Читать книгу The Phantom Regiment; or, Stories of "Ours" - James Grant - Страница 9

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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.