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Wood Rangers: The Trappers of Sonora
Chapter One
Pepé, The Sleeper
No landscape on the Biscayan coast, presents a more imposing and picturesque aspect than the little village of Elanchovi. Lying within an amphitheatre of cliffs, whose crests rise above the roofs of the houses, the port is protected from the surge of the sea by a handsome little jetty of chiselled stone; while the single street of which the village is composed, commencing at the inner end of the mole, sweeps boldly up against the face of the precipice. On both sides, the houses, disposed in a sort of echelon, rise, terrace-like, one above the other; so that viewed from a distance, the street presents the appearance of a gigantic stairway.
In these the common dwellings, there is not much variety of architecture; since the village is almost exclusively inhabited by poor fishermen. There is one building, however, that is conspicuous – so much so as to form the principal feature of the landscape. It is an old chateau – perhaps the only building of this character in Spain – whose slate roofs and gothic turrets and vanes, rising above the highest point of the cliffs, overlook the houses of the village.
This mansion belonged to the noble family of Mediana, and formed part of the grand estates of this ancient house. For a long period, the Counts of Mediana had not inhabited the chateau of Elanchovi, and it had fallen into a state of neglect and partial decay, presenting a somewhat wild and desolate aspect. However, at the beginning of the year 1808, during the troubles of the French invasion, the Count Don Juan, then head of the family, had chosen it as a safe residence for his young wife Doña Luisa, whom he passionately loved.
Here Don Juan passed the first months of his married life – a marriage celebrated under circumstances of sad augury. The younger brother of Don Juan, Don Antonio de Mediana, had also fervently loved the Doña Luisa; until finding her preference for his brother, he had given up his suit in anger, and quitted the country. He had gone, no one knew whither; and though after a time there came back a rumour of his death, it was neither confirmed nor contradicted.
The principal reason why the Count had chosen this wild spot as a residence for his lady was this: – He held a high command in the Spanish army, and he knew that duty would soon call him into the field. The alcalde of Elanchovi had been an old servant of the Mediana family, and had been raised to his present rank by their influence. Don Juan, therefore, believed he could rely upon the devotion of this functionary to the interests of his house, and that during his absence Doña Luisa would find security under the magisterial protection. Don Ramon Cohecho was the name of the chief magistrate of Elanchovi.
The Count was not permitted long to enjoy the happiness of his married life. Just as he had anticipated, he soon received orders to join his regiment; and parted from the chateau, leaving his young wife under the special care of an old and respectable domestic – the steward Juan de Dios Canelo. He parted from his home never more to return to it; for in the battle of Burgos, a French bullet suddenly terminated his existence.
It was sad tidings for the Doña Luisa; and thus to the joys of the first days of her married life succeeded the sorrows of a premature widowhood.
It was near the close of the year 1808, when the chateau was the sombre witness of Doña Luisa’s grief, that our story commences, and though its scene lies in another land – thousands of leagues from, the Biscayan coast – its history is intimately woven with that of the chateau of Elanchovi.
Under ordinary circumstances, the village of Elanchovi presents a severe and dreary aspect. The silence and solitude that reigns along the summit of the cliffs, contrasted with the continuous roaring of the breakers against their base, inspires the beholder with a sentiment of melancholy. Moreover, the villagers, as already said, being almost exclusively fishermen, and absent during the whole of the day, the place at first sight would appear as if uninhabited. Occasionally when some cloud is to be observed in the sky, the wives of the fishermen may be seen at the door, in their skirts of bright colours, and their hair in long double plaits hanging below their waists. These, after remaining a while to cast anxious glances upon the far horizon, again recross the thresholds of their cottages, leaving the street deserted as before.
At the time of which we are writing – the month of November, 1808 – Elanchovi presented a still more desolate aspect than was its wont. The proximity of the French army had produced a panic among its inhabitants and many of these poor people – forgetting in their terror that they had nothing to lose – had taken to their boats, and sought safety in places more distant from the invaders of whom they were in dread.
Isolated as this little village was on the Biscayan coasts, there was all the more reason why it should have its garrison of coast-guards; and such in reality it had. These at the time consisted of a company of soldiers – carabiniers, under the command of a captain Don Lucas Despierto – but the condition of these warriors was not one to be envied, for the Spanish government, although nominally keeping them in its pay, had for a long time neglected to pay them. The consequence was, that these poor fellows had absolutely nothing upon which to live. The seizure of smuggled goods – with which they might have contrived to indemnify themselves – was no longer possible. The contraband trade, under this system, was completely annihilated. The smugglers knew better than to come in contact with coast-guards whose performance of their duty was stimulated by such a keen necessity! From the captain himself down to the lowest official, an incessant vigilance was kept up – the result of which was that the fiscal department of the Spanish government was, perhaps, never so faithfully or economically served.
There was one of these coast-guards who affected a complete scepticism in regard to smuggling – he even went so far as to deny that it had ever existed! He was distinguished among his companions by a singular habit – that of always going to sleep upon his post; and this habit, whether feigned or real, had won for him the name of the Sleeper. On this account it may be supposed, that he was never placed upon guard where the post was one of importance.
José, or as he was more familiarly styled, Pepé, was a young fellow of some twenty-five years – tall, thin, and muscular. His black eyes, deeply set under bushy eyebrows, had all the appearance of eyes that could sparkle; besides, his whole countenance possessed the configuration of one who had been born for a life of activity. On the contrary, however – whether from a malady or some other cause – the man appeared as somnolent and immobile as if both his visage and body were carved out of marble. In a word, with all the exterior marks that denote the possession of an active and ardent soul, Pepé the Sleeper appeared the most inactive and apathetic of men.
His chagrin was great – or appeared to be so – when, upon the evening of the day in which this narrative commences the captain of the coast-guard sent a messenger to summon him to headquarters.
On receiving the unexpected order, Pepé rose from his habitual attitude of recumbence, stretched himself at his leisure, yawned several times, and then obeyed the summons, saying as he went out: “What the devil fancy has the captain got into his head to send for me?”
Once, however, on the way and alone, it might have been observed that the somnolent coast-guard walked with an energetic and active step, very unlike his usual gait!
On entering the apartment where the captain awaited him, his apathetic habit returned; and, while rolling a cigarette between his fingers, he appeared to be half asleep. The captain was buried in a profound meditation, and did not at first perceive him.
“Bueno! my captain,” said the coast-guard, respectfully saluting his superior, and calling attention to his presence. “I am here.”
“Ah! good! my fine fellow,” began the captain, in a winning voice. “Well, Pepé!” added he more slowly and significantly, “the times are pretty hard with us – are they not?”
“Rather
