Various
Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 59, No. 363, January, 1846
"I will tell you," said Paco, "but in some more private place than this."
"Let us be gone," said the gipsy.
And as the first of the soldiers re-entered the field, the two men passed through a gap in the hedge that bounded it, and were lost to view in the adjacent thicket.
It was about an hour after sunset, and contrary to what is usual at that season and in that country, the night was dark and cloudy. A slight mist rose from the fields surrounding the village, and a fine rain began to fall. In the guard-room adjoining the house in which Luis Herrera was prisoner, the soldiers on duty were assembled round a rickety table, on which a large coarse tallow candle, stuck in a bottle, flared and guttered, and emitted an odour even more powerful than that of the tobacco smoke with which the room was filled. The air was heavy, the heat oppressive, and both the house-door and that of the guard-room, which was at right angles to it, just within the passage, were left open. Whilst some few of the men, their arms crossed upon the table, and their heads laid upon them, dozed away the time till their turn for going on sentry should arrive, the sergeant and the remainder of the guard, including a young recruit who had only two days before deserted from the Christinos and been incorporated in a Carlist battalion, consumed successive measures of wine, to be paid for by those who were least successful in a trial of skill that was going on amongst them. This consisted in drinking de alto, as it is called – literally, from a height, and was accomplished by holding a small narrow-necked bottle at arm's length above the head, and allowing the wine to flow in a thin stream into the mouth. In this feat of address the new recruit, whose name was Perrico, was so successful as to excite the envy of his less dexterous rivals.
"Pshaw!" said the sergeant, who, in a clumsily executed attempt, had inundated his chin and mustache with the purple liquid – "Pshaw!" said he, on seeing the deserter raise his bottle in the air and allow its contents to trickle steadily and noiselessly down his expanded gullet; "Perrico beats us all."
"No wonder," said a soldier, "he is from the country where Grenache and Tinto are more plentiful than water, and where nobody drinks in any other way, or ever puts a glass to his lips. He is a Catalan."
"An Arragonese," hastily interrupted Perrico, eager to vindicate himself from belonging to a province which the rough manners and harsh dialect of its inhabitants cause generally to be held in small estimation throughout the rest of Spain. "An Arragonese, from the siempre heroica Sarragossa."
"It's all one," said the sergeant, with a horse-laugh, "all of the corona de Aragon, as the Catalans say when they are ashamed of their country. But what induced you, Don Perrico, being from Sarragossa, where they are all as revolutionary as Riego, to leave the service of the Neapolitan woman and come over to Charles V.?"
"Many things," answered the deserter. "In the first place, I am of a thirsty family. My father kept a wine-shop and my mother was a cantiniera, and both drank as much as they sold. I inherited an unfortunate addiction to the wine-skin, which upon several occasions has brought me into trouble and the black-hole. The latter did not please me, and I resolved to try whether I should not find better treatment in the service of King Charles."
"Not if you have brought your thirst with you," answered the sergeant. "Zumalacarregui does not joke in matters of discipline; so, if your thirst troubles you here, I advise you to quench it at the pump. But that will be the easier, as neither wine nor money are likely to be over-abundant with us."
At this moment, and before Perrico could reply to the sergeant's warning, the sentry in front of the house suspended his walk and uttered a sharp "Quien vive?"
"Carlos Quinto," was the reply.
Another password was exchanged, and then a step was audible in the passage, and the bandaged head and pale face of Paco appeared at the door of the guard-room. The muleteer was received with a cry of welcome from the soldiers.
"Hurra!" cried the sergeant, "here is your match, Perrico. No Catalan or Arragonese, but jolly Navarro. A week's pay to a wet cartridge, he empties this bottle de alto without spilling a drop."
And he held out one of the small bottles before mentioned, which contained something like an English pint. Paco took it, raised it as high as he could in the air, and gradually depressing the neck, the wine poured out in a slender and continuous stream, which the muleteer, his head thrown back, caught in his mouth. The bottle was emptied without a single drop being spilt, or a stain appearing on the face of the drinker.
"Bravo, Paco!" cried the soldiers.
"Could not be better," said Perrico.
"You are making a jolly guard of it," said Paco. "Wine seems as common as ditch-water amongst you. Who pays the shot?"
"I!" cried the sergeant, clapping his hand on his pocket, which gave forth a sound most harmoniously metallic. "I have inherited, friend Paco; and, if you like to sit down with us, you shall drink yourself blind without its costing on an ochavo."
"'Twould hardly suit my broken head," returned the muleteer. "But from whom have you inherited? From the dead or the living?"
"The living to be sure," replied the sergeant, laughing. "From a fat Christino alcalde, with whom I fell in the other morning upon the Salvatierra road. His saddle-bags were worth the rummaging."
"I can't drink myself," said Paco; "but let me take out a glass to poor Blas, who is walking up and down, listening to the jingle of the bottles, as tantalized as a mule at the door of a corn-store."
"Against the regulations," said the sergeant. "Wait till he comes off sentry, and he shall have a skin-full."
"Pooh!" said Paco, "cup of wine will break no bones, on sentry or off."
And taking advantage of the excellent humour in which his potations had put the non-commissioned officer, he filled a large earthen mug with wine, and left the room.
The sentinel was leaning against the house-wall, his coat-skirt wrapped round the lock of his musket to protect it from the drizzling rain, and looking as if he would gladly have exchanged his solitary guard for a share in the revels of his comrades, when Paco came out, the cup of wine in his hand, and whistling in a loud key a popular Basque melody. The soldier took the welcome beverage from the muleteer, unsuspicious of any other than a friendly motive on the part of Paco, raised it to his lips, and drank it slowly off, as if to make the pleasure of the draught as long as possible. Thus engaged, he did not observe a man lurking in the shadow of an opposite barn, and who, taking advantage of the sentinel's momentary inattention, and of the position of Paco, who stood so as to mask his movements from the soldier, glided across the street, darted into the house, and, passing unseen and unheard before the open door of the guard-room, nimbly and noiselessly ascended the stairs.
The sentinel drained the cup to the last drop, returned it to Paco, gave a deep sigh of satisfaction, and began marching briskly up and down. Paco re-entered the guard room, and placed the cup upon the table.
The wine was beginning to make visible inroads on the sobriety of some of the soldiers, and the propriety of putting an end to the debauch occurred to the non-commissioned officer.
"Come, boys," cried he, "knock off from drinking, or you'll hardly go through your facings, if required."
"Only one glass more, sergeant," cried Perrico. "There is still a pleasant tinkle in the borracha."
And he shook the large leathern bottle which held the supply of wine.
"Only one more, then," said the sergeant, unable to resist the temptation, and holding out his glass. Perrico filled it to the brim, and afterwards did the same for three soldiers who still kept their places at the table, the others having composed themselves to sleep upon the benches round the room. For himself, however, as Paco, who stood behind him, had opportunity of observing, the deserter poured out little or nothing, though he kept the cup at his lips as long as if he were drinking an equal share with his comrades.
"Now," said the sergeant, thumping his glass upon the table, "not another drop. And you, Master Perrico, though your father did keep a wine-shop, and your mother carry the brandy-keg, let me advise you to put your head under the fountain, and then lie down and sleep till your turn for sentry. It will come in an hour or two."
"And where shall I be posted?" hiccuped Perrico, who, to all appearance, began to feel the effects of the strong Navarrese wine.
"Under the prisoners' window," was the reply, "where you will need to keep a bright look-out. I would not be in your jacket for a colonel's commission if they were to escape during your guard. To-morrow's firing-party would make a target of you."
"No fear," replied the young man. "I could drink another azumbre and be none the worse for it."
"Fanfarron!" said the sergeant; "you talk big enough for an Andalusian, instead of an Arragonese."
And so saying, the worthy sergeant walked to the door of the house to cool his own temples, which he felt were somewhat of the hottest, in the night air. Paco wished him good-night; and lighting a long thin taper, composed of tow dipped in rosin, at the guard-room candle, ascended the stairs to his own dormitory.
The room, or rather kennel, appropriated to the lodging of the muleteer, was a triangular garret already described, formed by the ceiling of the upper story and the roof of the house, which rose in an obtuse angle above it. Its greatest elevation was about six feet, and that only in the centre, whence the tiles slanted downwards on either side to the beams by which the floor was supported. The entrance was by a step-ladder, and through a trap-door, against which, when he reached it, Paco gave two very slight but peculiar taps. Thereupon a bolt was cautiously withdrawn, and the trap raised; the muleteer completed the ascent of the steps, entered the loft, and found himself face to face with Jaime the gipsy.
"Did no one see you?" said Paco, in a cautious whisper.
"No one," replied the esquilador, reseating himself upon Paco's bed, from which he had risen to give admittance to the muleteer. The bed consisted of a wooden catre, or frame, supporting a large square bag of the coarsest sackcloth, half full of dried maize-leaves, and having a rent in the centre, through which to introduce the arm, and shake up the contents. The only other furniture of the room was a chair with a broken back. On the floor lay the gipsy's wallet, and his abarcas, which he had taken off to avoid noise during his clandestine entrance into the house. The gipsy himself was busy tying slip-knot at the end of a stout rope about seven or eight yards long. Another piece of cord, of similar length and thickness, lay beside him, having much the appearance of a halter, owing to the noose already made at one of its extremities. The tiles and rafters covering the room were green with damp, and, through various small apertures, allowed the wind and even the rain to enter with a facility which would have rendered the abode untenable for a human inhabitant during any but the summer season. In one of the slopes of the roof was an opening in the tiles, at about four feet from the floor, closed by a wooden door, and large enough to give egress to a man. To this opening Paco now pointed.
"Through there," said he.
The gipsy nodded.
"The roof is strong," continued Paco, "and will bear us well. We creep along the top till we get to the chimney at the further end, just above the window of the prisoner's room. I have explained to you what is then to be done."
"It is hazardous," said the gipsy. "If a tile slips under our feet, or the sentries catch sight of us, we shall be picked off the house-top like sparrows."
"Perfectly true," said Paco; "but the tiles will not slip, and the night is too dark for the sentries to see us. Besides, friend Jaime, ten ounces are not to be earned by saying paternosters, or without risk."
"Risk enough already," grumbled the gipsy. "At this hour I ought to be five leagues away, and if he, on whose service I was bound, finds out that I have tarried, no tree in the sierra will be too high to hang me on."
"You must hope that he will not find it out," said Paco, coolly.
"Did you give the prisoner a hint of our plan?" enquired the gitano.
"I was unable. I visit him but once a-day, to take him his rations, and that at noon. Since I arranged this plan, I endeavoured to get admittance to him, but was repulsed by the sentry. To have insisted would have excited suspicion. He knows, however, that he is to be shot to-morrow, and is not likely to be asleep."
Just then the deep sonorous bell of the neighbouring church-clock struck the hour. The two men listened, and counted ten strokes.
"Is it time?" said the gipsy, who had completed the noose upon the second rope.
"Not yet," replied Paco; "let another hour strike. Till then, not another word."
The muleteer extinguished the light and seated himself down upon the broken chair; the gipsy stretched himself upon the bed, and all was silent and dark in the garret. Gradually, the slight murmuring sounds which still issued from various houses of the little village became hushed, as the inmates betook themselves to rest; and Paco, who waited with anxious impatience till the moment for action should arrive, heard nothing but the heavy breathing of the esquilador, who had sunk into a restless slumber. Half-past ten was tolled; the challenging of the sentries was heard as they were visited by the rounds; and then soon afterwards came the long-drawn admonition of "Sentinela alerta!" from the main guard, replied to in sharp quick tones by the "Aleria esta" of the sentries. At length eleven struck, and when the reverberation of the last stroke had died away, Paco rose from his chair, and shook his companion from his sleep.
"It is time," said he.
The gipsy started up.
"The money?" was his first question.
Paco placed a small bag in the esquilador's hand, which closed eagerly upon it.
"I promised you ten ounces," said the muleteer, "and you have them there. When you bring me a line in the handwriting of the prisoner, dated from a Christino town, you shall receive a like sum. But beware of playing false, gitano. Others, more powerful than myself, are concerned in this affair, and will know how to punish treachery."
The gipsy made no reply, but feeling for his wallet, put his sandals and one of the ropes into it, and fastened it on his shoulders. Paco slipped off his shoes, twisted the other rope round his body, and opening the door in the tiles, in an instant was on the top of the house. The esquilador followed. Upon their hands and feet the two men ascended the gradual slope of the roof till they reached the ridge in its centre, upon which they got astride, and worked themselves slowly and silently along towards that end of the building in which Herrera was confined. Owing to the profound darkness, and to the extreme caution with which Paco, who led the way, proceeded, their progress was very gradual, and at last an actual stop was put to it by a small but solidly-built stone chimney which rose out of the summit, and within a foot of the extremity of the house. Paco untwisted the rope from round his body and handed it to the gipsy, retaining one end in his hand. The esquilador fixed the noose about his middle, and altering his position, passed Paco, scrambled round the chimney, and seated himself on the verge of the roof, his legs dangling over. Paco gave a turn of the rope round the chimney, and then leaning forward from behind it, put his mouth to the gipsy's ear, and spoke in one of those suppressed whispers which seem scarcely to pass the lips of the speaker.
"Remember," said he, "ten ounces, or" —
A significant motion of his hand round his throat, completed the sentence in a manner doubtless comprehensible enough to the esquilador. The latter now turned himself about, and supported himself with his breast and arms upon the roof, his legs and the lower part of his body hanging against the side wall of the house. Paco kept his seat behind the chimney, astride as before, and gathering up the rope, held it firmly. Gradually the gipsy slid down; his breast was off the roof, then his arms, and he merely hung on by his hands. His hold was then transferred to the rope above his head, of which one end was round his waist and the other in the hands of Paco. All this was effected with a caution and absence of noise truly extraordinary, and proving wonderful coolness and habit of danger on the part of the two actors in the strange scene. As the gipsy hung suspended in the air, Paco began gradually paying out the rope, inch by inch. This process, owing to the light weight of the gipsy, and to the check given to the running of the cord by the chimney round which it was turned, he was enabled without difficulty to accomplish and regulate. In a brief space of time a sensible diminution of the strain warned him that the gitano had found some additional means of support. For the space of about three minutes Paco sat still, holding the rope firmly, but giving out no more of it; then pulling towards him, he found it come to his hand without opposition. He drew it all in, again twisted it about his body, and lying down upon his belly, put his head over the edge of the tiles to see what was passing beneath. All was quiet; no light was visible from the window of Herrera's room, which was at about a dozen feet below him. The mist and thick darkness prevented any view of the sentry; but he could hear the sound of his footsteps, and the burden of the royalist ditty which he was churming between his teeth.
Whilst all this took place, Luis Herrera, unsuspicious of the efforts that were making for his rescue, sat alone in his room, which was dimly lighted by an ill-trimmed lamp. Twelve hours had elapsed since he had been informed of the fate that awaited him; in twelve more his race would be run, and he should bid adieu to life, with its hopes and cares, its many deceptions and scanty joys. A priest, who had come to give him spiritual consolation in his last hours, had left him at sundown, promising to return the next morning; and since his departure Herrera had remained sitting in one place, nearly in one posture, thoughtful and pre-occupied, but neither grieving at nor flinching from the death which was to snatch him from a world whereof he had short but sad experience. Alone, and almost friendless, his affections blighted and hopes ruined, and his country in a state of civil war – all concurred to make Herrera regard his approaching death with indifference. Life, which, by a strange contradiction, seems prized the more as its value diminishes, and clung to with far greater eagerness by the old than the young had for him few attractions remaining. Once, and only once, a shade of sadness crept over his features, and he gave utterance to a deep sigh, almost a sob, of regret, as he drew from his breast a small locket containing a tress of golden hair. It was a gift of Rita's in their happy days, before they knew sorrow or foresaw the possibility of a separation; and from this token, even when Herrera voluntarily renounced his claim to her hand, and bade her farewell for ever, he had not had courage to part. By a strong effort, he now repressed the emotion which its sight, and the recollections it called up, had occasioned him, and he became calm and collected as before. Drawing a table towards him, he made use of writing-materials, which he had asked for and obtained, to commence a long letter to Mariano Torres. This his confessor had promised should be conveyed to his friend.
He had written but a few lines, when a slight sound at the room window roused his attention. The noise was too trifling to be much heeded; it might have been a passing owl or bat flapping its wing against the wooden shutter. Herrera resumed his writing. A few moments elapsed, and the noise was again heard. This time it was a distinct tapping upon the shutter, very low and cautious, but repeated with a degree of regularity that argued, on the part of the person making it, a desire of attracting his attention. Herrera rose from his seat, and obeying a sort of instinct or impulse, for which he would himself have had trouble to account, masked the lamp behind a piece of furniture, and hastening to the window, which opened inwards, cautiously unlatched it. A man, whose features were unknown to him, was supporting himself on the ledge outside, his legs gathered under him, and nearly the whole of his thin flexible body coiled up within the deep embrasure of the window. Putting his finger to his lips, to enjoin silence, he severed, by one blow of a keen knife, a cord that encircled his waist, and then springing lightly and actively into the room, closed the shutter, since the opening of which, so rapid had been his movements, not ten seconds had elapsed.
Although the motive of this strange intrusion was entirely unknown to him, Herrera at once inferred that it boded good rather than evil. He was not long left in doubt. The esquilador pointed to Herrera's wounded arm, the sleeve of which was still cut open, although the wound was healed, and the limb had regained its strength.
"Have you full use of that?" said he.
"I have," replied Herrera. "But what is your errand here?"
"To save you," answered the gipsy. "There is no time for words. We must be doing."
And making a sign to Herrera to assist him, he caught hold of one end of the heavy old-fashioned bedstead, which had been allotted to the use of the wounded prisoner, and with the utmost caution to avoid noise, lifted it from the ground and brought it close to the window. Then, taking a rope from his wallet, he fastened it to one of the bed-posts. Herrera began to understand.
"And my companions," said he. "They also must be saved. My room door is locked, but the next window is that of their apartment."
"It is impossible," said the gipsy. "You may be saved, perhaps; but to attempt the rescue of more would be destruction. Look here."
The gipsy extinguished the lamp and, stepping upon the bed, reopened the shutter, and drew Herrera towards him.
"Listen," said he, in a low whisper.
The tread of the sentry was heard, and at that moment, the glare of a lantern fell upon the trees, bordering a field opposite the window. Beyond that field the ground was broken and uneven, covered with tall bushes, fern, and masses of rock, and sloping upwards towards the neighbouring hills. The light drew nearer; the sentry challenged. It was the relief. Their heads in the embrasure of the window, Herrera and the gipsy could hear every word that passed. The man going off sentry gave over his instructions to his successor. They were few and short. The principal was, to fire upon any one of the prisoners who should so much as show himself at a window.
By the light of the lantern which the corporal carried, Paco, who was still peering over the edge of the roof, distinguished the features of the new sentry. They were those of Perrico the Christino deserter. The relief marched away, the sentinel shouldered his musket, and walked slowly up to the further end of his post.
"Now then," said the gipsy to Herrera, "fix the rope round your waist. We will let him pass once more, and when he again turns his back, I will lower you. I shall be on the ground nearly as quickly as yourself, and then keep close to me. Take this, it may be useful."
And he handed him a formidable clasp-knife, of which the curved and sharp-pointed blade was fitted into a strong horn handle. With some repugnance, but aware of the possible necessity he might find for it, Herrera took the weapon. The rope was round his waist, and, with his hands upon the embrasure of the window, he only waited to spring out for a signal from the gipsy, who was watching, as well as the obscurity would permit, the movements of the soldier. The night was growing lighter, the wind had risen and swept away the mist from the fields, overhead the clouds had broken, and stars were visible, sparkling in their setting of dark blue enamel.
"Now!" said the gipsy, who held the slack of the rope gathered up in his hands. "No, stop!" cried he, in a sharp whisper, checking Herrera, who was about to jump out, and drawing hastily back. "Hell and the devil! What is he about?"
The window of the room was nearly at the extremity of the sentinel's post, so that, during one period of his walk, the soldier's back, owing to the slow pace at which he marched up and down, was turned for a full minute. It was upon this brief space of time that the gipsy had calculated for accomplishing his own descent and that of his companion. He had allowed the soldier to proceed twice along the whole length of his post, meaning to avail himself of the third turn he should take. But to his surprise and perplexity, when the man passed for the third time, he left his usual track, moved some twenty paces backwards from the house, and gazed up at Herrera's window. Apparently he could distinguish nothing; for, after remaining a few moments stationary, he again approached the wall of the house, looked cautiously around him, and, giving three low distinct coughs, continued his walk. Without pausing to consider the meaning of this strange proceeding, the esquilador caught Herrera's arm.
"Out with you," said he, "and quickly!"
Herrera darted through the window, hung on for one instant by the edge, and let himself go – the gipsy, with a degree of strength that could hardly have been anticipated in one so slightly built, holding the rope firmly, and lowering him steadily and rapidly. The moment that his feet touched the ground, the gipsy sprang out of the window, and, grasping the rope, began descending by the aid of his hands and feet, with the agility of a monkey or a sailor boy. Before he was half-way down, however, the sentinel, who had reached the end of his walk, began retracing his steps. Hererra's heart beat quick. Hastily cutting the noose from round his waist, he pressed himself against the wall and stood motionless, scarcely venturing to breathe. The sentinel approached. Dark though it was, it seemed impossible that he did not already perceive what was passing. Gliding along close to the wall, Herrera prepared to spring upon him at the first sound uttered, or dangerous movement made by him. The soldier drew nearer, paused, let the but of his musket fall gently to the ground, and clasped his hands over the muzzle. Herrera made a bound forward, and clutching his throat, placed the point of his knife against his breast.
"One word," said he, "and I strike!"
"At the heart of your best friend," replied the soldier, in a voice of which the well-known accents thrilled Hererra's blood.
"Mariano!" he exclaimed.
"Himself," replied Mariano Torres.
Just then the gipsy, who had reached the ground, sprang upon the disguised Christino, and made a furious blow at him with his knife. Torres raised his arm, and the blade passed through the loose sleeve of his capote. Herrera hastened to interfere.
"'Tis a friend," said he.
The gipsy made a step backwards, in distrust and uncertainty.
"I tell you it is a friend," repeated Herrera – "a comrade of my own, who has come to aid my escape. And now that you have rescued me, act as our guide to the nearest Christino post, and your reward shall be ample."
The mention of reward seemed at once to remove the doubts and suspicions of the esquilador. Returning to the rope which dangled from the window, he cut it as high up as he could reach.
"They may perhaps miss the sentry and not the prisoner," said he.
At that moment a dark form turned the corner of the house.
"Who goes there?" exclaimed a voice.
"This way," cried the gipsy, and springing across the road, he dashed down a bank, and with long and rapid strides hurried across the fields.
"Who goes there?" repeated the deep hoarse tones of Major Villabuena "Sentry, where are you? Guard, turn out!"
The flash and report of Mariano's musket, which he had left leaning against the wall, and which Don Baltasar found and fired, followed the words of alarm. The bullet whistled over the heads of the fugitives. In another instant all was noise and confusion in the village. The rattle of the drum was heard, lights appeared at the windows, and the clatter of arms and tramp of man and horse reached the ears of Herrera and his companions. Soon they heard a small party of cavalry gallop down a road which ran parallel to the course they were taking. But in the darkness, and in that wild and mountainous region, pursuit was vain, especially when one so well skilled as the gipsy in the various paths and passes directed the flight. In less than half an hour, the three fugitives were out of sight and sound of the village and their pursuers.
After six hours' march, kept up without a moment's halt, over hill and dale, through forest and ravine, the intricacies of which were threaded by their experienced guide with as much facility as if it had been noonday instead of dark night, Herrera and Torres paused at sunrise upon the crest of a small eminence, whence they commanded a view of an extensive plain. On their right front, and at the distance of a mile, lay a town, composed of dark buildings of quaint and ancient architecture, surrounded by walls and a moat, and on the battlements of which sentries were stationed; whilst from the church tower the Spanish colours, the gaudy red and gold, flaunted their folds in the morning breeze.
"What place is that?" said Torres to the guide.
"It is the Christino town of Salvatierra," replied the gipsy, turning into a path that led directly to the gate of the fortress.