by Joan Aiken
So I sat on the stool and read:
‘To Felix Brooke: From Astorga. It will be a marvel if this reaches you, for I have no money to pay the carriers, a pair of the most surly-looking Maragatos I have ever encountered, and therefore must trust to their good-nature. Also, it has been written in snatches, on the way to my trial at Oviedo, from which, almost certainly I shall be sent to the galleys.’
Alas, poor man, thought I – what has become of him? Did he not find his treasure, after all? I wondered how he had persuaded the Maragatos to carry his letter. They are a strange people, who dress like Moors, shave their heads, on which they wear wide-brimmed hats, and they carry goods and mail all over Spain, preferring this trade to the hardship of tilling the stone fields around Astorga. Though surly, they have the reputation of being very faithful to a trust – and, it seemed, had proved so in this case.
I read on:
‘As you may guess, I did not succeed in removing the treasure. There it still lies, under ten feet of snow – enough gold to have saved General Moore’s army. The thought of the waste enrages me – but in any case, the treasure is no use to me, for my nights out in the mountain snows have brought on a lung-rot which, in all likelihood, will carry me off before the convict-chain even reaches Oviedo.
‘Listen, Felix Brooke! I am writing to warn you. If this letter comes to your hands, I owe you a good turn, for it will mean that you faithfully delivered my note to my step-daughter.
‘While taking measures to remove the treasure, I had the ill-luck to be caught by a band of highway robbers, and, while with them, was arrested by carabineers, and removed to the town of Villaverde where your grandfather is Governor and Corregidor (as you know). Your grandfather, questioning me, discovered that I was not a member of the band, but told me he had instructions to keep me in confinement. A message had been circulated from the alcalde at Oviedo, giving my description, and a warrant had been issued for my arrest, on suspicion of having murdered my comrade. I, of course, denied having murdered him, and said that it had been a fair duel, of which you had been the witness.
‘Your grandfather seemed greatly shaken at receiving this news of you, and asked many questions regarding your destination and intentions.’
A singular feeling of sorrow and regret stirred in my heart at this unexpected mention of my grandfather. How very strange it was, thought I, that he had encountered the grizzle-bearded man, and that they had spoken together of me.
I read again:
‘I was not treated harshly while in your grandfather’s charge,’ the letter went on, ‘but was imprisoned in a stable-loft. During my confinement there I was visited secretly by an elderly lady called Dona Isadora de los Campinos de la Fuenta la Higuera, who informed me that she wished to make further inquiries about you. She told me – which your grandfather had not – that news had come from the authorities at Oviedo regarding your incarceration there under suspicion of having killed my comrade – for which I am most heartily sorry. I told her that this was a false accusation and that I was prepared to testify to your innocence. But then she informed me that you had escaped from the jail at Oviedo – for which, accept my congratulations, my boy! – and she told me therefore that my testimony on your behalf was not needed, since you were already at liberty. I said in any case, since I had killed my comrade in fair fight, arid was prepared to say so, there could be no more question of your being accused of the crime.
‘What was my horror, then, when this evil woman invited me to lay the crime on you, and thus free myself! She wishes your death, I soon discovered – and indeed she promised me my liberty as well as a handsome sum of money, if I would bear false witness against you – or even follow you to Santander and assassinate you!
‘Therefore I write this letter to warn you, my boy, that this woman is your bitter enemy, and will stop at nothing to make away with you. Since I refused her blood-money, she may find other agents. Alas, because I had told your grandfather of your intentions, she knows of your plan to take ship from Santander. My advice to you, therefore, is to be continually upon your guard, especially in Santander, and to take ship without delay and leave Spain as soon as you may.
Your friend, George Smith.’
Having read this letter once, I read it again, for I was so dazed and amazed that I could hardly take in its meaning – or believe it when I had done so.
That my great-aunt Isadora was a mean, malicious, sanctimonious, tale-bearing, prying, ill-natured old hag, I had long known, but that she was actually plotting my death, I still found hard to credit. And yet I remembered Sam’s comment when I had told him my story: ‘If you warn’t there, her grandson ’ud get the property.’ Sam had been right, it seemed. Til lay she be main glad you’ve slipped your cable,’ he had said. But she had not even been content with that! I still found it difficult to believe that thin, grey, pale-eyed woman had harboured such a devilish plan.
No wonder, I reflected, taking a survey of my life at Villaverde during the past two or three years, no wonder my grandfather had been less and less friendly to me, no wonder he had become so sad and stern and withdrawn from me. Doubtless the old she-vulture was croaking away in his ear the whole time, telling her poisonous tales, blackening my name.
And no wonder, too, I recollected, that she had been so startled, and even alarmed, when she saw that I had the papers of my father’s that Bernie had given me. She must have feared they might prove that my parents were truly married and that I was their legitimate son. No wonder she had seemed so relieved when she saw that the writing was impossible to read!
Thinking of the papers made me wish to look at them again, and I pulled them out of the little oiled-skin pouch that Juana Colomas had kindly made me, in which to carry my book and papers, so as to protect them from the weather.
I said to Sister Benedicta, who was still placidly chopping away at her thyme and lemon – to this day I cannot smell herbs without thinking of Dona Isadora and her wickedness –
‘May I ask, of your kindness, Sister, if you could read the words on this paper?’
‘I will try, my child,’ she said, ‘and gladly,’ laying down her two-handled chopping blade. She took the papers and pored over them short-sightedly, but was obliged to confess after a while that she could not make out a single word. Nor could Sister Angeles, nor a couple of the other old religious, whom they presently summoned for a consultation.
Greatly disappointed, I thanked them and put the papers carefully away again, then wondered what I had best do. All of a sudden my situation seemed so perilous that I hardly dared set foot outside the convent gate, in case great-aunt Isadora’s hired bravos darted out from some alley-way and stabbed me to the heart!
Then I felt a great coward, and tried to laugh at such foolish fears. Had I not come all this way, through more perils and adventures than great-aunt Isadora could possibly dream of? Had I seen any signs of assassins prowling after me through the streets of Santander?
I had not – but how, I wondered, would I know an assassin if I saw him? – except by his knife in my ribs. Whereas he would know me, I reflected glumly, without the least difficulty, as the holy Sisters had done: ‘a boy resembling a day-old-chick’. Not for the first time I regretted my conspicuous yellow hair and short stature. Then something else occurred to me.
I said to Sister Benedicta,
‘Sister, you seemed to be expecting me? How could that have been?’
‘Why, my child,’ she said comfortably, ‘you must have been some little time, have you not, on the road to Santander from wherever it was that you met Sister Annunciata’s stepfather?’
‘Yes – yes, that is true.’ I thought of the day lost fording the flooded river, my wanderings in the mountains, and the three weeks passed at Llanes.
‘Four days ago,’ Sister Benedicta went on, ‘the news reached our Sister Annunciata of her stepfather’s death from lung disease. He wrote her a few last lines on his deathbed, bequeathed her some property in Madrid, and recomm
ended her to look out for a boy like a day-old-chick who might come bearing an earlier letter – if he had not already arrived – asked her to give him the letter which you have just read, and to urge him – you – to leave the country, for safety’s sake. Which we would have done, my child, before you quitted this place.’
All the old nuns gazed at me benevolently, and I remarked with some heat,
‘Sister Annunciata’s stepfather wrote to warn me that my great-aunt is plotting my death – and the best advice is that I should escape from the country? Am I not to have justice against that evil woman?’
‘God will look after that part of the business in His own way, my child,’ said the oldest of the group, a frail, white-faced old shred of a woman like a withered leaf, who was called Sister Maria. ‘It is not for you to concern yourself in the matter – indeed your best course is to save her from further wrong-doing by putting yourself out of her reach. God will punish the sinner in His own time, never fear.’
This seemed to me very annoying advice, but since no other course appeared open to me at present, I felt myself obliged to take it.
I thought of writing to my grandfather – but what could I say? ‘Dear Grandfather, Dona Isadora is a liar and a would-be murderer. She tried to persuade Senor Smith to assassinate me.’ He would never believe such stuff! And besides, my doing such a thing seemed disagreeably like Isadora’s own methods.
However, these thoughts put me in mind of my promise to write to my grandfather from Santander, and I asked the old Sisters if I might have the use of a pen and ink and a scrap of paper. These were hospitably provided and I was led to the parlour, where, sitting at a small, highly-polished table, I wrote:
‘Dear Grandfather: I am now in Santander, about to take ship for England and seek my father’s family. I earned the money for the passage by my own work and have not begged or stolen or disgraced you in any way.
‘I am sorry now for some of the tricks that I played on you and Grandmother.’ I added, ‘But not for those on Dona Isadora,’ then decided to scratch it out again. I ended, ‘Please give my best greetings to my grandmother and to yourself – your respectful Grandson.’
When I had folded and sealed this letter, the Sisters very kindly promised to see that it was sent to Villaverde. I offered to give them money, but they refused, saying that they had few needs, whereas I, going over the sea, might have many. So then, visited by a sudden notion, I said,
‘Sisters, would you like this parrot? She is very good at telling the time, and knows many things about healing herbs and the planets. To tell truth, I would be glad to find a good home for her; I should be anxious, taking her across the sea, in case she was overtaken by some mischance.’
In fact I had thought of giving her to Sam, but decided she would be of more use to the Sisters, who were delighted to receive her, and promised to look after her carefully. I thanked them for their help and hospitality, then returned across the road to the monastery, where, to my rage, the porter called me as I passed through the gate, and said,
‘Your friend with the lame leg was here while you were gone. He left this note for you.’
‘Where is he now? When did he leave?’
‘How should I know?’ The porter shrugged. ‘He left eight or nine minutes ago. He didn’t tell me where he was going.’
Hastily I read the note, which was only a few lines.
‘Arranged passage for you on English ship, the Beauty of Bristol, sailing two days from now to Bristol which is right close to Bath so will be handy for you. Passage fee will be thirty dollars. On no account leave the monastery till I see you. I will be back by nine. S.P.’
Now I was in a most awkward predicament and could have gnashed my teeth at my slowness in returning from the convent. If only I had returned a few minutes earlier! Indeed I ran back to the gate and looked along the road to the town, but Sam was not to be seen. Could he have heard, somehow, of Dona Isadora’s schemes – was that why he wanted me not to leave the monastery? Why could he not have waited?
‘Why did you not say I was just across the road?’ I demanded of the porter, a big, stupid ox of a fellow, who replied, raising his brows,
‘I didn’t know that, did I? I wasn’t looking where you went. Your mate asked where you were – I said, likely you’d gone back to town.’
No wonder Sam had left again so quickly; now he was probably scouring the town for me.
I was terribly tempted to go after him – but then I thought how slender a chance there would be of coming up with him in that maze of ships and docks.
Trying to curb my impatience, I sat down and wrote him a note.
‘Dear Sam, I have had a warning to leave Santander without delay, as my great-aunt Isadora is trying to have me murdered. You were right about her, you see! It is kind of you to arrange my berth on the English ship, but I have already found one for myself on a Basque ship, the Guipuzcoa, which leaves tonight (I hope) & the fare is only fifteen dollars, so I had best take it and get clear away, though I do not like to run away, and hope the old Fiend burns in Hell. I shall write to my grandfather about her from England. Dear Sam, I hate to part from you, especially without a Goodbye, after all the fine songs we have sung together. When I find my English folk, I shall ask them to have the Law on your wicked uncle and then you, too, can come home.
Your affec. Friend, Felix.’
The writing of this took me some little time – in fact I had to re-write it three times, for at first it sounded too gloatingly triumphant over my success in finding a ship for myself, and then too babyishly sad at parting from Sam – in fact I had much ado to prevent my pen from begging him to come to England also, although I knew he must not.
At last it was done, and I left it with the porter, and a few coins for his trouble. I had a little time, still, so I sat reading my father’s book in the cloister, longing for Sam to appear before it was too late. But he did not.
Then I went to the stable and said goodbye to my bad-tempered friend, rubbing her nose and giving her a couple of maize-cakes which Sister Benedicta had tucked into my pocket.
‘Take care of Sam,’ I said to her softly. ‘Don’t play any of your tricks on him, but carry him safely back to Llanes – ’ at which her only response was a snort – as if she knew very well what the future held in store for Sam, and for her, and for me too!
Then, since dusk was now beginning to fall, and in a very short time it would not be possible to distinguish a black thread from a white one, I walked away along the road back to the city, looking out vigilantly on all sides, and behind me too, as I went quickly and quietly towards the harbour.
8
On board the Guipuzcoa; the Comprachicos
Despite my anxieties I reached the port without hazard or hindrance, and sought again the spot where I had encountered the small red-kerchiefed man. I found the place at once, and easily, for he was there ahead of me, jigging impatiently from foot to foot, and looking all round him with his quick, darting black eyes.
‘Very good, very good, it is the young senor, follow me if you please, for the ship has already arrived and the captain wishes to make passage again without delay!’ he exclaimed in a rush of words the moment he saw me; and, snatching at my hand in his impatience to be off, he began leading me, almost at a run, along the sides of wharves, over narrow catwalks, in between great piles of timber, among casks and bales and crates, until I was thoroughly confused and had no notion whether we were going east or west or north or south, but could only follow him in blind trust. I was slower than he liked, though, first because I was burdened with one of my two saddle-bags (I had left the other, the one with the food in it, for Sam), and also because I was still hoping to get a glimpse of Sam and longingly craned my neck this way and that, as we came out from behind ships and crossed bridges. Nowhere did I see him, though, and the little man crying, ‘Hasten, hasten!’ urged me at a faster pace.
At last we descended a flight of weed-encrusted steps, and stepped into
a small boat which lay moored at the bottom. I was hardly in the boat before the man had untied the mooring-rope, pushed off, and begun rowing away across the tossing green water.
Now, through gathering dusk, I saw that we must have made our way to the western side of the harbour, for the town with all its lights lay behind us and to our right. Ahead of us a dark bulk of land began to loom up which must, I guessed, be the island off which the Guipuzcoa lay at anchor.
After ten minutes’ rowing our boat bumped on a sandy bottom, and my guide jumped over the gunwale and pulled the boat up on to a shelving beach. Then he assisted me to disembark and bade me follow again. This I did, across the beach, along a twisting path through bushes, up, up, and then down again on to a small, slippery jetty and thus to where, I suddenly realised, a ship lay moored, so low in the water that, behind the spit of land we had just crossed, she must be almost invisible from the main harbour.
My first impression of the Guipuzcoa was her smallness. Could a ship of that size – she looked scarcely larger than a farm waggon – really be capable of braving the wild Gulf of Gascony and the treacherous English Channel?
As we threaded our way along by the shadowy creek where she lay hidden, all I could see of the ship was a mast, a complicated tangle of rigging, a carved figurehead with dim indications of gilding on it, and more traces of carving and gilding along the deck-rail. A few dark figures were flitting to and fro along a gangplank, carrying stores or cargo – sacks, casks, bottles, boxes, a ball of tow, a coil of rope.
My guide, approaching the gangplank, said in a low voice,
‘I have brought him.’
This message, it seemed, passed rapidly through the ship, and in a moment, from among the dusky confusion of stores and tackle on the deck, a cloaked figure somewhat taller than the rest detached itself and crossed the gangplank.
A deep voice said,