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Phantom Regiment; or, Stories of "Ours"

<h3> CHAPTER IV. THE VENTA. </h3> We had left the dull world of matter-of-fact behind us, and were now in the land of romance, where, save the invention of cigars and musket locks, all was unchanged since the days of Charles V.; for while all the world moves around her, Spain alone stands still, torpid and unchanging as her unclouded sun and mighty mountain Sierras. On reaching Castellar we expected to receive an escort from the officer commanding a troop of cavalry quartered there, a necessary protection against the banditti of Fabrique de Urquija, whose name was now a terror to Andalusia. It was a Spanish day; the air was clear, ambient, and pure as light; the sky was cloudless, and exhibited a deep immensity of blue, rendering the most distant objects visible in the blaze of the soaring sun, that whitened the rocks and the narrow horse path we pursued; while the dark pine branches and the light cork trees were unstirred by a breath of wind. We passed through San Roque, a town of some importance to Spain, since Sir George Rooke in 1704 took Gibraltar, which was almost the only acquisition of the English arms until the union with Scotland, and consequent consolidation of the naval and military resources of the two kingdoms. After leaving it, our route lay through that beautiful forest of cork trees which spreads over a great part of the country, and borders on the bay of Gibraltar. At Venla we passed several strings of galley slaves, who were chained together, and at work upon the road. As we trotted past, they paused to glare at us, and their dark sparkling eyes shone through the tangled masses of their jetty hair, which was the sole covering of their heads alike under the winter rain and the scorching summer sun. At Castellar we were disappointed in our expected escort, as the cavalry had marched to Seville, so we halted at a venta, or inn, and were strongly advised by the hostalero, or keeper, to tarry with him awhile, for the approaching night at least, as several outrages had lately been committed in the neighbourhood, and a band of broken Carlist soldiers and runaway galley slaves had hovered for some time in the Sierra de Ronda, making themselves the terror of all the country from Cortes to Vente Quemada. "Disparate," said I; "nonsense!" "A sly trick to get us to stay over night," said Slingsby, as he took a long draught of Xeres and cold water, and renewed his attack on the boiled fowl, which was all the patron could as yet provide for us. "Madre maria purissima!" said the latter, turning up his glossy black eyes; "may you be forgiven your incredulity; but, señores, did you not remark the number of crosses by the wayside as you came along?" "We did," said Jack; "and what then?" "Each one marks the scene of some 'novedad.'" "Novelty—a new term for a murder, Señor Patron?" "And the poles, with robbers' heads on them?" "I observed one," said I. "And singular to say, a bird had built its nest in it," added Jack; "it was a mere skull." "One—madre de Dios—are there not a hundred? yet, señores, you could not ride without an escort, even so far as Alcala—the thing is not to be thought of." "What think you of all this sort of thing, Ramble?" asked Slingsby. Before I could reply, a loud cracking of whips, the creaking of ill-greased wheels, and the clamour of voices were heard. On this the hostalero cried,— "It is the convoy already—the convoy from Marbella to Medina—your graces will excuse me." He hurried away, and in a minute after came breathlessly back with intelligence that it had been fired on by Don Fabrique with at least fifty thousand banditti, at Benelauria, near the foot of the Sierra, and but for a case of reliques carried by a padre of Medina, every soul must have perished; but would not the noble señores come down stairs, and count the bullet-holes in the pannels? "The bullet-holes!" "By Jove, this affair becomes interesting," said Slingsby, and we descended to the inn-yard, where we found ourselves amid a Babel of tongues and dire confusion. Let the reader imagine four calessos, all painted in bright stripes of red and yellow, the royal colours of Spain, each with pannels full of glaring flowers and absurd miraculous pictures, a body like a cabriolet, supported on a ponderous under-carriage with high wheels, all splashed with mud. Each calesso was drawn by two mules, the collars and bridles of which were covered with clear jangling bells. These were each driven by a Jehu who wore all the brilliant colours of the rainbow in his jacket, sash, breeches, and embroidered leggings. These four calessos were full of passengers. There were soap-boilers and potters of Seville, sleek, well fed, and in easy circumstances; the old padre, José Torquemada, the curate of Medina, in a broad hat and long black cassock buttoned to the throat; over his shoulders he wore a broad cape, and in his hands were his beads, breviary, and the case of reliques which had just been of such signal service. There were several cotton manufacturers on their way to Cadiz; but all—save a military man who wore a green surtout and forage cap laced with gold—most unwarlike personages to meet a party of robbers in a Spanish sierra. The drivers, we were told, were singing merrily, the bells were jangling, the passengers all smoking, chatting, and laughing, as they entered a defile in the hills, when suddenly the rocks and trees which overhung the rough path were found to be manned— "Don Fabrique de Urquija!" was the cry, shots were fired—maladito! and the escort, which consisted of a sergeant and four dragoons of the Spanish army, turned their horses and fled at full speed, leaving the convoy to the mercy of the outlaws, who captured the rear calesso, cut its springs, shot the driver, and had retained it with all its contents and passengers. The other four had escaped, and came thundering down the narrow path to Castellar with all their passengers shouting with terror, the mules galloping, the bells jangling, and every vehicle plunging like a ship in a storm. "Morte de Dios!" added the military personage, whom they called Don Joaquim, and from whom we had this account; "it was a narrow escape, for Urquija is a very Tartar—a blood-drinker! You belong to the British service, señores, I presume?" "Yes," said I. "To the garrison in Gibraltar, of course?" "Of course; we have no other garrison in Spain." "And you are on leave, señores?" "Si, señor, on leave, and going to Seville," said I, conceiving that to tell our real object to this inquisitive officer might not be conducive to the cultivation of mutual good-will. "I also am an officer," said he, bowing; "and belong to the Portuguese service—Major in the ancient Regiment of St. Anthony." "But you are a Spaniard," said I. "The señor is right; but my father was tied to a post one fine morning, and shot by Don Ramon de Cabrera; it gave me a disgust at Spain, for I saw it done, so I entered the service of Portugal. Come, hombres, I am glad to meet two brothers of the sword; we shall have a fresh bota of Xeres, and be comfortable for the night. After this devilish piece of work, the convoy cannot proceed without an escort; it must halt till morning, so let us all be happy together. I shall be in Seville myself ere long, and hope to have the pleasure of meeting you there." Don Joaquim seemed to be about thirty-five years of age; in figure he was somewhat short and punchy, his face was round and good-humoured, though at times it became stern, sinister, and almost fierce, if anything excited him. His hair was shorn short, but his moustaches were long and lanky, and hung over his mouth like black leeches, imparting to his face an aspect not unlike the old portraits of Philip II. His light-green military surtout, like his scarlet trousers, was edged with gold lace, and he wore an enormous sabre, which clattered in a scabbard of polished brass. At a button-hole hung a little order of merit; the bag, or end of his forage-cap, drooped upon his right shoulder; his mouth was never without one of those paper cigaritos of which he was constantly employed in the manufacture from a little paper book and tobacco bag; and now I hope the reader sees before him, or her, Major Don Joaquim of the Regiment of St. Anthony, otherwise styled of Lagos. 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. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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