too had our squadrons of little ships, roughly hewn in wood, with sails of paper or of rag, which we navigated with the greatest deliberation and gravity in the pools of Puntales or La Caleta. To make all complete, whenever a few coppers came into our hands, earned by one or another of our small industries, we bought powder of old “Aunt Coscoja” in the street “del Torno de Santa María,” and with this we could have a grand naval display. Our fleets sailed before the wind in an ocean three yards across, fired off their cannon, came alongside of each other to mimic a hand-to-hand fight—in which the imaginary crews valiantly held their own, and swarmed into the tops unfurling the flag, made of any scrap of colored rag we could pick up in a dust-heap—while we danced with ecstasy on the shore at the popping of the artillery, imagining ourselves to be the nationalities represented by our respective standards, and almost believing that in the world of grown-up men and great events the nations too would leap for joy, looking on at the victories of their splendid fleets. Boys see things through strange windows.
Those were times of great sea-fights, for there was one at least every year and a skirmish every month. I thought that fleets met in battle simply and solely because they enjoyed it, or to prove their strength and valor, like two bullies who meet outside the walls to stick knives into each other. I laugh when I recollect the wild ideas I had about the persons and events of the time. I heard a great deal about Napoleon and how do you think I had pictured him to myself! In every respect exactly like the smugglers whom we not unfrequently saw in our low quarter of the town: Contrabandistas from the lines at Gibraltar. I fancied him a man on horseback, on a Xerez nag, with a cloak, high boots, a broad felt-hat, and a blunderbuss of course. With these accoutrements, and followed by other adventurers on the same pattern, I supposed this man, whom all agreed in describing as most extraordinary, to have conquered Europe, which I fancied was a large island within which were other islands which were the different nations: England, Genoa, London, France, Malta, the land where the Moors lived, America, Gibraltar, Port Mahon, Russia, Toulon and so forth. This scheme of geography I had constructed on the basis of the names of the places from which the ships came whose passengers I had to deal with; and I need not say that of all these nations or islands Spain was the very best, for which reason the English—men after the likeness of highwaymen—wanted to get it for their own. Talking of these and similar matters I and my amphibious companions would give vent to sentiments and opinions inspired by the most ardent patriotism.
However, I need not weary the reader with trifles which relate only to my personal fancies, so I will say no more about myself. The one living soul that made up to me for the wretchedness of life by a wholly disinterested love for me, was my mother. All I can remember of her is that she was extremely pretty, or at any rate she seemed so to me. From the time when she was left a widow she maintained herself and me by doing washing, and mending sailors’ clothes. She must have loved me dearly. I fell ill of yellow fever which was raging in Andalusia and when I got well she took me solemnly to mass at the old cathedral and made me kneel on the pavement for more than an hour, and then, as an ex-voto offering, she placed an image in wax of a child, which I believed to be an exact likeness of myself, at the foot of the altar where the service had been performed.
My mother had a brother, and if she was pretty, he was ugly and a cruel wretch into the bargain. I cannot think of my uncle without horror, and from one or two occurrences which I remember vividly I infer that this man must have committed some crime at the time I refer to. He was a sailor; when he was on shore and at Cadiz he would come home furiously drunk, and treat us brutally—his sister with words, calling her every abusive name, and me with deeds, beating me without any reason whatever.
My mother must have suffered greatly from her brother’s atrocities, and these, added to severe labor for miserable pay, hastened her death which left an indelible impression on my feelings, though the details dwell but vaguely in my memory. During this period of misery and vagabondage my only occupations were playing by the sea-shore or running about the streets. My only troubles were a beating from my uncle, a frown from my mother, or some mishap in the conduct of my squadrons. I had never felt any really strong or deep emotion till the loss of my mother showed me life under a harder and clearer aspect than it had ever before presented to me. The shock it gave me has never faded from my mind. After all these years I still remember, as we remember the horrible pictures of a bad dream, that my mother lay prostrate from some sickness, I know not what; I remember women coming and going, whose names and purpose I cannot recall; I remember hearing cries of lamentation, and being placed in my mother’s arms, and then I remember the shudder that ran through my whole body at the touch of a cold, cold hand. I think I was then taken away; but mixed up with these dim memories I can see the yellow tapers which gave a ghastly light at mid-day, I can hear the muttering of prayers, the hoarse whispers of the old gossips, the laughter of drunken sailors—and then came the lonely sense of orphanhood, the certainty that I was alone and abandoned in the world, which for a time absorbed me entirely.
I have no recollection of what my uncle was doing at that time; I only know that his brutality to me increased to such a point that, weary of his cruelty, I ran away, determined to seek my fortune. I fled to San Fernando and from thence to Puerto Real. I hung on to the lowest class that haunt the shore, which has always been a famous nest for gaol-birds. Why or wherefore I quite forget, but I found myself with a gang of these choice spirits at Medinasidonia when, one day, a tavern where we were sitting was entered by a press-gang and we promptly separated, each hiding himself as best he might. My good star led me to a house where the owners had pity on me, taking the greatest interest in me, no doubt by reason of the story I told, on my knees and drowned in tears, of my miserable plight, my past life and all my misfortunes.
These good people took me under their protection and saved me from the press-gang, and from that time I remained in their service. With them I went to Vejer de la Frontera where they lived; they had only been passing through Medinasidonia.
My guardian angels were Don Alonso Gutierrez de Cisniega, a ship’s captain, and his wife, both advanced in years. They taught me much that I did not know, and as they took a great fancy to me before long I was promoted to be Don Alonso’s page, accompanying him in his daily walks, for the worthy veteran could not use his right arm, and it was with difficulty that he moved his right leg. What they saw in me to arouse their interest I do not know; my tender years, my desolate circumstances and no doubt too my ready obedience may have contributed to win their benevolence, for which I have always been deeply grateful. I may also add—though I say it that should not—as explaining their kind feeling towards me, that although I had always lived among the lowest and most destitute class, I had a certain natural refinement of mind which enabled me very soon to improve in manners, and in a few years, notwithstanding I had no opportunities for learning, I could pass for a lad of respectable birth and training.
I had spent four years in this home when the events happened which I must now relate. The reader must not expect an accuracy of detail which is out of my power when speaking of events which happened in my tender youth, to be recalled in the evening of my existence when I am near the end of a long and busy life and already feel the slow poison of old age numbing the fingers that use the pen; while the torpid brain strives to cheat itself into transient return of youth, by conjuring up the sweet or ardent memories of the past. As some old men strive to revive the warm delights of the past by gazing at pictures of the beauties they have known, I will try to give some interest and vigor to the faded reminiscences of my long past days, and to warm them with the glow of a counterfeit presentment of departed glories.
The effect is magical! How marvellous are the illusions of fancy! I look back with curiosity and astonishment at the bygone years, as we look through the pages of a book we were reading, and left with a leaf turned down to mark the place; and so long as the charm works I feel as if some beneficent genius had suddenly relieved me of the weight of old age, mitigating the burden of years which crushes body and spirit alike. This blood—this tepid and languid ichor, which now scarcely lends warmth and life to my failing limbs, grows hot again, flows, boils, and fires my veins with a swifter course. A sudden light breaks in upon my brain, giving color and relief to numberless strange figures—just as the traveller’s torch, blazing
