‘This is the young senor who wishes to cross to England? Be pleased to step on board, your worship! We shall make sail in a few moments.’
I turned, and would have rewarded my guide, but to my surprise he was nowhere to be seen.
‘The young lordship had best come into the caboose,’ remarked the deep voice. A hand grasped mine and led me over the gangplank and into a kind of deck-house, where I saw that the deep-voiced man was tall, with hair like tar under a kerchief, and that he was shrouded in a brown serge boat-cloak.
I was glad to get into the deck-house, for the small deckspace outside seemed completely occupied by all the things that were being carried on board, and while the hasty stowage continued, I seemed in danger every minute either of tripping over something or being knocked flying.
The caboose was a small windowless place, smelling of hot oil and garlic, where an old man was blowing up a turf fire in a clay box. Over the fire dangled an iron pot. A talc-lined lantern swung on a hook from the ceiling and gave dim illumination to the scene.
‘Sit there, young master,’ said the tall man who had led me in, and after giving some rapid instructions to the other, in the Basque language, he went out again, shutting the door behind him.
I perched myself on a wicker hamper and watched the old man cutting up bacon, pimentos, fish, and onions, which he tossed into the pot, together with herbs and chick peas. The broth he was making smelt very savoury and reminded me that I had not eaten – except for Sister Benedicta’s cake – since our scanty breakfast with Father Ignacio, which now seemed a very long time ago.
Outside, the bumping of stores being dropped on the deck seemed to have lessened.
‘Now we shan’t be long, your honour,’ mumbled the old man in my direction – it was the first notice he had taken of my presence. Since he was quite toothless, and spoke the Basque language – addressing me as ‘Khauna’, ‘lord’ – it was not too easy to understand him.
He went back to stirring his soup, mumbling out the verse of a song, tunefully enough, in spite of his great age and lack of teeth. I knew the song, for it was one that Sammy had picked up in Bilbao, and which he had taught me:
I chasca urac aundi
Estu ondoric agueri –
‘The waters of the sea are boundless, and their bottom cannot be seen.’
I joined in with the old man, mainly to cheer myself, for, to tell truth, such a reminder of Sam, from whom I had just parted, very likely for ever, made me feel so stricken with sorrow that I could have howled like a dog.
At the sound of my voice the old man gave me a great glance of wonder. Besides excelling at cookery, the Basques have a high esteem for music. Father Agustin once told me that the Roman name for the Basques, Cantabri, meant ‘sweet singers’. At all events, after I had sung with him, the old man seemed to accord me much more respect than he had done previously.
Presently, becoming impatient of my confinement in this small place, I would have opened the door, but the old man mumbled,
‘Wait a little, let the young lordship wait! Later he shall see all that is to be seen!’ and he waved his hands about to suggest that just now the crew were so busy on deck that I should only be in the way.
Rather reluctantly I sat down again on the uncomfortable wicker basket and stared round at the caboose. Overhead, beside the lantern, swung a dead kingfisher, suspended by its beak. Sam, I remembered, had told me how some ignorant sailors believe that a kingfisher hung up in this way will always turn its breast to leeward.
‘How many are there in the crew of this ship, old Grandfather?’ I asked the cook politely.
‘Four, my young lordship – the Captain, whom you have seen, and three others – all brave, skilful sailors, thank the saints. And two other passengers.’
‘For what port in England is the ship bound?’
‘We go to Falmouth, lordship, and then on to Black Harbour in Ireland.’
‘And your cargo?’
At this question the old man smiled his toothless grin, and drew a finger across his throat, as if to convey that answering me would be more than his life was worth. From which I guessed that my first conjecture, as to their being smugglers, was a correct one.
Now it suddenly occurred to me that since I had come on board the Guipuzcoa nobody had asked me for any passage money, although I had it ready, wrapped in a small piece of rag (while the rest of my savings were hidden in the false lining of a belt that Juana had made for me).
This fact – that no one had asked me for any money – seemed to me both strange and disturbing. The more I thought about it, the less I liked it. These were wild lawless men, the brigands of the sea; their ship was so small that there scarcely seemed room for extra passengers, besides the cargo they carried; was it likely that they would take any person on board without making perfectly certain that he had the money to pay for his trip?
‘What kind of a ship is this, old Grandfather?’ I asked the cook, to conceal from him, and perhaps from myself, my growing uneasiness.
‘It is an urca, my young master – a Biscayan felucca,’ he replied.
This also went to confirm my guess about the men’s calling; Sam had told me that the felucca, or Biscay hooker, was the craft most commonly used by smugglers, for it is equally at home in the open ocean or in creeks and hidden, enclosed waters – a lateen-rigged ship that manoeuvres very easily on account of its long helm, and can be rowed as readily as it can be sailed.
‘And what course shall we take to England?’
‘We cross the Gulf of Gascony, lord, steer west of the Isle of Ushant, and then, bearing northwards, steering for the pole, we cross the English Channel and come to Falmouth.’
‘How long will that take us?’
‘That is as God wills and the winds blow. Perhaps four days, perhaps eight – we shall see.’
At least, I thought, the old man seemed friendly enough, and did not display any threatening attitude. Perhaps – having me secure on board – my smuggler-hosts were biding their time to ask me for more money, confident that I must give them all I had. Perhaps, I began to think, it would have been wiser to wait for two days, lying concealed in the monastery, and then embark on Sam’s Beauty of Bristol. Had I been a fool? Was it plain obstinacy that led me to entrust myself to this questionable little ship?
To distract my mind from these uncomfortable thoughts, and the possibility that I might arrive in my father’s land without a penny to my name and be obliged to beg my way – I opened my bundle and pulled out the second volume of Susan. During my re-reading of this work I had now reached the highly dramatic moment when poor young Miss Susan, paying a visit to her grand friends, is suddenly turned out-of-doors by their angry father, who has hitherto shown her nothing but favour and civility. She is utterly at a loss to know how she can have earned his displeasure and, penniless and wretched, has to make the best of her way home across England. I read all this with deep interest. Still, I could not help contrasting her lot with mine. She, at least, had a friend to lend her the coach fare home; she also had a loving family waiting to welcome her at the end of her journey; whereas, what did I have? Privately I considered that Miss Susan was none too badly off; though I did think it unkind of the old General to turn her out so abruptly.
Musing in this way I glanced up from the page to find the cook’s eyes fixed on me with as wild a look in them as if I had flames coming out of my ears.
‘Ay, ave Maria!’ he muttered, crossing himself three times. ‘Is the young lord a sorcerer? Do not cast a spell on poor old Luc or his broth, your lordship, I beg!’
It seemed that he had never seen any person reading a book before, and therefore took it to be some manual of witchcraft. As he stirred his broth he kept taking terrified peeps at me, then fortifying himself with gulps from a flask he wore attached to his belt. And all the time he muttered to himself about the spirits of drowned sailors, who may be seen flying through the mist, carrying lighted candles in their hands, and who be
witch living sailors with their evil arts, so that they too jump into the waves and perish. He seemed to think that I might be in league with these spirits, or even be one of them in disguise.
It struck me that his superstitious fear might be turned to good account, so I said calmly,
‘Do not distress yourself, old Luc. I have a little power over the Estadea – ‘ (this was a Gallegan name for these spirits which I had learned from Pedro) ‘ – and I will do my best to see that they do not hurt you while I am aboard the Guipuzcoa.’
Later I was to remember these idle words.
The old man’s terrors were somewhat pacified by this, though he still eyed my little book as if it had been a viper that might shoot a long neck across the room and bite him.
Now the tall captain reappeared in the doorway and said,
‘Luc! Give the young lord a bit of bread and a mouthful of spirit.’ He indicated with a jerk of his head a wicker-covered flask that hung from a nail on the wall, and said to me,
‘It will be rough when we are out at sea. An east wind is blowing up. The young senor is not used to a sea passage? I have sailed the Cantabrian Gulf for thirty years, but even I still become queasy if I do not settle my stomach with a drop of aguardiente beforehand.’
Then somebody called to him from the forward end of the ship, and he left again, shutting the door.
‘Thirty years?’ the old man muttered. ‘Chacurra! I have been at sea seventy years, and the Mar Cantabrico still makes my heart lodge between my shoulder-blades! But that liquor in the flask is not good for the young lordship. Here – have a dram of my ardoa – it is better – it is better – ‘ and he detached the flask from his belt and passed it to me. I took a small gulp of the fiery liquor it contained, and ate the piece of maize bread he handed me.
Now a voice outside cried,’Andamos!’ The ship gave one violent heave, and then began a regular dipping motion – I guessed that our mooring ropes had been cast off, and that we were being towed out to the creek mouth by a smaller boat.
Soon the Guipuzcoa started to pitch and roll with an increasingly lively motion. Old Luc bustled about securing his utensils and stuffing loose odds and ends inside baskets. From the wind blowing against the caboose I concluded that we must be nearly beyond the mouth of the bay.
Then, all of a sudden, we heard loud shouts, several men’s voices together, some hailing from a distance, some from the deck of the ship.
‘Hein?’ muttered old Luc. ‘What is to do now?’
There was a jarring bump – I guessed that it was a boat, hitting the side of the ship. My Jieart began to bang against my ribs, for I thought, suppose the authorities from Oviedo, having had word of my arrival in Santander, have sent alguacils to arrest me for the death of the man on the mountain? Now that poor Senor Smith is dead, there is nobody to give evidence that I am innocent! Or perhaps this is some agent of great-aunt Isadora, sent after me to secure me?
All these wild thoughts tumbled through my head as I felt the Guipuzcoa check her progress, and then there was a thud and a lurch as somebody jumped on board, and a fresh outburst of angry discussion just outside the door of the caboose.
I could hardly contain my curiosity, and old Luc stood with his head cocked sideways and his spoon in mid air. Prudence withheld me from opening the door and looking out. Suppose an alguacil had come on board?
Then, to my astonishment, I heard a thoroughly familiar voice exclaim,
‘Well, you have got me now – having cast off my friends so rudely – so you will just have to make the best of my presence – unless you wish to put back to Santander and lose the tide? Where is my friend? I wish to join him.’
‘Sammy!’ I gasped out, dropping Susan in my amazement. I ran to the door, just as it opened, and Sammy limped in, his hair and face all wet with spray. When he saw me, a smile of relief spread over his ugly face.
‘Eh, there you are then, lad! I’ll be bound you thought I’d missed the boat – an’ so I should a’ done, had not a good-hearted pair o’ shipmates rowed me out as fast as if Old Scratch were swimming arter us!’
‘But – ‘ I began, utterly bewildered, ‘But you were not – ‘ Then I saw Sam’s finger on his lips, and his eyes glance past me in warning, as he saw old Luc. The tall captain followed him in, and began haranguing us both in loud angry Basque. It was very inconvenient of Sam to have come on board – he had not the space for more than three passengers, he had not expected a fourth, nothing had been said to him of Sam’s coming, and so on.
To all of which Sammy calmly replied,
‘Very good, Capitano! If you do not want me and my friend, put us ashore! We shall be sorry to miss a passage on such a beautiful ship as yours, but there are other ships, after all.’
Grumbling, the captain withdrew, beckoning Luc to follow him, and a long, muttered confabulation broke out, farther along the deck.
‘They are wondering whether to put back,’ Sammy whispered. ‘I dinna think they will dare, though – the Revenue chaps are after ‘em, see. I reckon they’d be glad enough to make eastwards an’ drop you and me on the French coast, but the wind ain’t favourable for that.’
‘But Sammy – ’ I whispered,’ Why did you come? You don’t want to go to England!’
I would have liked to believe it was because he found he did not care to part from me – but I knew Sam too well to think he would act in such a feckless manner. His face was very pale, despite the smile, and the look in his eyes told me that his reason was a graver one than that.
‘Ye’ve run yourself into a real nest of adders, here, lad,’ he whispered.
‘I know they are smugglers,’ I began protesting. ‘That was why the fee was low. But I could take care of my – ’
‘They are worse than smugglers, lad – they are Comprachicos,’ he breathed into my ear.
‘Compra – c-comprachicos?’
At first I thought I could not have heard him aright. Then I could not believe him. Then I did believe him – Sam would not make up such a tale – and, despite myself, my teeth began to chatter.
From Bernie, and others in the kitchen at Villaverde, I had heard tales of the Comprachicos – tales whispered in horror, under the breath, to frighten Pedro and me into good behaviour.
The Comprachicos were a secret people, wandering in groups over the face of Europe, sometimes seeming to vanish for fifty or sixty years together, then, apparently, coming to life once more. In the wake of wars and civil disturbances, plagues or bad seasons, when food was scarce and times were hard, then they would appear, plying their evil trade. What did they do? They supplied the raw material for fairs and peep-shows. And to do this they bought children from hungry parents – or they took orphans whom nobody claimed – they never stole, they drove hard but honest bargains – and they re-made these children, by terrible arts of their own, turning straight bodies into hunchbacks, dislocating joints, manufacturing dwarfs by stopping their growth – sometimes by constructing jars around them, it was said – grafting tails on to human bodies, making normal children into monstrosities. By their skilful surgery they could alter a child’s face so that its own mother would not recognise it. At the end of Napoleon’s wars, when Europe was full of starving families and homeless children, there were the Comprachicos again, like refuse collectors, picking up human rags and turning them into profitable goods.
I had only half-believed Bernie’s awful tales about them. Compra-pequenos, some people called them: child buyers. They were part-Spanish, part-Basque, part-Arab, part who-knows-what? They had, it was whispered in Villaverde, taken away the unwanted five-year-old stepson of Esteban Lopez when he married the widow Arriguerra, turned the child into a monster with the body of a boy and the head of a dog, and sold him to a travelling circus. Could this really have happened? Certainly little Pepe Arriguerra had disappeared. Once I asked Father Agustin about the Comprachicos – were there really such people? He said it was all a great deal of exaggerated nonsense – but he crossed himself
and muttered a prayer. While practising their dreadful surgery, Bernie said, they used a stupefying drug, invented by the Chinese many hundreds of years ago, which sent the victim into a deep sleep. When he awoke he remembered nothing of what had happened, or who he had been before.
‘Dear Father in heaven,’ I whispered, ‘don’t let this happen to me …’
Then I looked at Sammy, pale and grim.
‘Oh, Sam! And you came on board to warn me – but what will they do to you?‘
‘Eh, lad! I’m a man grown! There’s little they can do to me. And now I’m aboard – and my friends will witness that I came – I doubt they’ll not dare touch ye.’
‘How did you hear about them?’ I whispered shamefacedly.
‘One o’ my mates that we met this morning had seen ye colloguing wi’ the little fellow who brought ye aboard. My mate knew him for the assistant of a man they call the Doctor – my mate’s a bit in the smuggling line, that was how he came to hear about them – ’
‘Oh, they smuggle then as well?’
‘Ay, they practise many trades and carry many cargoes.’
‘But why – ‘ Why, I wanted to ask, had Sam come on board, why had he not simply bidden me come back to Santander with him? But I did not know how to frame the question, and besides, I feared I knew the answer. He had been afraid that I would refuse, out of obstinacy and ignorance, and then he would have had to force me. He wanted to spare my pride. He thought I could not endure to be dragged back to safety like a child. And it was all through my childish stubbornness and refusal to accept his help that I had landed us both in this trouble.
Sam guessed what was going through my mind. He said in explanation, ‘’Tis mighty choppy in the bay now, ye see, an’ the ship was under a fair bit of way a’ready. We only just caught her, an’ while I was scrambling aboard, the crew was fending off my mates’ boat – they reckoned we was Customs men, likely – so by the time I was over the rail, my mates was a fair way astern – they’d never catch up. They’ll go back to harbour.’
‘Is this ship really bound for England, then, Sammy? What will you do? You must not land there?’