a covered basket on her arm. Our companion sprang
to his feet, and, doffing his sombrero, hastened to meet her and to
hold the bridle of her animal.
She was abroad, as she told us, begging alms and food for the sisters
of her convent--ten ladies--all of whom were of noble rank, but the
most of whose kinsmen had fallen in battle under Don Ramon de
Cabrera, and thus left them friendless. They were now, by the
confiscation of the ecclesiastical revenues, and the seizure of those
sums which they had paid as a dowry into the convent treasury,
reduced to extreme penury in their old age, and were driven from
their pleasant convent in the beautiful vega of Jaen; since then they
had endeavoured to perform the duties of their order, and to serve
God, in a poor and half-ruined house, which belonged to a noble,
charitable. and religious lady, Donna Dominga de Lucena, y Colmenar
de Orieja, at Estrelo; and now would not the noble Caballeros give
something to the poor ladies of Santa Theresa, however small, for the
love of God and of blessed charity?
All this, which she prettily told, was addressed to us, rather than
to the stranger, at whom she glanced uneasily from time to time,
although he stood bare-headed, with the deepest respect, and holding
her burro by the bridle.
The circumstance of the sisterhood being befriended by the mother of
Donna Paulina would have sufficed to interest us, if the wrong done
them by the present Government of Spain had failed to do so. Our
purses were at once produced, and we respectfully raised our caps on
presenting the poor nun with a few pillared dollars, which no doubt
she little expected from two heretical Brittanicos.
They had been robbed of everything, she continued--at least, all save
their cases of reliques and the bones of Santa Theresa, which they
had borne on their shoulders in sad procession from Jaen to Estrelo;
and, moreover, they had lost the wonderful portrait of their
patroness, which had been seized and sold by those hijos de Luiz
Philipe, the men of the new administration; but it was no fault of
the present Queen of Spain, for poor Isabella la Catolica had wept
her eyes out in the cause of the poor monks and nuns. The señores
had, no doubt, heard of the wonderful portrait of the blessed Theresa?
In great sorrow we professed our ignorance thereof.
"Madre Mia! It was said to be an Alonzo Cano, and had narrowly
escaped the clutches of the Marshals Soult and Massena, when they
swept away the golden moidores of the Portuguese and the divine
Murillos of the Spaniards. It belonged to the chapel in which the
saint was baptized, and was quite as veritable and wonderful as the
holy countenance of Jaen, and was usually placed over the great
altar; but one day when the chapel was undergoing repair, it was
placed at the porch, where it was seen by a certain ruined
gamester--a savage and desperate fellow, worse than Juan Roa or Don
Fabrique, as he came past that way. In a fit of mad despair, having
just lost everything, he struck his dagger into the bosom of the
picture, from which there immediately gushed out a torrent of blood
in the sight of the terrified people; while a faint cry was heard in
the air, as of one in pain afar off."
"And the gamester?"
"Went raving mad and died, chained like a wild beast in the Gaza de
Locos of Jaen."
To our gift, our companion added a doubloon, a present so valuable
that it excited our surprise and kindled the fear of the poor nun,
who accepted it with reluctance, and, with abundance of genuflections
and thanks, whipped up her burro, which trotted away.
"Shall I not have the honour of escorting you to Estrelo, reverend
señora?" cried our friend, hurrying after her.
"Muchos gratias--no, no! a thousand thanks, señor," she replied,
hurriedly; "no one will molest a poor sister of Santa Theresa."
Her ill-concealed repugnance to receive his alms evidently impressed
the Spaniard, who seated himself in silence, and smoked with a sullen
expression, as if somewhat depressed by the whole affair; but Jack
Slingsby, who hated silence more than anything in the world, began to
make some casual inquiries as to whether or not the famous Urquija
had been heard of hereabout, and where he was generally to be found.
"Found," reiterated the Spaniard, with a frown of surprise; "he is
often found by those who least like such a discovery."
"So it seems," replied Jack, "and by the accounts we heard of him at
the--how do you name it?--the venta last night, he seems to be ripe
fruit for the gallows."
"Indeed," said the Spaniard, quietly making up another cigarillo,
"you are very loud, Señor Viajador, (traveller), in condemning this
poor son of Andalusia, this Don Fabrique; but you do so simply
because you know nothing about him; being, like most Englishmen,
totally ignorant of every country except your own portion of Britain,
and, believing that whatever is not English must be radically,
physically, and morally wrong, you have come among us predisposed to
ridicule and to condemn."
"The deuce!" said Jack, with an air of pique; "I beg to assure you,
my fine fellow, that I could tell you a story of a posada----"
"Enough, señor," replied the other, waving his hand with great
dignity of manner, while a savage gleam shot over his stealthy eyes;
"but allow me to inform you that a bandit--I do not mean a pitiful
picaro who steals purses and pocket-handkerchiefs on the prado, or a
swindling raterillo who cheats at cards, but an armed robber (and
here his hand struck the butt of his escopeta)--is a modern Spanish
hero, and the pretty paisana and the bluff muleteer sing of his
exploits in the same breath with those of Rodrigo de Bivar, the Cid
Campeador, Hernando de Cordova, and the chiefs of the war of
Independence, when we saw the fields of Vimiero, of Talavera and
Rorica; lend a new lustre to the names of Mina, of Murillo, and of
Wellington!"
"Very likely; but this Don Fabrique commits such devilish atrocities,
and all that sort of thing," urged Jack, closing with his incessant
phrase.
"Do you know why poor Fabrique took his gun and stiletto, and went to
the mountains?"
"Shall I tell you?"
"If you please."
"Listen. There was an abogado, a lawyer of Jaen, named Jacop el
Escribano, who married the aunt of Fabrique--an aunt who had been a
mother to him after his own died, or rather was murdered by the
Chapelgorri's. She tended him, reared him, loved and educated him at
Alcala, and he was to be her heir, for she was rich, and had mines of
quicksilver and cinnabar on the confines of Murcia; and her heir he
had every right to be, for other kindred she had none. Well, this
good aunt fell sick; those who were more than usually acute, or more
than usually evil-minded, said that the abogado had poisoned her
mentally and bodily. At all events he wrote out her will, which
bequeathed all her property to himself, whom failing, to a certain
Gil Jacop, his son by a former marriage, and to poor Fabrique, the
son of her dead brother, not a peseta, not a pistareen! This limb of
Satan and the law, succeeding in all his ends and objects, poisoned
her ears against the poor student of Alcala. Well, the aunt died.
Full of sorrow Fabrique hastened to his home to find the door of it
shut in his face, and the malicious abogado in possession of
everything, even to his aunt's snuff-box and armed chair. Our poor
student rushed to the Alcalde, who heard him with a smile of
incredulity--why? because he was the cousin of the abogado, and he,
too, shut his door in the face of Fabrique. Bursting with
indignation he sought the corregidor, to pour out anew the story of
his wrongs; but, ay de mi! the corregidor, a Commander of the Knights
of Calatrava, was to dine that day with the abogado, who had invited
half the city to feast, and weekly gave a magnificent tertulia in the
house of the dead woman.
"Fabrique lost all patience and, swore a dreadful vow of vengeance,
so the wise, just, and most illustrious corregidor expelled him from
the city, and by the alguazils he was driven forth by the Audujar
gate. His last money was in his pocket; so he bought a dagger and
musket, and shaking the dust off his feet at the puerta de Audujar,
he gathered together a band of gallant spirits who had followed Juan
Roa, and betook himself to the mountains, leaving the abogado in
possession of his aunt's house and her mines upon the Murcian
frontier."
"And did he enjoy them long?" I asked.
The Spaniard smiled grimly, and took a long quaff of the bota.
"You wish to know, señor?'
"Exceedingly."
"Listen. A week after these events our abogado disappeared from
Jaen, and no man knew whence he had gone, and few cared. A month
after, a poor wretch, half crazed and in rags, emaciated, pale and
hollow-cheeked by hunger, illness, agony, and wandering, and whose
vision had been destroyed by the simple application of a red-hot
ramrod, was found near a village of the Sierra de Ronda. It was
Jacop el Escribano--whose scribbling was at an end, and whose eyes
were closed on the world for ever."
"And his son, Gil Jacop?"
"Was found shot one fine morning at the corner of that road, just
where you see a rough wooden cross, erected by the curate in memory
of the affair, and to beg a prayer of every passer-by for the dead
man's sinful soul. The corregidor has thrice been robbed of all he
possessed--his rents, fees, and the revenue of his commanderie; and
the alcalde has quite as often been beaten to the very verge of
death. Evil-disposed people lay those things to the charge of Don
Fabrique; but I say nothing, having no opinion on the subject."
"Then you are afraid of him?" said Jack, laughing.
"Afraid--ha, ha!" said the Spaniard, taking up his long gun; "no--not
so much as you were afraid of Juan Roa and Martin Secco, on that
night in the 'Posada del Cavallo' at Malaga.
"How know you of that affair?" asked Jack, starting to his feet.
"Did I not hear it told at full length last night in the venta at
Castellar?"
"Were you there?" I inquired, with surprise.
"You saw a goatherd present--an old fellow with a sheep-skin dress, a
long beard, a crook, and bota."
"Yes."
"'T was I. Last night I was a goatherd, because it suited my purpose
to appear so, and to laugh at the terror of those miserable
soap-boilers on hearing the whistle of bullets in the Sierra; to-day
I am Fabrique de Urquija, the friend of poor Juan Roa; and had you
been less kind to that poor nun than you were, it was my intention to
have shot and robbed you both, which I could easily have done,
despite your swords and revolvers, your English impudence and cool
assurance. Vaya usted con Dios, and may you have a pleasant ride to
Seville; but attend more to the rules of common politeness when next
you speak of Urquija beyond the security of your own lines at
Gibraltar. I am not a bad fellow, señores, at times, though more apt
to take the advice of a curer of fish than a curer of souls in Lent."
With these words he leaped on his horse, and slinging his long gun by
his right leg, galloped into the cork wood, and disappeared.