Читать книгу The Phantom Regiment; or, Stories of "Ours" - James Grant - Страница 7

The hostalero was in high spirits at the arrival of so much good company, and being assured of their detention for at least a night or two before the escort could join them, he bustled about, applauding, vociferating, and directing, while getting their baggage, portmanteaux, and bales under cover, ever and anon pausing to count or draw attention to seven or eight bullet perforations which had been made in the calesso panels, to the great perturbation of the "easy-going" soap-boilers and "well-to-do" cotton merchants, who had no taste or predilection for such matters, and could not see how or why Don Joaquim considered it such "a capital joke," that one had received a bullet through his hat; another had received one through the collar of his coat; and that a third had his cigar—demonio—the very cigar carried out of his teeth!

Soon we were all grouped together, some thirty or so of us, in the large apartment of the venta, some seated on stools, others on chairs, but many on piles of baggage; bottles of vinto tinto, and skins of the common wine, were set abroach; fresh cigars were made up from those little pouches and paper books which every Spaniard and Turk carry about with him; Don Joaquim produced his guitar, and favoured the company with a song. To my surprise it was Paulina's—"Pues por bisarte Minguillo"—and we all became merry and noisy. The soap-boiler forgot the hole in his sombrero; the potter, the dangerous mode in which he had lost his cigar, even the old padre José relaxed his grim solemnity, and slily relaxed the lower buttons of his long cassock, to make more room for supper and the purple contents of the thrice-blessed bota; while the patrona, a buxom dame in a short skirt and scarlet stockings, and wearing large silver ear-rings, superintended the cooking of a vast dish of ham and eggs—'huevos y tocino'—from which the fragrant steam went hissing up the chimney, while the drivers in their gaudy jackets sat near the glowing hearth, chewing biscuits and bacalao, or roasting the sputtering chestnuts, joining in our jokes and stories, while the happy hostalero bustled about, superintending everything and everybody.

The company of the convoy soon recovered from the terror of their late adventure, and anxious speculations or terrible surmises as to the fate of their captured friends, sobered down into hopes that they would soon join us; but the ruddy evening deepened on the beautiful mountains of the Ronda; the darkening peaks threw their shadows on the vine-clad plains, the stars began to gleam in the dark blue vault, and the last slice of ham and egg had sent its fragrance up he wide chimney, but no fugitive reached the now closed and barricadoed gate of the venta at Castellar.

As one may easily suppose, the late occurrence caused the conversation to run very much upon robbers and their exploits; thus we heard stories of wanton cruelty sufficient to make the hair of a well-regulated Briton stand erect on end; but as these tales closely resembled the common stock of robber narratives, especially such as we are told by romancers, who have been smitten with what has been termed the bandittiphobia, I will not attempt to rehearse them all. One or two of these relations struck me as having something peculiar in them.

"I was once passing through Antequera," began the venerable José Torquemada, "that city so famed for robbers and picaros—

"Ay de mi! señor padre," said a goatherd of Honda, "it was once famed lor something better."

"True, my child," replied the old priest, approvingly; "for it was there Don Ferdinand the Just, the valiant Infante of Castile, in the fifteenth century, founded the noble order of the Jar of Lilies, in honour of our Blessed Lady, by whose aid his good and valiant knights stormed the city from the Moors, and slew fifteen thousand of those God-abandoned infidels. Ah mi hijo! it was something to be a Spaniard then! But to return; I was once passing through that same city of Antequera, when I had an adventure with Don Fabrique—

"With Fabrique de Urquija?" exclaimed all, drawing nearer the padre and lowering their voices.

"Ave Maria!" exclaimed Don Joaquim, "this must indeed be something worth hearing."

"The more so, as I realised a pretty round sum by it," continued the priest. "You all know Antequera, señores, a handsome town on the plain between Granada and Seville, and situated in a land that teems with oil and wine. One night when the hour was late, and no moon had risen, I was passing through the great street which leads to the old Moorish castle, and counting ever and anon in the pocket of my cassock three poor pistareens, which were all I possessed, but which I was hastening to bestow upon a poor widow. Her husband, a brave guerilla, had been taken in a skirmish at the Pena de los Enamorados (or Lover's Rock), which stands a league from Antequera, and, after a brave resistance, had been bound with cords, and shot that morning in the Plaza—"

"By the Count de Morella?" cried Don Joaquim.

"Yes, by Cabrera."

"Bah—I thought so," said the major, grinding his teeth; "proceed, reverend padre."

"The little pistareens were all I had in the world, and when I thought of the poor widow and her six children weeping by the corpse of their unburied father, and unable to buy masses for his sinful soul, I paused to gaze at the old castle of the Moors, and sighed to know the secret of the treasures that lay hid among its ruins; and then I craved pardon of Madonna for the thought, as all the gold of the infidels is buried under the spell of such enchantment as no man may break and live.

"Well, señores, I was just thinking of these strange things when a hand was laid heavily upon my shoulder; I turned, and by the light of a shrine at the corner of a street, saw a dark face and a tall figure girdled by a scarlet sash full of daggers and pistols.

"'Who are you,' I asked fearlessly.

"'Fabrique de Urquija.'

"'Go, go,' said I, feeling my heart leap at the name; 'I am but a poor priest, and can give you nought but my blessing.'

"'Your blessing be hanged! señor padre, hand over all you possess, or by the Holy Face of Jaen,'—and grinding his teeth he grasped a poniard.

"'As I live I possess nothing but my cassock and these poor little pistareens which are for a widow and her starving children.'

"'Then off with the cassock, and give me the pistareens to boot. Your garment I must have, for I mean to play the priest to-night, and visit a dame whom I may make a widow, too, some of these days.'

"In vain I begged him to leave me the pistareens, but this demon of avarice only laughed, and touching his pistols said,—

"'Quick, quick, and here take my jacket and maldito, begone without looking behind you.'

"The exchange was soon made; with a hoarse laugh the robber thrust himself into my threadbare cassock, and with loathing I drew on his old velvet jacket, which was tattered and full of holes. He then bade me farewell with mock solemnity; and glad to escape so easily I hastened away, but had not gone many yards when I heard the voice of the terrible Urquija commanding me to 'stop;' and believing that, repenting of his clemency, he only meant to poniard me, I turned and fled with all the spaed of my poor old legs, fervently invoking the saints, and praying to Madonna that the vision of the sacrilegious pursuer might be obscured, and that I might escape.

"'Come back, padre, come back, there is a mistake,' I heard him crying; 'por vida del demonio, stop, or it will be the worse for you!'

"But, blessed be Heaven, I escaped and reached the humble house of the widow, where her little ones gathered round me, and sought to clutch as usual the long skirts of my cassock; but, ay de mi, they were gone, and with them my pistareens, so that I was without the means of buying bread for the children of the dead guerilla.

"What shall I do!" thought I, and mechanically felt the pocket of the jacket; it contained something hard: what is this! I pulled it forth, and Madre Maria! found the sudden cause of the robber's oaths, pursuit, and vociferations, for by the exchange of our apparel I had become the possessor of one hundred golden pistoles!

"I had never held so much money in my hands before; find for a long time I was quite bewildered how to dispose of such a treasure. First I made the hearts of the widow and her little ones glad, and the rest I bestowed on the poor old nuns of St. Theresa, who had just been stripped of all they possessed in the world, and were begging their bread in the public streets of Antiquera—thanks to the liberal Government of Spain."

The idea of the robber so egregiously outwitting himself occasioned great satisfaction among all the listeners; the goatherd was so delighted that he thrice flung his hat up to the ceiling, and aloud 'viva' greeted the old padre as he finished his little story.

"I once had a more narrow escape than yours, Padre José," said the Major Don Joaquim, "and but for the intervention of the blessed St. Anthony of Portugal whose brother officer I have the felicity to be, I had not had the happiness of addressing you all to-night, or enjoying these roasted castanos, or the most excellent vino tinto of the worthy señor patron."

"Through the intervention of San Antonio," exclaimed all present; "do tell us, señor oficial, all about this."

"You have heard of St. Anthony, señores?" said the major to us.

"One of the seven champions of Christendom, who broke enchantments, fought with giants, and did all that sort of thing," said Slingsby; "of course, who has not heard of him?"

"Ah, who, indeed?" said the major.

His words smacked of a miracle, and every one present became at once interested. Lighting a fresh cigar, and replenishing his wine-horn from the big-bellied leathern bota, the major pushed his red forage cap a little more on one side, fixed his dark eyes on the glowing embers, and, with all the air of a man who is rallying his forces to tell an interesting narrative, began in the following words.