Go Saddle the Sea

  ‘They are over yonder!’ he wailed. ‘On the island! Ay de mi! They will be swept to destruction!’

  Walking closer to the flooded river I saw that here was another bridge, covered six feet deep in a swirl of floodwater; and that the wooded height which I had taken to be the opposite side of the estuary was in fact an island in the middle. I could just see that a second leg of the bridge led on from the island to the farther shore. The island, thickly grown over with young chestnut trees, was half-submerged, and it seemed possible that it would soon be completely covered with water.

  Wringing his hands and tearing his hair the man informed me that he had sent his old mother across to the island that morning with his herd of pigs, so that the pigs might eat up the chestnuts before they were all washed away.

  ‘Ay de mi! Never did I think the river would come down so fast! And pigs cannot swim! They cut their throats with their sharp hoofs!’

  ‘Have you no boat?’ I said.

  ‘Yes, but it would be swept away! I dare not venture with it across that current.’

  He pointed to a flat-bottomed row-boat which, fortunately for him, had been pulled a good way up the bank. The small thatched house on stone legs stood higher up. The man himself had evidently been off hunting while his mother minded the pigs; he carried a stout-looking bow and a sheaf of arrows, and a hare with several partidges lay where he had dropped them in his agitation.

  Visited by a sudden notion, I said, ‘Have you a long rope, senor? One that would reach across to the island?’

  ‘Yes, in my house.’

  ‘And a piece of thin cord the same length?’

  ‘Yes, I daresay, but what will that avail? We cannot get the rope across to the island.’

  Seeing his mother, poor black-clad old lady, now appear on the opposite bank, crossing herself and raising her hands to heaven as she looked at the water rolling down, I said,

  ‘Well, there is no harm in trying! Let us make the attempt. Do you fetch the rope, senor, while I signal to your mother.’

  She looked very much astonished when she saw me making gestures with the bow and arrow, but at length I thought that she took a notion as to what I intended to do, for she nodded her head vigorously up and down very many times. The roar of the river was too loud for any words to be heard, though from time to time I thought I caught a snatch of the pigs’ doleful squealing.

  Nieves and Anita had equipped me with a reel of stout thread and a needle, besides a hunk of cobblers’ wax – items I myself would never have considered necessary for a journey, but only see how wrong I was! For now I unwound a great quantity of the thread – having much ado not to let it become snarled – and tied a waxed end of it to an arrow, which I shot across the foamy river. It fell short, and the old mother threw up her hands in despair, but I gently drew back the thread and tried again. My second shot was more successful, landing in a clump of willow, and I saw the old lady hobble to the spot where the arrow fell and pick it up. I felt the thread – of which I held the other end – give a twitch, and I hoped she would have the sense not to pull on it too hard, or my scheme would come to nothing.

  Luckily she proved both shrewd and dexterous; more so than her son, indeed, who, coming back with a coil of rope and a cord, stood gaping, quite unable to comprehend what I was at.

  I now took the thin cord, and tied its end to the thread; then signalled the old lady to pull it in very carefully, which she did. This was the most apprehensive part of the business, and took some time, for she durst not pull too hard. But at last she had the end of the cord in her hand, and waved her kerchief triumphantly. By now her son had understood, and he made haste to fasten the cord to the rope, which was pulled across in its turn.

  Now came another anxious moment.

  ‘Will your mother have enough strength to tie the rope sufficiently firmly to a tree?’ I asked the son, who muttered,

  ‘We are in the hands of God. I do not know.’

  However it was plain that God was on our side, for the valiant old lady wound the rope a great many times round a fair-sized chestnut tree and then made a great many knots; we meanwhile, did the same on our side; and then the boat was secured to the rope by another cord, doubled and knotted twice, so that we had a ferry rigged up, which was subject only to two possible hazards: that the trees at either end might be uprooted, or, more probably, that the rope might break.

  Spurred on by hope, the man sprang into the boat, and said to me,

  ‘You will come too? You will help me? It will be easier to catch the pigs if there are two of us.’

  So, leaving Assistenta perched on the saddle of the tethered mule (whose nose I kissed, just in case I was washed away downstream and we only met again in Paradise) I embarked with the man in his boat, which was, in fact, of a good size, large enough to take five or six pigs.

  The passage across the river made my stomach lurch, and my legs feel strangely weak; especially in the centre, where the rope dipped below water, and several rolling billows slopped over us as we pulled our way along; but we reached the bank of the island without mishap, and I used my hat to bail the water out of the boat.

  The old lady was waiting for us.

  ‘Thanks be to Maria Santissima! The pigs and I are saved!’ she exclaimed, embracing her son. ‘Though how the good God came to put such a clever notion into your head, I can’t think!’

  ‘Never mind that! Fetch the pigs!’ was his reply.

  I suggested, however, that she should get into the boat, so as to encourage any pigs who might be afraid to embark. Indeed we had considerable trouble with them, for although we could drive them to the verge, when they saw they were expected to jump into the wildly tipping boat, they attempted to escape along the bank with shrieks of terror. Pigs are stupid things! Give me a mule any day.

  In the end we had to lift them in, one by one, while the old mother hung on to the rope, in order to prevent the boat slipping away into midstream.

  I have never in my whole life handled anything so heavy as those frantic, wet, slippery pigs; they might have been stuffed with lead, instead of chestnuts.

  And all the time I noticed that the water was rising along the bank, higher and higher.

  There were too many pigs for one boatload. We had to go back three times.

  While chasing the pigs around the island (which, now half-covered with flood water, was not much bigger than a small paddock) I had observed that the channel on the far side of it was much narrower than the one we had crossed in the boat; the second part of the bridge spanned it in a single arch. Nor was that bridge so deeply submerged, for the arch was higher.

  Therefore, on my last trip to the island, I led my mule into the boat, where she stood shuddering with disapproval and horror, her nostrils raised, and her eyes staring. I gentled and soothed her, and bade her follow the example of the parrot, who was not in the least agitated, but merely informed us that the time was one hour after noon, and that foxglove seeds were good for palpitations.

  The pig-farmer was so amazed to see me bring my mule on board that he had no wonder left over for the parrot.

  ‘You’re never going to try and get across the other channel?’ says he, gaping.

  ‘I shall try,’ said I, ‘for I am anxious to get to Santander. But if it should not prove possible, I beg you’ll have the kindness to wait till I have made the attempt before you undo the rope.’

  Going and coming with the pigs, we had brought over a second rope, passed it round a tree and taken the end back to the near side of the river; so now the first rope could be undone and the second one pulled in when he was safely back.

  ‘Oh, very well, very well,’ said he fussily, ‘but I may tell you that I have a dozen uses for that rope and cannot leave it there for more than a short time.’

  Reflecting that stupidity and ingratitude often seem to go together, I led the mule out of the boat and on to the island. Then I helped the man assemble his last levy of pigs and urge them on board; this took
a shorter time than the previous boatloads for there was less of the island for them to run around. Once they were all in the boat and safely launched on their way, I mounted the mule and directed her nervous course to the half-submerged bridge.

  ‘Now, nina,’ I said to her, ‘you must be a brave macha; be a brave muchacha; keep to the middle and don’t let your feet be swept from under you. I’d lead you, but I think my weight on your back keeps you steadier. Just go steadily along – one foot after the other, that’s the way – good girl – and if we get safe to the other side, you shall have the biggest piece of bread that’s left in my saddlebag, all for yourself.’

  Slowly and steadily she pushed her way through the fierce, pulling water, which at times rose up to her shoulders. I had some trouble myself to keep steady on her back as the current dragged at my legs; and the last stretch was the worst, for a strong eddy swirled in under the bank, just where the curve of the bridge descended to its lowest point. However by good fortune and God’s goodwill we struggled through, and up on to solid ground, where I dismounted and hugged the mule, then unsaddled her so that she could relieve her spirits by rolling and shaking some of the wet off her shaggy hide.

  Having re-harnessed her, I rode down to a point from which I could signal to the pig-farmer and his mother that I had safely made the crossing, for the island would have impeded their view.

  The old lady fell on her knees at sight of me and made signs of blessings with her hands. Her son was hard at work coiling up his rope, having pulled up the boat high on the bank. Looking back at the island I saw that I had made my crossing only just in time, for now it was completely under water; only the branches of the trees could be seen, bowing downstream with the current; and the bridge by which I had crossed was not to be seen at all.

  I was about to turn away when I saw a sight that made me thank Providence even more heartily for my safe passage of the river.

  Two men riding ponies had arrived at the far bank and were talking to the pig-farmer, gesturing and pointing over the water. They wore black hats and carried staves; they looked like alguacils. The man glanced across at me, and shrugged; his old mother spread out her hands and shook her head.

  Whether they were saying that it was not possible to cross the river, or that I was a stranger and they did not know me, I could not guess, but I waited no longer; picking up the parrot, I kicked the mule into her fast trot, and made off along the road that led eastwards from the bridge.

  * About £30 at the time in England.

  4

  In which I encounter strange perils in a Mountain Village; my mule goes lame; and I am astounded to hear a familiar ballad sung in a Spanish port

  Next befell me a very strange adventure, which makes me shudder, even now, when I recall it, so singular, so utterly uncanny were the circumstances, and so dreadful might the end have been, if matters had turned out differently.

  After leaving the farmer rejoicing over his pigs by the swollen river, the mule and I turned uphill, on a steep winding road that climbed out of the ria through a forest of close-set beeches and gum trees, with all kinds of dense leafy bushes growing in between; so that we were soon out of sight of the water.

  The mule and I were both fatigued – I from chasing and grappling with the wayward pigs, the mule from her valiant struggle through the flooded river – besides which, we had been travelling all the previous night – so I resolved that, since we must now be safe from pursuit while the river remained in flood, we might as well stop at the next village and find lodging for the night.

  The rain still pelted down, which encouraged me to hope that the river would not be likely to return to its normal level for some time, but made me dismiss any notion of sleeping out-of doors under a hay stack. Indeed, there were no hay stacks to be seen hereabouts; nothing but sodden thickety woodland.

  By slow degrees the rain slackened off, but now a thick sea-mist added to the difficulties of our journey. All that could be seen was the wavering, white, indistinct shapes of tree-trunks along the verge of the road. All that could be heard – apart from the mule’s footfalls – were the drips falling from the trees, the sigh of the branches, and the infrequent call of a pheasant through the woods. The road climbed and climbed; presently the forest changed from beech and gum to fir and pine, but by now the light was so bad that I would hardly have known this, had my nostrils not picked up the tarry, bitter scent of the pine-needles on the wet ground. Even the sure-footed mule was obliged to go more and more slowly in the fog, and she began to grumble and snort, as mules will, demanding, in her own way, when this interminable climb would be ended, and she given a dry stable and supper.

  ‘I wish I knew, nina,’ I said to her. I begin to fear that in the fog we must have strayed off the coast road onto some mountain track. But there is no sense in turning round; this path must lead somewhere if we only continue on it for long enough.’

  The mule shook her head, as if she violently disagreed, but she did not rebel, poor thing; she was too tired for that; so on we went, I reciting

  Latin verses, and anything else that came into my head, to her and the parrot, in order to prevent myself from falling asleep. Also I pondered in my mind about the pig-farmer and his stupidity and greed; he must have known the river was liable to flood, living by it as he did, so why had he sent his mother and the pigs to the island? If he wanted the pigs to eat the chestnuts before they were all washed away, why not take the pigs to the island himself, for he would be able to judge better how long it was prudent to stay there? Finding no clue to his actions, I thought instead about my grandfather, and decided that, if he had been a poor pig-farmer, he would not have sent my grandmother or Dona Isadora to herd his pigs, but would have gone himself.

  The picture of Dona Isadora herding pigs made me chuckle, and I cheered myself for quite a long way by fancying her struggles as she tried to pick up the pigs and drop them into the boat. How they had squealed! – as if they thought their throats were being cut.

  Then the remembered sound of squealing in my mind’s ear changed to a real sound – the faint, faraway bleat of a goat. At this, the mule pricked up her ears. Presently the bleating was followed by the faint sound of a bell.

  ‘Come, our troubles are over, macha,’ I said to the mule. ‘All you have to do is walk in the direction of that sound, and we shall find a bed for me, a stable for you, a big bowl of estofado, plenty of hay, and a handful of barley. Just go straight ahead.’

  The mule, however, refused to make directly for the sound of the bell, but chose her own way, and I, remembering the incident of the boggy meadow, did not try to persuade her to do otherwise. She pursued a zigzag course through the fog, still ascending a steep track. To my relief, the sound of the bell continued to grow louder, and I thought hopefully,

  ‘Perhaps it is some friendly monastery, built to supply food and shelter for the pilgrims to Santiago de Compostela. By now we must be on a high mountain-top, a long way from the coast.’

  We had left the forest behind us, and the air was bitterly cold. The parrot, who, I thought, had been asleep, tucked inside my jacket, woke up and muttered something about the constellation Orion, in a hoarse grumbling manner, which made me laugh.

  ‘If only we could see the constellation Orion, Assistenta, we should have been able to find our way to shelter long ago.’

  No monastery did we discover, but presently found ourselves among a herd of goats – easily recognisable by their smell and their voices, and their shining eyes like candles in the dimness – guarded by a couple of ragged snarling dogs. The bell was attached to the leader of the herd.

  ‘Come, we must be near some kind of habitation,’ I told the mule, peering about in the icy fog, which was now moving and drifting on the back of a sharp wind. Then, among broken gliding layers of mist, I perceived objects which, at first, I took to be large round boulders, haphazardly grouped at either side of the track.

  Looking closely, I saw that dim lights gleamed here and ther
e among them. Also I smelt smoke, and dung.

  Could they be dwellings? – huts? – the homes of human beings? Or were they the lairs of animals? They seemed too small for men to live in.

  There was, however, the evidence of the goats, which the dogs had brought up among the huts. And now a dark figure came out, stooping, from one of the holes where a light showed.

  When it was fully out, it stood upright and moved towards me. Through the floating mist, I saw that it was an old man, with scanty white hair falling to his shoulders. He wore some kind of dark, ragged garment, tied round the waist by a cord.

  I said, and my voice shook a little, ‘Buenas noches, senor. Can I get food and a bed in this place, for myself and my mule?’

  His reply came after a moment’s pause. He spoke in a strange, lisping voice, and in so strange and broad a mountain dialect that, for a moment, I did not catch his meaning. But when I did, it startled me to the marrow of my bones.

  For he said, ‘Good evening, senor. Welcome, welcome. We have been expecting you since sunrise.’

  His words sent such a chill through me that I had a strong urge to kick the mule’s sides and ride on, wherever the path might take me. But the mule, tired out, had come to a halt; she smelt smoke, and goats, and fodder, and people; besides, from the other huts – for now, as the mist lifted, I saw that they were indeed tiny round stone huts, thatched, I think, with turf – more people were coming into view.

  They all moved slowly, as if they were very old: ancient, white-bearded men, hobbling slowly; aged, bent, toothless women, with bits of rag tied round their nodding heads.

  And they all said the same thing:

  ‘Welcome, welcome, senor. We have been expecting you.’

  They treat me as if I were a grown man, I thought.

  ‘Come this way, senor,’ said the old man who had first greeted me.

  A dozen hands laid hold of my leg; the mule threw up her head and snorted affrightedly as they all pushed around her and almost lifted me from the saddle. Then they proceeded to urge me in the direction of one of those round huts, which were not much bigger than my grandfather’s pig-sties.