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Phantom Regiment; or, Stories of "Ours"

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<h3> CHAPTER XIV. THE SPANISH STEAMER. </h3> Whatever may have been the emotions with which we regarded the formidable relative of our contrabandista, we spared him the humiliation of listening to the just appreciation we had of the character of Fabrique; and enlivened by those songs and stories with which the honest fellow endeavoured to raise our spirits and efface the terrible recollection of that hour upon the hills of Trohniona, we supped upon a guisado and bottle of valdepenas. Now I may inform the uninitiated that the aforesaid guisado was a stew, such as can only be made in a real Spanish pipkin. It consisted of two chickens, a plump partridge, and a hare, well seasoned with oil, garlic, pepper, and saffron all simmered together When hot and steaming, the giblets, &c., are fished up from the depths of the savoury pipkin, with just such a wooden spoon as paunchy Sancho used, when diving therewith into his beloved flesh-pots at the wedding of Camacho. Supper over, and a fresh bota ordered, Pedro assumed his guitar, and while we cleaned and examined our swords and pistols, and all the people of the posada, the patron and patrona, the waiteresses, the stabler, and the little half-naked muchaco who cleaned the boots and turned the spit, crowded near, he, the jovial contrabandista, turned his dark eyes and well-bearded visage towards the dusky wooden ceiling, and while his swarthy cheek glowed in the light of the kitchen fire, struck up one of those lively seguidillas which are the delight of the Spaniards, and skilfully he brushed the strings with his finger-points in a manner which I believe is peculiar to the Andalusians. A very amorous love ditty succeeded, and when the roguish eyes of Pedro wandered knowingly from one person to another, the patrona blushed with pleasure, and all the waiteresses simpered and spread out their short but full-flounced skirts, or displayed their handsome red stockings, to let their well-shaped legs be seen, as well as their pretty zapatas; for the roving and romantic contrabandista, whose habits are so full of life and energy, is ever a welcome guest at the wayside inns of Spain, and to none more than their fairer inmates. Now Pedro's gaudy brown jacket, all covered with silver bell-buttons, bright silken lace, and spangles; his ample breeches of gay velveteen; his brilliant sash and broad hat placed a little over the right eye, made him a welcome visitor to all the women, while the stories, news, or fibs which his incessant perambulations afforded him ample means of collecting, made him equally acceptable to the men; thus, like other bold contrabandistas, who by sea and land set the laws of the Cortes at defiance, Pedro was always sure of the brightest smiles, the oldest wine in the cellar, the best fowl in the larder, the warmest corner by the kitchen fire, and the most snug cama in the posada, while pretty hands stroked his docile jennet, and readier ones removed his corded packages, and placed his guitar and loaded gun by his bedside for the night. Pedro's songs, and the stories he told during the single night we spent with him, would fill a volume; but the time passed rapidly away; we were up betimes, mounted and armed to ride; and with something of real satisfaction, Jack and I turned our backs on those hated mountains, where a thicket of green laurels, diminished to a black speck by the distance, indicated the locality of the Rio de Muerte. Trotting pleasantly, we passed Isla-mayor, which lies about twelve miles from the mouth of the Guadalquiver, and abounds in fruit-trees, which were then in full blossom. By this time, Paulina, her dark eyes, and her witchery were alike forgotten, and her little note on pink paper had been smoked away in cigaritos. The keen interest taken in our affairs by the major had completely cured me; so much for Spanish romance contrasted with Spanish reality. "And you have decided on taking the steamer at San Lucar, señores?" said Pedro. "Yes, and happy shall we be to find ourselves safe on board of her," said I; "we have had too many devilish scrapes among you Spaniards to wish for more travelling in the saddle. It is no joke to escape being hanged as a spy by a blundering alcalde one day, and a terrible death the next by drowning, at the hands of——" "My brother Fabrique," said he, good-humouredly, closing a sentence, the termination of which might have proved unpleasant. "Well, señores, my little felucca the 'Buena Fortuna'—you know her, with her long brass gun and lateen sails—is lying concealed in a solitary creek near Carbonera. I have run her in there, because a fleet—yes, maldito—a whole fleet of guarda costas are at anchor in the harbour of San Lucar; but we must put to sea to-morrow night, and if you will so far honour me, Caballeros, as to accept a passage with me to Gibraltar, the best valdepenas and the noblest Xeres that ever came out of a madre-butt shall be at your service. Ah, you shake your head, Señor Don Ricardo, and think you have had enough of me and my poor little craft——" "Right, Pedro, and wish to have no more affairs with a guarda costa," said Slingsby; "besides, if you were attacked and taken at sea, after a fight, you would fight, of course——" "To the death, Señor, guerra al cuchillo, as the old guerillas say." "Well—what would be our fate?" "True, señor. If not killed, you would be sent to the galleys at Barcelona, and so might as well have taken a dip in the Rio de Muerte. Well, I will cease to urge you. Here is the gate of Bonanza, which may be termed the port of Seville, though the city is fifteen leagues distant; yonder is its castle, with the Spanish flag flying, and here is the quay, where all large vessels laden with goods discharge their cargoes, as the shallowness of the Guadalquiver will not permit them to ascend higher—you understand, señores?" Here at this small town we bade farewell to Pedro, who promised to visit us as soon as he came round to Gibraltar; and pushing on, after a trot of a mile or two over a dreary and sandy waste, we found ourselves amid the sunny and bustling streets of San Lucar de Barameda, where we sought at once its harbour, the quays of which were, as usual, piled chin deep with boxes of oranges, of raisins, and of prunes, casks of salt, of wine, and of brandy; while the flags of all nations—the stars and stripes of North America, the eagles and tricolours of the South, the union jack and the crosses of Scandinavia—were waving among a forest of masts; in short, we found ourselves amid all the noise and lively stir of a Spanish seaport, where the splash of the screw propeller furrowed the waters of the Guadalquiver, and the steam, as it escaped at times, was like music to us, who had just eluded the fangs of Fabrique's mountain wolves. We soon found the boat for Gibraltar, "Neustra Señora de Assistencia," and embarked ourselves and our horses, which were taken on board in stalls, that were slung from a whip at the yard-arm; and in an hour after, muffled in our cloaks, with choice cubas to solace us, we lounged on the paddle gangway as the vessel steamed out of the harbour between the two castles of San Lucar—the same fortresses which saluted the little fleet of Columbus, when departing in search of a western world—and passed the roadstead and the dangerous entrance, where the wild waves are ever beating in tumult; and thus we left the port enveloped in a golden haze and diminishing astern, as the sun set behind the mountain peaks of Seville. The bay of Cadiz soon opened on our larboard bow, and the city itself, with all its lights and spires, and then the Isla de Leon arose before us, white and glimmering in the moonlight. The silver waves seemed to toy with the golden sand, as their coy riplets chafed the beach; but in other places the moonlit sea dashed its spray like showers of diamonds and prisms against the abutting rocks. Overhead, the dark blue sky was clear and cloudless, save where a long black pennon of wavy smoke streamed far astern from the glowing funnel of "Our Lady of Assistance," and all was still save the ceaseless and monotonous dashing of the paddle-wheels, and the measured clank of the engines, as we ploughed along the lovely Spanish shore, and towards midnight saw that point of land on which no Briton can gaze without an emotion of pride, the Cape of Trafalgar. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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