Go Saddle the Sea

  After we had met nine or ten of Sam’s friends or old shipmates, and I was becoming somewhat restless at all the talk in which I had no part, Sam said to me,

  ‘Felix, lad, this ’ud be a rare good time for ye to go on yon errand o’ yours to the convent. Then I can have a crack here ’an yon wi’ my old shipmates, and, come suppertime, ’tis a herring to a half-guinea but I’ll ha’ nosed out some barque that’s about to set sail for Old England. I’ll come out to the monastery and meet ye there, ye’ll ha’ done your business, and that way there’s no time wasted.’

  Of course what he said made sound sense. But I, feeling that this might be our last short space of time together, was terribly reluctant to leave him. Also, I am ashamed to confess it, I was jealous of all these friends of his, these other sailors whom he seemed to know so well, who had been known to him before he even met me or the Colomas family. True, he made me known to them, he said, ‘This is my friend Felix, with whom I have travelled from Llanes,’ but just the same I felt that with these others, these old mates of his, he had shared a life to which I would never belong; and this made me dejected and sore at heart.

  I felt younger than all of them – ignorant – out of place – and unwanted.

  Standing still, clutching the mule’s bridle, I said, stubbornly,

  ‘Why should I? I don’t wish to go to the convent just yet. Why can I not stay with you, so as to see the ships? And then later we can both go to the monastery and I can leave my letter at the convent, for did not Father Ignacio say they were close together?’

  My voice was surly and ungracious. I blush to admit that I was dangerously near breaking down, at the thought of the parting that might be so close.

  Sam looked at me gravely. He had been unusually silent on the road from Santillana, wrapped in his own thoughts; to my surprise, and slight hurt, he had not once today referred to the rescue of Pepe’s ox, nor commended my part in it. I felt this more keenly because in general none could be quicker than he to mark out the smallest merit and commend it.

  Now it struck me that he looked very troubled; almost angry. But he said, mildly enough,

  ‘Nay, lad, think. There might be a ship ready to sail on this evening’s tide – ’twould be a shame if ye were obliged to miss it acos you’d not yet run your errand. I think it best ye go to the convent now.’

  ‘There will be enough time! Let us find the ship first – then I will go to the convent. I would rather stay with you, Sammy.’

  ‘And I,’ he said; he paused, then went on calmly, ‘I had rather ye went, lad.’

  At that I burst out in anger.

  ‘You don’t wish me to remain with you. Why?’

  His friendly ugly face broke into its familiar smile, though his eyes were still grave.

  ‘Why – for a start – ye cannot drag the poor mule along a lot o’ catwalks an’ gangplanks all around Santander harbour while we hunt for a likely vessel. Might as well stable her out at the monastery and give the poor beast a rest.’

  This, though reasonable in its way, sounded like a mere pretext to me. I said obstinately,

  ‘That is not your real reason for wishing to get rid of me, and you know it! Why don’t you tell me the truth?’

  Sam gave me a thoughtful look. Then he said,

  ‘See here, Felix lad. You and I ha’ been rare good messmates, ha’n’t we?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We’ve had some handsome times together – making music an’ talking – times I’ve felt like a brother to you, and you to me I daresay?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, swallowing.

  ‘Ye’ve been gently reared, wi’ a mort o’ book-larning I never had – ye’ve learned me a power o’ things, I never knew, nor was like to. But just the same, Felix,’ Sammy said, and his voice suddenly gripped me, like a rope that is drawn tight, ‘just the same, I am seven years older than ye be, I’ve that much start of ’ee, and there’s things I’ve learned that ye have not, that ye must take on trust. And if I was your older brother, ye’d have to mind what I say. I think it best ye go to the convent now, Felix, and that’s all there is to it. Leave your note for the man’s stepdaughter, then stable the mule at the monastery, and bide in the guest-chamber there till I come. I wish ye to do that Felix, I’ll not be longer than I can help, I promise ye that.’

  And he turned sharp on his heel and limped away.

  I stood on one spot with my knuckles clenched, staring like a fool, for some few minutes after he went off. My heart was beating rat-a-tat, my throat was tightened up with anger, as it had not been since I left Villaverde. If there had been a stone at hand, I believe I could have hurled it after him! But there was not, for there I was on the wide, paved quayside with not a soul about, and the mule tugging impatiently against the rein over my arm, as if to say, ‘What isś all this?’

  In the end her tugging reminded me that – as Sam had pointed out – I could not lead her through the network of mooring ropes and bollards to find a ship for myself – as had been my first angry intention.

  But I thought, ‘I am not a child! Why should he treat me like one? I have made my own way as far as this – I can very well find my own ship! I will take the letter to the convent directly; then leave the mule in the monastery stable; then I will come back here and arrange for my own passage to England. I will show Sam that I don’t need him to see after my affairs.’

  Accordingly I was turning away from the quayside to take the eastward road to Bilbao, beside which, Father Ignacio had said, the convent was situated, when I heard myself accosted by a soft voice that said,

  ‘The young Senor wishes to travel to England?’

  I was somewhat startled, for I had thought that no one was at hand.

  Then I saw a small man rise up from behind a great coil of rope, where he had been seated. He was a skinny, weatherbeaten, and shrivelled-looking little monkey of a fellow, who wore a red handkerchief rolled round his head, a long cloak, much torn and patched, sandals on his bare dirty feet, and a kind of tattered tinsel waistcoat under the cloak.

  He did not speak in Spanish, but in a mixture of the Basque language and French. Since Bernie had some Basque blood (all the best cooks come from the Basque country) I had learned some of the language and could just make out what he meant.

  I said,

  ‘Why yes, I do, senor. Do you know of a ship that is sailing to England? I cannot pay a large fare, however – I have very little money.’

  This I said out of a sense of caution, not wishing to sound too eager.

  ‘Errequina! That matters little. If a ship sails, she sails. Some friends of mine may be putting out for England and Ireland tonight. On a fine ship, a grand ship, a splendid ship! The young gentleman would glide across the Gulf of Gascony like a feather on a gull’s wing! It would cost him no more than twenty dollars.’

  I had saved more than that, from the profits of our music-making at Llanes. However I haggled and said,

  ‘I can pay no more than twelve.’

  ‘Fifteen! For fifteen we carry the young lordship in as much comfort as the King of the Indies!’

  ‘Very well. What is the name of your friends’ ship?’

  ‘May it please your honour, she is called the Guipuzcoa’

  ‘And where can I find her?’

  ‘My young master, she is not in port yet. She will dock this afternoon, if it please God, will take on water and provisions, and will leave on the night tide.’

  ‘And where will she berth, while she is here?’

  The small man looked around him warily. There was something about his tattered and furtive appearance – and also about the exceedingly swift arrival and departure of the ship – which led me to believe that his friends must be smugglers; a considerable wine-and brandy-smuggling trade went on, I knew, between the Basque ports and England. I guessed that was why the passenger fee was so low, since there might be some hazard to the crossing, if the ship was pursued by Revenue boats. But the fee suited my purse, and the
risk certainly troubled me not at all; it would be an added adventure, in fact.

  The small man’s answer to my question confirmed my certainty that his friends were engaged in running contraband goods.

  ‘The Guipuzcoa will berth where she can, my young senor. Probably, since she remains at Santander so short a time, she will not come in to the harbour at all, but will anchor out yonder by the island.’

  He pointed to a rocky height of land by the western arm of the bay; I had taken it for a headland.

  ‘How could I get myself out there? And how shall I know if your friends’ ship has arrived?’

  ‘Why, as to that, if the young lordship would condescend to meet me here later today, I would be able to take him out to the island, if the Guipuzcoa has docked.’

  ‘Very well. At what time?’

  He scanned the sky, and then the harbour-mouth, with his narrow, creased black eyes.

  ‘Just at the hour of dusk. When a black thread can no longer be distinguished from a white one.’

  ‘Bueno! I will see you here at dusk.’

  He nodded, and slipped rapidly away, scurrying like a lizard into the crack between two tall warehouses.

  Feeling highly delighted with myself, in that I had successfully negotiated something that Sam had seemed to believe might prove so troublesome, I looked about, hoping that I might see his distant figure. But of course he was long gone out of sight.

  Accordingly I scrambled on to the mule’s back and kicked my heels into her sides, turning her head towards Bilbao. Only fifteen dollars! Sam had expected that I might have to pay quite twice as much.

  I chuckled, imagining his face of astonishment when I told him that the matter was all arranged, and so easily.

  After five minutes’ ride along the Bilbao road, the town was mostly behind me; I had a rocky hill on my right and some marshes on my left, with great banks of feather-headed rushes on either side of the road, pale gold like the fur on old Gato’s under-belly.

  A heavy sadness came over me, as I remembered my old cat – how very far away he seemed! Over the mountains and the valleys, past the towns and the estuaries. And would soon be farther still.

  Suddenly I felt ashamed and angry with myself that I had parted from Sam in such a mood of resentment. He meant well, I was now sure of that. Very probably – it now struck me – he had wanted me out of the way while he bargained for a lower passage-fee, which, doubtless, knowing the ways of the sea, he believed he would be able to secure more easily than I should.

  Well – I decided – the moment I see him I will tell him that I am sorry for my anger. But still, he should have told me that was his intention! It is partly his fault for treating me as a child.

  Now, beyond the bowing golden heads of the rushes, I perceived two clusters of grey buildings, on either side of the road, which I guessed must be the monastery and the convent, each surrounded by a high stone wall, each with an arched gateway and a barred gate.

  The monastery was somewhat bigger, and had a tower on its chapel. Looking through the gate, I could see two brown-robed Brothers talking inside. So I knocked, and presented Father Ignacio’s note to the porter, who told me that the prior was at present in the town on business, but that I might in the meantime take my mule to the stable, and would be given supper and a bed in the guesthouse at any hour after eight in the evening.

  I thought of explaining that I might not need their supper and bed, if the Guipuzcoa arrived as expected – but since I was not certain of that yet, I resolved not to mention the possibility.

  Meanwhile I saw to the stabling of the mule, gave her a feed and a drink, then walked back around the cloister and out through the front gate to visit the convent.

  This, I saw at once, was much smaller and shabbier, and had fewer inmates that the monastery. Indeed there was no portress at all, so, after my knock had gone unanswered, I made bold to walk through the open gate and past the empty lodge into a panelled parlour, which had a tiled floor and smelt freshly of beeswax, but was also empty. In one wall there was a barred grille, but no one behind it.

  I called out, ‘Is anybody there?’ but received no reply.

  Walking out again, into a small herb garden with apple trees, which occupied the central square, I hesitated outside another doorway, encouraged to do so by a warm smell of baking which came from it.

  ‘Is that you, Sister Dolores?’ called a voice. ‘Fetch me a straw from the broom, will you?’

  This request instantly transported me back to Bernie’s cosy red kitchen, full of the smell of baking cakes. How many times had I heard Bernie call to me, or Pedro, or whoever happened to be at hand, ‘Quick, bring me a straw from the broom, I want to try this cake.’

  Without thinking, I plucked a dry grass from the herb border and walked inside holding it.

  ‘Ay, Dios mio, who are you?’ exclaimed the same voice in astonishment.

  I saw a short, stout nun, with a friendly wrinkled face and a white apron tied over her black robes, who was just lifting what looked like a large butter-cake from the oven. At sight of me, she nearly dropped it, but recovered, and placed it on a table. I offered her the straw, and, without a word, she took it from me, wiped it on her apron, and carefully slid its end deep into the middle of the cake. Taking it out again she peered at it shortsightedly, sniffed it, and then, nodding her head, said with satisfaction,

  ‘Very good! Done to a turn! Now tell me, who are you, my young sparrow, and how do you come to hop into my kitchen? I suppose you would like a crumb, hmn?’

  When she smiled, her face wrinkled up even more, like a tortilla. She handed me a little pastry-cake, sprinkled over with nuts, at the sight and smell of which Assistenta poked her head forth from my jacket and exclaimed,

  ‘Amo, amare, amavi, amatum!’

  ‘Ay de mi!’ exclaimed the old nun. ‘Here’s another of them! And I suppose that one wants something too?’

  She handed Assistenta a crust of bread, which the parrot took gravely, stepping out on to the table and holding it with her claw.

  I ate my cake, which proved to have marzipan in the middle, and was one of the best I have ever tasted.

  ‘Thank you, Sister,’ I said, licking my fingers. ‘You make wonderful cakes! But I didn’t come for crumbs – I came with a letter for Sister Annunciata. May I give it to her?’

  ‘Ah – ay – no, that you can’t!’ the old nun exclaimed. ‘Sister Annunciata has left us.’

  ‘Left you?’ I said in a fright, wondering if she had died – but the old nun explained,

  ‘She has gone, two days ago, to our House in Madrid, for she had some family business to settle. Now I daresay she will stay on in Madrid, but it is a pity. There was not enough for her to do here, it was too quiet. There are not many of us left, and we are all too old.’

  ‘I am sorry she is not here,’ I said, disconcerted by this news. ‘If I leave the note, can it be sent to her in Madrid? It is from her stepfather.’

  ‘Oho?’ exclaimed the Sister, looking at me curiously. ‘You have a note for Annunciata from her stepfather?’

  ‘Yes, senora.’

  ‘Just a moment, my boy.’

  She went to an inner doorway and shouted,

  ‘Sister Angeles!’

  A distant voice replied,

  ‘What is it, Sister Benedicta?’

  ‘Could you leave polishing and come here a moment if you please?’

  After a few moments another black-robed Sister appeared, even more elderly. She carried a beeswax-smelling cloth, and limped heavily with a stick.

  The cook-Sister said to her,

  ‘Sister Angeles, here is a boy who looks like a day-old chicken. He bears a letter to Sister Annunciata from her stepfather.’

  ‘Ave Maria! He certainly does look like a day-old chick,’ said the second old lady, after inspecting me critically. ‘He must be the one!’

  ‘Should we call Sister Superior?’

  ‘No, why wake her? She is sleeping, and she has
so much pain and gets so little sleep, poor thing. This must be the right boy!’

  ‘What are you speaking about, senoras?’ I asked, greatly mystified.

  ‘Do you have the letter there, child? The letter for Annunciata?’

  ‘Certainly I do,’ said I, and passed it to Sister Angeles, who inspected it carefully, nodded her head, and said,

  ‘Very good! This shall be sent to Madrid. Now, my child, we have a letter for you, if you will tell me your name?’

  ‘Of course,’ said I, even more puzzled. ‘My name is Felix Brooke. But from whom can you possibly have a letter for me?’

  ‘Why, from the stepfather of Annunciata, to be sure! Wait here, a moment, and Sister Benedicta will fetch it.’

  I waited, in a ferment of curiosity, while stout Sister Benedicta bustled out of the room with a swish of robes and a slap of rope-soled shoes. While she was away, Assistenta, thoughtfully regarding the butter-cake remarked,

  ‘Two o’clock!’

  A moment later we heard the chime of the monastery clock.

  ‘Madre de Dios!’ exclaimed Sister Angeles. ‘Your bird keeps good time! We could use her here! It is a long time since the convent clock slowed down and stopped.’

  I hardly paid heed to her. I was thinking of that strange, calm, grizzle-bearded man whom I had met in the mountains up above Oviedo, who had invited me to accompany him on his treasure-hunt. What had befallen him, I wondered. And why should he write to me? Had I even told him my name? After some thought, I believed that I remembered doing so, while explaining my intention to go to England and search for my father’s family.

  Perhaps – I thought suddenly, and my heart beat faster – perhaps he had come across, or had recalled, some clue, relating to my father, which he had taken this means of transmitting to me! And I thought, what a fortunate thing that I had kept my promise to bring his letter to the convent!

  Sister Benedicta returned with a dirty folded square of paper which she handed to me.

  ‘Shall you object if I read it here, senoras?’ I asked.

  ‘Not in the least, my child. Sit and read at your case,’ said Sister Benedicta, pushing a stool towards me, and she began chopping herbs on a board.