[Where I Translate] Trafalgar by Benito Perez Galdos

[Murazor]

Benito Pérez Galdós was one of the foremost Spanish writers of the 19th century. His Episodios Nacionales series chronicles much of the story of Spain in that period in five series and are collectively considered one of the peaks of Spanish realist literature.

In spite of this, I haven't had much luck finding translations into English even though all his works are firmly in the public domain, so I thought that I may give a try at correcting that. This is probably a project that is too ambitious for me and I am not sure if there will be any interest whatsoever in this, but we'll see how far I can go with it. If nothing else, translating a book ought to give me one or two extra lines for my CV.

The first novel in the Episodios Nacionales, which we'll be visiting in this thread is Trafalgar, a story of the famous battle of the same name.

 

[Murazor]

Chapter I

I beg to be allowed, before telling the great events that I witnessed, to say some words about my childhood, explaining the strange manner in which the mishaps of life made me a witness to the terrible disaster of our navy.

When talking about my birth, I shall not mimic most of those who tell the events of their own life, who usually start naming their ancestry, oft noble or gentry at the least, when they do not claim themselves descendants of the Emperor of Trebizond himself. I cannot decorate this book with high-sounding surnames; and besides my mother, whom I knew only briefly, I have no knowledge of any of my ancestors, other than Adam, who I deem indisputably a relative. Thus, I begin my story like Pablos, the petty thief of Segovia: fortunately God decided that this was the full extent of our resemblance.

I was born in Cádiz, in the famous quarter of La Viña, which nowadays isn't a school of good manners and was even less so back then. Memory sheds no light about my person and childish actions, until I was six years old; and if I remember something of that date, it is because I connect it to a naval event that I heard about at the time: the Battle of Cape St. Vincent, which took place in 1797.

Looking back towards what was, with the logical interest and curiosity, I see a blurry, confusing image of the picture of days past, where I play with other boys about my age in the Caleta. That was my whole life and, more than that, the normal life of our privileged kind; and those who didn't live like myself, seemed quaint examples of the human lineage, for in my childish innocence and ignorance of the world I had the belief that man had been created for the sea, having been given by the Providence swimming as the supreme exercise for the body, and as constant toil of the spirit searching and catching crabs, both to rip out and sell their mouths, which they call of la Isla, and for our own satisfaction and gift, mixing like that the pleasant with the useful.

The society in which I was raised was most crude and rude, to the point that we boys of the Caleta were considered worse riffraff than those with the same trade and boasting at Puntales; and because of this, both groups considered each other rivals, and sometimes we tested our mettle in the Puerta de Tierra with great and rowdy bouts of stone-throwing, which dirtied the ground with our "heroic" blood.

When I was of age to jump into business, in order to honestly earn some coin, I remember displaying my young wit at the docks, working for the many Englishmen that visited us then as they do now. The docks were an Athenian school for those who wanted to become street smart and I wasn't one of the least devoted students of that vast branch of human knowledge, just as I didn't fail in the theft of fruit. The square of San Juan de Dios provided us with a wide field for our initiative and exercise of this particular art. I want now end this part of my history, for nowadays I regard with shame those vile times, and praise God for calling me to follow a nobler path.

Of the memories I keep, it is very vivid in my memory the enthusiastic pleasure I felt when watching the warships, when they dropped anchor in front of Cádiz or San Fernando. Since I was never able to satisfy my curiosity by observing those mighty machines from up close, I pictured them in fantastical and nonsensical ways, imagining them full of mysteries.

Eager to copy the great things of the grown men, the young formed our own squadrons, with small vessels, crudely carved, with sails of paper or cloth, launching them with all due intent and gravity in the puddles we found at Puntales or the Caleta. To make things as complete as we could, when some coin fell into our hands thanks to the industries that we exercised, we bought gunpowder at the home of aunt Coscoja in the street of the Torno de Santa Maria, and this ingredient allowed us to create veritable naval festivals. We would launch our fleets to the winds in oceans three yards wide; they would shoot their reed cannons; they would crash in representation of bloody boardings, in which their imaginary crews fought gloriously; they would be covered by smoke, leaving only to be seen the flags we made with the first colored rags found with the garbage; and meanwhile we danced in joy back at the coast, following the sound of the artillery, thinking that we were the countries that those fleets belonged to, and imagining that in the world of grown ups and big things, nations surely danced the same when they witnessed the victories of their cherished fleets. Children see things in a most unique way.

That was a time of great naval clashes, perhaps once a year, and at least some kind of skirmish every moth. I thought that the navies fought each other simply because they wanted to, or to prove their courage, like two thugs that meet outside the gates to slash each other. I laugh remembering my odd ideas about the things of that time. I heard much of Napoleon and… do you know how I imagined him? More or less the same as those smugglers, arrived from Gibraltar, who appeared in La Viña quarter every so often; I pictured him atop a colt from Jerez, with his blanket, his leggings, his felt hat and the compulsory blunderbuss. According to my ideas, with that appearance and some other adventurers of the same kind, that man who everyone described as extraordinary was conquering the Europe, which is to say, a great island that had within itself other islands, that were the nations. Namely, England, Genoa, London, France, Malta, the lands of the Moor, America, Gibraltar, Mahón, Russia, Toulon, etcetera. I had created this geography according to my whim, following the most common points of origin of those ships that carried passengers with whom I made some kind of deal. It probably goes without saying that among all those nation islands, Spain was the very best, which was why the Englishmen wanted it for themselves, and stole from us like highwaymen. Talking about this and other diplomatic matters, me and my peers at the Caleta said a thousand things inspired by fiercely burning patriotism.

However, I do not want to tire the reader with details that deal only with my own impressions, and I will stop talking about me. The only being that compensated the misery of my existence with selfless affection was my mother. I only remember that she was very beautiful, or at least so I thought. After she became a widow, she supported us both cleaning and mending the clothes of some sailors. Her love for me must have been very great. When I fell gravely ill with the yellow fever, that was desolating Andalucía at the time, and after I got better she took me to listen to mass at the old cathedral, and made me walk on my knees for an hour. There, in the very altarpiece, she left as an offering a wax figurine of a boy, which I thought as my perfect portrait.

My mother had a brother and if she was good, he was bad and very cruel besides. I cannot recall my uncle without trepidation and, from some incidents that I keep in my memory, I assume that that man must have carried out some crime in that time. He was a sailor and when he was in Cádiz, he would come home drunk as a skunk and treated us poorly, verbally abusing his sister by calling her the most horrid things and physically beating me, punishing me for no reason.

My mother probably suffered a great deal with the atrocities of her brother and this, along with awful and poorly paid work, accelerated her passing, which left an unforgettable mark in my soul, even if my memory only recalls it in a vague way.

In that time of misery and vagrancy, I cared for nothing more than playing next to the sea or running through the streets. My only setbacks were those caused by a slap from my uncle, a scolding from my mother or some problem when making our toy navies. My soul hadn't yet known any strong and truly deep emotions, until the loss of my mother made me regard human life in ways that I had never before experience. It is because of that that I still bear a mark on my soul that doesn't fade. Now that many years have passed, I remember still, like one remembers the bad parts of a nightmare, my mother lying in bed with some ill I don't recall; I remember seeing some women come home, but I don't remember their names or the reasons for their presence; I remember anguished cries of pain and feeling myself hugged by my mother; I remember the touch of cold, very cold hands all over my body. I think that after that they took me out of there and there is some vague association in my memories to the sight of some yellow candles that give outrageous clarity in the middle of the day, the murmur of praying, the whispering of some old chatterboxes, the laughter of drunk sailors and, after all that, the sad idea of being left an orphan, alone and abandoned in the world, a notion which seized my poor soul for some time.

I have no clear idea of what my uncle did in those days. I know only that his cruelty increased to the point that, tired of his beatings, I fled looking for fortune. I went to San Fernando, and from there to Puerto Real. I joined with the worst kind of people in those beaches, rich as they were in crossroads heroes, and I don't know how or why I ended with them at Medinasidonia, where a certain day some soldiers of the Navy who were drafting found us in a tavern. We scattered, each hiding where he could. My good star took me to a certain home, where the owners took pity of me and great interest, after I knelt and crying told them of the sorry state of my life and my many misfortunes.

Those gentlepersons took me under their protection, saving me from the levy, and after that I entered their service. With them I went to Vejer de la Frontera, their place of residence, for they had only been passing through Medinasidonia.

My guardian angels were Don Alonso Gutiérrez de Cisniega, sea captain, retired from service, and his lady wife, both of advanced age. They taught me many things that I didn't know and, since they grew to care about me, I shortly became the page of mister Don Alonso, whom I joined in his daily walks, since the poor man was disabled and couldn't move his right arm, and the right leg only with much work. No doubt, my short years, my situation as an orphan and the meekness with which I obeyed them, helped me deserve a kindness, which I've always felt deeply thankful for. To the causes of that kindness I must add, even if it is immodest to say so myself, that for all that I had lived up to that time in close contact with the most ragged scum, I displayed a certain culture or native tenderness that allowed me to change my ways in short order, to the point that some years later, in spite of lacking any kind of education, I could pass for a well-bred person.

Four years I had spent in that house when what I am going to tell happened. I ask the reader not to ask me for an accuracy which I think impossible, when dealing with evens that happened in the first part of my life and which I tell in the sunset of my existence, when close to the end, after a long life, I feel that the ice of senescence makes my hand clumsy when handling the quill, even as my wits try to play tricks, seeking a temporary rejuvenation by replaying sweet or ardent memories. Just like those dirty old men who try to awaken their voluptuousness fooling the senses by watching painted beauties, so I'll try to bring interest and freshness to the withered thoughts of my old age, heating them with the representation of old greatness.

And the effect is instantaneous. Marvelous trick of the imagination! Just like those who pass the pages of a book that they read some time ago, I regard with curiosity and surprise the years that were; and for as long as the fascination of this contemplation lasts, I feel as if a friendly djinn had come and lifted from my shoulders the weight of years, alleviating that burden of old age that so oppresses both body and soul. This blood, lukewarm and lazy humour that nowadays barely flows through my worn out organism, stirs, shakes, flows and beats through my veins with an accelerated pulse. It is as if a great light had entered my brain which illuminates and gives shape to a thousand forgotten prodigies, like the traveler's torch brings light to the dark cave to reveal suddenly marvels of geology. At the same time, my heart, long dead to strong feelings, wakes up, like Lazarus when called by the divine voice, and beats in my chest, causing me both pain and joy.

I am young; no time has passed at all; in front of me are the main events of my young age; I shake the hand of old friends; I feel the sweet and terrible emotions of my youth, the fire of triumph, the regret of defeat, and the great pains, connected in my memories as they were in my life. And above all feelings one dominates, one that directed my actions in that hazardous period between 1805 and 1834. Close to the grave and feeling the most useless of men, you can still make me cry, holy love of the motherland! I can still write for you a word, cursing both the contemptible skeptic that rejects you and the rotten philosopher that mistakes you with the passing interests of his day.

To this feeling I devoted my virile days and to it I devote this task of my twilight years, making it the guardian angel of my written existence, since it could not do the same for my real existence. I have many things to tell. Trafalgar, Bailén, Madrid, Zaragoza, Gerona, Arapiles! Of all those I will say a few things, if you are not wanting for patience. My tale will not be as beautiful as it ought to be, but I will do what I can to make it a true one.

 

[Ben Who Devours]

You have at least one person's interest. I'm intrigued.

 

[Claudette Savagely]

Make that two. I'm eager to see where this goes.

Good work so far, Murazor.

 

[Murazor]

Chapter II

In one of the first days of October of that ill-fated year (1805), my noble master called me to his room, and regarding me with his usual stern gaze (merely an appeareance, since his nature was exceedingly lenient) he asked me, "Gabriel, are you are a man of courage?"

Initially, I didn't know what to answer, because to speak the truth at my age of fourteen I hadn't yet had the chance to amaze the world with any heroic deed, but when I heard him calling me a man pride filled me, and feeling at the same time that it would be unseemly to deny my courage to someone who held it in such high esteem, I replied with childlike arrogance.

"Yes, sir. I am a man of courage."

Then that distinguished man, who had shed blood in a hundred glorious battles and in spite of this treated his loyal servant with trust, smiled, gestured me to take a set, and was about to reveal to me some important thing, when his wife and my mistress Doña Francisca burst into the study to increase the interest of the conference, and started to talk harshly.

"No, you are not going... I swear you are not going with the fleet. Not a chance! At your age, after you have retired from the service! Alonsito, you are seventy years old and you are not up for those parties anymore!"

I feel that I am still seeing that respectable and irascible lady with her great bonnet, her organdie dress, her white curls and her hairy mole to the side of the chin. I mention these four varied details, because without them I cannot visualize her in my memory. She was a fair lady in her old age, like Murillo's Saint Anne; and her respectable beauty would have been perfect, and the comparison with the mother of the Virgin Mary accurate, if my mistress had been mute like a picture.

D. Alonso, somewhat cowed, as was the normal state of affairs when he heard her, replied, "I need to go, Paquita. According to the letter that I just received from good Churruca, the joint fleet must either leave Cádiz to engage the English, or wait for them in the bay, should they dare to enter. In any case, this is going to be one for the books."

"Well, I am glad," said Doña Francisca. "Gravina, Valdés, Cisneros, Churruca, Alcalá Galiano and Álava are there. They can smash those English dogs. But you have turned into an old piece of good, and you are of no use for any goddamned thing. You still cannot move the left arm that they dislocated at the cape of St. Vincent."

My master moved the left arm as a token gesture, to prove that it was in working order. But Doña Francisca was not to be deterred by such a feeble argument and kept shouting.

"No, you are not going with the fleet, because there they don't need of scarecrows like you. If you were forty years old, like you were when you went to Tierra del Fuego and you brought those green collars of the indians... But now... I know that that wimp Marcial has been giving you ideas yesterday and this morning, with all his talk of battles. I think that mister Marcial and me are going to have a quarrel. Let him go back to the ships if he wants to, they can take away the leg he has left. Oh, blessed St. Joseph! If I had known when I was fifteen what the people of the sea are like... What torture! Not a day of rest! One marries to be with her husband and perhaps then a message from Madrid comes and in two blinks they are sending him to I don't even know where, the Patagonia, the Japan or even hell itself. Then, after ten or twelve months without seeing him and assuming that he doesn't get eaten by the savages, he comes back a wreck, so ill and so yellow that one doesn't know what to do to make him regain a healthy complexion. But the old bird doesn't want to go into the cage, so when a new communiqué from Madrid comes... You go to Toulon, to Brest, to Naples, hither and thither, wherever that great crook of the First Consul wants... Ugh! If everyone did as I said, how soon we would be settling scores with that gentleman who has turned the world upside down!"

My master looked with a smile at a bad picture nailed to the wall, a clumsy work of an unknown artist, which represented the Emperor Napoleon, mounting a green horse, with his famous coat painted in red. No doubt the impact that that drawing left in me, after seeing it for four years, was the reason that removed the smuggler getup from my mental image of that great man, and afterwards I imagined him dressed like a cardinal and riding a green horse.

"This is no way of living," shouted Doña Francisca, waving her arms. "May God forgive me, but I hate the sea, for all that they say that it is one of his best works. I have no idea what the Holy Inquisition is good for if it doesn't turn those damned warships into so much ash! Come here and tell me. What is good for this business of shooting bullets and more bullets, for no reason, while standing on four boards that when they crack, leave hundreds of unfortunates in the middle of the sea? Isn't that tempting god? And these men lose their wits when they hear cannon fire! How very fun! I tremble when I hear them and if everyone thought like I do, there would be no more war in the sea... and all cannons would be turned into bells."

Then, stopping in front of her husband, she continued. "Look, Alonso, I think that they have beaten you enough times. Do you want one more time? You and all the other madmen, didn't have enough with St. Vincent?"

D. Alonso tightened his firsts with the reminder of that sorry memory, and only the respect he had for his wife kept him from swearing like a sailor.

"The reason for your stubbornness about going with the fleet is that scoundrel Marcial," added the lady, increasingly furious. "That damned sailor, who should have drowned a hundred times and a hundred times was saved for our misfortune. If he wants to embark with his pegleg, his broken arm, his missing eye and his fifty wounds, let him go and may God keep him from coming back here... But you are not going, Alonso, you are not going, because you are ill and because you have served the King enough, with poor reward by the way; and if I was you, I would throw in the face of the Generalissimo of sea and earth those epaulets of captain you have had for ten years. They should have made you an admiral at the least, because you already deserved it when you went to Africa and brought me those blue beads, that I used along with the collars of the indians to decorate the urn of the Virgin of the Carmen."

"Admiral or not, I must go with the fleet, Paquita," said my master. "I cannot miss this battle. I have to settle certain outstanding debts with the English."

"You are in no condition to settle scores," replied my mistress. "You are an ill man and half crippled to boot."

"Gabriel is coming with me," said D. Alonso, looking at me in way that gave me courage.

I nodded my assent with the heroic endeavour, but took care to avoid being seen by Doña Francisca, who would have made me feel the irresistible weight of her hand if she had seen my belligerent inclinations.

Seeing her husband so determined, she got angrier still; she swore that if she were to be born again, she would never marry a sailor; she said a thousand foul names for the Emperor, our beloved King, the Prince of Peace, every signatory of the subsidy treaty; and finished telling the brave sailor that God would punish him for his imprudent temerity.

During the dialogue which I've described, without claiming perfect exactitude, since I am building on foundations of vague memory, a robust, dog-like cough from the next room announced that Marcial, the old sailor, was listening from very close the passionate words of my mistress, who had named him quite a few times in rather unflattering terms. Wishing to join the conversation, with the authority given by the trust that he enjoyed in that house, he opened the door and entered the study of my master.

Before continuing forwards, I would like to offer some exposition about him and his lady wife, for a better understanding of what I will write later.

 

[Claudette Savagely]

I'm no good with languages but this flows rather well. You're doing a sterling job so far, Murazor.

 

[Murazor]

I'm no good with languages but this flows rather well. You're doing a sterling job so far, Murazor.

Click to shrink...

Thanks, I appreciate that.

Chapter III

D. Alonso Gutiérrez de Cisniega was a member of an ancient family from Vejer itself. They commited him to a naval career and, while still young, when he was a midshipman, honorably distinguished himself during the attack that the english launched against La Habana in 1748. He was part of the expedition that left Cartagena to attack Argel in 1775 and was also part of the attack against Gibraltar led by the Duke of Crillon in 1782. Somewhat later he joined an expedition headed for the strait of Magellan on the corvette Santa María de la Cabeza, with Don Antonio de Cordoba as captain; he also found his way to the glorious combat between the joint anglo-spanish fleet against the french in front of Toulon in 1793 and, finally, finished his glorious military career in the catastrophic battle of cape St. Vincent, where he commanded the warship Mejicano, one of those that were forced to surrender.

Since then, my master, who had not ascended according to his lengthy and arduous career, retired from the service. As a result of the wounds suffered in that sad day, he fell ill of body and even more grievously of soul, because of the pain caused by the defeat. His wife looked after him with love, but not without shouting, because cursing the navy and sailors was as common in her mouth as the sweet names of Jesus and Mary in the mouth of a devotee.

Doña Francisca was an excellent woman, exemplary, of noble origin, pious and God-fearing, like all females of that time; charitable and discreet, but with the gruffest, fiercest temper I have known in my whole life. Frankly, I do not think that her temper was something inborn, but rather something created by the upsets caused by her husband's disagreeable occupation, and I must confess that she had cause to complain, since that marriage, that over fifty years could maybe have given twenty sons to the world and God, had to be content with just one, the charming and peerless Rosita, about whom I will talk later. For these and some other reasons, Doña Francisca asked heaven in her daily prayers for the annihilation of all the navies of Europe.

Meanwhile, the hero wasted away in Vejer watching his glories moth-eaten and mice-gnawed, and meditated and thought at all times about an important matter: whether Cordoba, commander of our fleet, should have gone towards port-side, instead of towards starboard, thus saving the vessels Mejicano, San Jose, San Nicolas and San Isidro from falling into the hands of the english and defeating Jerwis, the british admiral. His wife, Marcial and even myself, exceeding my position, told him that there were no doubts about it, in the hopes that showing our agreement would cool his burning fixation, but it was useless and it went to the grave with him.

Eight years passed after the disaster and the news that the joint fleet was going to have a decisive engagement with the english, caused him some excitement that seemed to reinvigorate him. Because of this he decided that he had to go with the fleet to witness the certain defeat of his mortal enemies; and even though his wife tried to discourage him, as I have already described, it was impossible to dissuade him from his outlandish intentions. So that the intensity of his wish may be understood, it should be enough to say that he dared to oppose the firm will of Doña Francisca. And I must say, for a better understanding of this, that my master didn't fear the english, the french, the algerians or the savages of the strait of Magellan, the rough seas, the sea monsters, the tempest or anything else created by God in the heavens or under them, except for his lady wife.

The last remaining thing to talk about now is the sailor Marcial, subject of Doña Francisca's purest hatred and dearly loved by my master D. Alonso, since they had been together in the service.

Marcial (I never learned his surname), known as Halfman by the sailors, had been bosun in various warships for forty years. In the time of my tale, the appeareance of that hero of the seas was as queer as it can be imagined. Visualize an old man, a bit tall, with a pegleg, his left arm severed under the elbow, a missing eye, the face crisscrossed by slashes in every direction, carved in his flesh by all kinds of enemy weapons, with the dark, leathery complexion of all old sailors, with a hoarse, hollow and lazy voice that sounded nothing like that of any sane denizen of firm ground, and you will have some idea of the looks of this character, whose memory makes me regret the inadequacy of my palette, for he deserved to have been painted by a more skilled artist. I cannot say if his appeareance was laughable or demanded respect. I think both at the same time, depending on how you looked.

It could be said that his life was the history of the spanish navy in the last part of the last century and the beginnings of this one; a history in which glorious events alternated with terrible misfortunes. Marcial had sailed in the Conde de Regla, in the San Joaquín, in the Real Carlos, in the Trinidad, and in other heroic and unfortunate vessels that whether honorably beaten or dastardly destroyed sank with their old planks Spain's naval power. Besides the campaigns in which he took part alongside my master, Halfman had been in many others, such as the expedition to Martinica, the skirmish at Finisterre and earlier the terrible episode in the strait, in the night of July 12 of 1801, and in the battle of Cape St Mary, during October 5 of 1804.

When he was sixty six he had retired from the service, not for lack of courage, but rather because by then he was an useless cripple. He and my master were good friends in land and, since the bosun's single daughter was married with an old servant of the house, marriage which had resulted in a grandson, Halfman decided to drop anchor for good, like an old hulk useless for war, and even started to think that he enjoyed peace. It was enough to see him to understand that the hardest job that could be given to that glorious wreck of a hero was taking care of children and, in spite of this, Marcial did nothing besides carrying around, distracting and putting his grandson to sleep, using for the last of these tasks his sailor songs, spiced with some traditional swearing.

However, after learning that the joint fleet prepared for a great fight, he felt the faded enthusiasm rekindle in his heart, and dreamed himself commanding the sailors from the Santisima Trinidad's aftercastle. After detecting the same signs in D. Alonso, he spoke openly to him and since then they spent their days and nights talking about the news they had received, their own feelings, recalling old deeds and making conjectures about the coming days, and dreaming while awake, like two cabin boys talking of how they plan to become admirals.

Of these meetings, that had greatly alarmed Doña Francisca, was born the idea of joining the fleet to witness the impending clash. You already know the opinion of my mistress and the many ill things she had to say of the trickster sailor; you know that D. Alonso insisted on carrying out his daring plans, along with his page, and now I must relate what everyone said when Marcial showed up to defend war against Doña Francisca's shameful status quo.

 

[Claudette Savagely]

The bit about putting Marcial putting his grandson to bed with expletive-laden songs clinched it for me.

Good stuff!

 

[Murazor]

Chapter IV
Part 1

"Mister Marcial," said the mistress with redoubled furor. "If you want to go with the fleet to get hit in your last hand, you can go aboard whenever you want, but this one is not going."

"Well, then I'll go alone," replied the sailor, who had sit down in the edge of a chair, taking only just enough space to hold himself up. "The devil take me, if I miss the chance to take the spyglass to this party."

Next he added with a joyful face.

"We have fifteen vessels, and the frenchies twenty five ships. If they all were ours, we wouldn't need so many... Forty ships and plenty of heart on board!"

Just like the fire can leap from a wick to another that is close, the enthusiasm that Marcial's eye was giving off kindled a fire in both of my master's, usually clouded by his age.

"But the Señorito will come with many too," continued Halfman. "That's how I like the perfomances: plenty of wood to throw bullets at, and enough smoke to heat the air when its cold."

I had forgotten to mention that Marcial, like most sailors, used a vocabulary formed by the most ridiculous malapropisms, for it is a custom of the folk of the sea of every country to twist their mother language, until it turns into a caricature. If one looks into this most of the words used by the sailors are just corrupted versions of more common words, adapted to their rash and forceful nature, always prone to abridge all this of life and particularly language. Listening them talking, I've sometimes felt that the tongue is an organ that gets in their way.

Marcial, as I was saying, turned names into verbs, and verbs into names, without prior consultation with the Academy. Moreover, he used the vocabulary of navigation for all acts of life, likening man and vessel, thanks to a rather forced analogy between the limbs of the former and the parts of the later. For example, when talking about the loss of his eye, he would say that he had closed the starboard gangway, and to explain the loss of his arm, he said that he had been left without the port cathead. For him the heart, seat of courage and heroism, was the magazine, while the stomach was the mess. At least those terms could be understood by other sailors, but there were others, daughters of his own philological inventions, that only he knew in their full meaning. Who could understand what patirgurbiar, chingurria and other fierce names of the same ilk meant? I think, but don't swear it, that the first one meant doubt and the second sadness. The act of getting drunk he called by a thousand different names and of these the most common one was to don the coat, the meaning of which will escape my readers if I don't explain. English sailors had earned in his opinion the appellation of casacones (coatons), no doubt because of their uniform, and when he said that he was going to don the coat, Marcial wanted to mean that it was something common and usual among his enemies. He called the foreign admirals with outlandish names, which he had invented or translated in his own way, seeking similarities of sound. Nelson he called el Señorito, term that implied certain esteem or respect; Collingwood was Uncle Calambre (Cramp), which he thought sounded like a perfectly exact translation of the english name; Jerwis he named just as the english themselves, the old fox; Calder was Uncle Perol (Caldron), because he found a close connection between both words; and following an opposing linguistic system, he had designated Villeneuve, commander of the joint fleet, Monsieur Cornet, name taken from a comic sketch Marcial had once seen in Cadiz. Ultimately, such was the nonsense spouted by his mouth, that I am forced, to avoid embarrassing explanations, to replace his sentences with more usual ones, when telling those conversations with him which I remember.

Let us continue. Doña Francisca, showing great surprise said: "Forty ships! That is tempting the Divine Providence. Jesus! And there will be forty thousand cannons at least, so those foes can kill each other."

"If Monsieur Cornet has managed to get the magazines well supplied, those coatons sirs are going to laugh aplenty," said Marcial pointing towards his heart. "This one isn't going to be like the one at St. Vincent."

"We must consider that if admiral Cordova had made San Jose and Mejicano turn to port, Mister Jerwis would not have become the lord earl of St. Vincent," said my master with obvious relish, hearing his favourite topic mentioned. "I am quite sure of that, and I have data to state that with the maneuver to port we could have been victorious."

"Victorious!," sneered Doña Francisca. "They do better. These blowhards sound as if they wanted to eat the world whole, and as soon as they leave port it starts looking that they don't have ribs enough to take the blows that the english hit them with."

"No!," shouted Halfman, closing his fist in a threatening gesture. "If it wasn't for their many ruses and tricks! We always go against them with our souls straight, nobly, with the flag raised and the hands clean. The english doesn't do that and always attacks using surprise, seeking the bad waters and the stormy skies. That was what it was like at the Strait, that they owe us. We were sailing confidently, because not even from moor heretic dogs you expect treason, much less from the english who are civil and sort of christian. But no, those who attack from ambush aren't christians, but highway robbers.

"Consider, madam," he added, addressing Doña Francisca to obtain her good-will. "We had left Cadiz to help the french fleet that had taken refuge in Algeciras, hunted by the english. That was four years ago and I still am so angry about it that my blood boils when I remember. I was onboard the Real Carlos, with 112 cannons, commanded by Ezguerra, and we also had the San Hermenegildo, also with 112; the San Fernando, the Argonauta, the San Agustín and the frigate Sabina. Joined with the french squadron, which had four warships, three frigates and one brigantine, we left Algeciras for Cadiz during the mid-day and, since the winds were weak, night fell on us before reaching point Carnero. The night was dark like a barrel of tar, but since weather had been good we didn't mind sailing in the dark. Almost the whole crew was asleep; I remember that I was at the forecastle, speaking with my cousin Pepe Débora, who was telling me the dirty tricks of his mother-in-law, and from there I saw the lights of the San Hermenegildo, which was sailing starboard of us, just within cannon range. The other ships were ahead of us. Because what we least expected was that the coatons had left Gibraltar after us and were hunting us. And how could we have seen them, if they had all their lights put out, and they were approaching without us being aware of them? Suddenly, even though the night was very dark, I thought I saw... well, I've always had a headlight like the eye of a lynx... I thought that I saw a ship passing between us and the San Hermenegildo. "José Débora," I told my companion, "either I am seeing ghosts, or we have an english ship to starboard."

José Débora looked and said to me. "May the mainmast fall through the mast partner and crush me, if we had any ship besides the San Hermenegildo to starboard."

"Yes or no, just in case I am going to warn the officer on deck."

I hadn't finished saying that, when bang! crash! boom! We felt the whole music of a whole broadside they hit our side with. In a minute the whole crew was awake, everyone going to his post... What a racket, madam Doña Francisca! I would be glad if you had seen it, so you could know how these things are. We were all swearing up a storm and asking God to give us a cannon in every finger to return the attack. Ezguerra climbed to the quarterdeck and commanded the starboard boardside to open fire... boom! crash! bang! They shot quickly enough and shortly afterwards they returned fire... But in that whole commotion we didn't see that with the first shot they had put onboard with us some damned flambé stuff (he meant flammable)* that fell on the deck as if it was raining fire. When we saw that our ship was burning, our rage doubled and we loaded a new broadside, and another, and another. Madam Doña Francisca! That got ugly! Our commander commanded us to turn to starboard in order to board the enemy vessel. There I'd have wanted to see you. I was in the glory... In an eyeblink we prepared the axes and the pikes for the boarding... the enemy ship was coming hard, which made my soul jounce (made him happy), because that way we were going to tangle faster... To starboard, to starboard... What a mess! It was starting to dawn and the yardarms were kissing, the groups were ready, when we hard swearing in Spanish from the enemy ship. Then we all were left frozen in horror, because we saw that the ship we had been fighting with was the San Hermenegildo itself.

"That's amazing to hear," said Doña Francisca, finally showing some interest in the tale. "And how were you all such donkeys as to...?"

"I'll say to you: we didn't have time for chatting. The fire of the Real San Carlos had spread to the San Hermenegildo and then... Virgen del Carmen, all hell broke loose! Many shouted to rush to the boats. The fires were already in the level of the Santa Barbara** and that lady is no joke. We swore, shouted insulting God, the Virgin and all the saints, because that's how one vents when one is full of courage up to the hatch."

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph, what horror!" said my mistress. "And did you save yourselves?"

"Some forty in the longboat and six or seven in the dinghy. They fished out the second in command of the San Hermenegildo. José Débora grabbed a piece of the main-mast and washed ashore in the beaches of Morocco, more dead than alive."

"And the rest?"

"The rest... the sea is wide and lots of people fit within. Two thousand men quenched their fires that day, including our commander Ezguerra, and Emparán in the other ship."

"God help me," said Doña Francisca. "Though those were their just desserts for playing those games. If they stayed home like the Lord wants..."

"Well, the cause of that disaster was as follows," commented Don Alonso, who tried to make his wife interested in such dramatic events. "The english, assisted by the darkness of the night, made their vessel Soberbio, the lightest of those they had, extinguish its lights and sail between our handsome ships. So it was done: it fired both broadsides, then quickly re-arranged its sails and sailed away to escape retaliation. The Real Carlos and the San Hermenegildo, finding themselves attacked unexpectedly, opened fire, but they were beating each other until near dawn and when they were about to touch, they recognized each other and then happened what Marcial has told with such detail.

"Oh, well played!" said the lady. "Well played indeed, but that was ignoble of them."

"Quite right," muttered Halfman. "Back then I didn't want good for them, but since that night... If they are in Heaven, I do not want to go to Heaven, even if I doom myself for all eternity."

*Note: My best effort to translate a pun that I don't quite know how to translate with the words comestible (edible) and combustible (flammable).
**Note: Santa Barbara being a common Spanish term in the period for the gunpowder magazine.

 

[Roadie]

Neat. Have you considered running your final results by a bilingual editor and then putting the end product up on Amazon as an ebook? This seems like the kind of thing a lot of academics might appreciate enough to put a couple of bucks into.

 

[Murazor]

Neat. Have you considered running your final results by a bilingual editor and then putting the end product up on Amazon as an ebook? This seems like the kind of thing a lot of academics might appreciate enough to put a couple of bucks into.

Click to shrink...

I'd given some though about the matter, before looking into things deeper and finding out that there are a few translations of Trafalgar around (hell if I know why Google found them now and not earlier), including one by Clara Bell in the 19th century already. Still, this is an interesting enough exercise on its own right and I think that I am going to go ahead with it, if only to see how my stuff compares with actual pro translation work.

From what I am seeing, for example, Miss Bell decided to side-step that combustible/comestible stuff, rather than try to hammer out a suitable English confusion in the translation.

 

[Roadie]

I'd given some though about the matter, before looking into things deeper and finding out that there are a few translations of Trafalgar around (hell if I know why Google found them now and not earlier), including one by Clara Bell in the 19th century already.

Click to shrink...

Just saying, but the difference in context between the 19th century and now and the effects on translation would be valuable for academic stuff too.

I think it's totally worth going for - if you do get through the whole book, I don't think a freelance editor would be that expensive (presuming you could find one you trust to cross-compare with both languages), and making Kindle and iBook versions of a self-published book is extremely cheap.

 

[Murazor]

Chapter IV
Part 2

"And what about their capture of the four frigates coming from Rio de la Plata?" said D. Alonso, encouraging Marcial to continue his tales.

"I found myself in that one, too," replied the sailor. "They took my leg there. They caught us unprepared, and since it was a time of peace, we were sailing very calmly, counting the hours left to arrive, when suddenly... I'll tell you how that was, madam Doña Francisca, so that you may know the chicanery of that people. After the thing at the Strait, I boarded the Fama to go to Montevideo, and we had been there for some time, when the commander of the squadron was given the order to bring to Spain the tributes of Lima and Buenos Aires. It was a very good trip, and we had no more trouble than some small fevers, which didn't even kill any men... We were bringing plenty of money, belonging both to the King and various private individuals, and what we called the pay box, with the savings of the troops serving in the Americas. Counting everything, if I remember correctly, it added up to about five million pesos, which is no small thing, and we were also bringing wolf pelts, vicuna wool, cascarilla, tin and copper ingots, and fine woods... Well, after fifty days of sailing, the 5th of October, we saw land, and we were counting on reaching Cadiz the next day, when all of a sudden from the north-east appeared four fine, large frigates. Although it was peacetime and our captain, D. Miguel de Zapiaín, didn't show any suspicion, I am an old dog, so I called Débora and told him that the weather smelled like gunpowder... Well, when the english frigates got close, the general called to battle stations; the Fama was going first and, shortly afterwards, we were windward of one of the english frigates, within gunshot range.

Then the english captain called us using the horn and told us... and frankly I appreciated the honesty!... he told us to turn, because he was going to attack us. He asked a thousand questions, but we told him that we didn't want to answer. Meanwhile, each of the other three enemy frigates had approached another of our own, so that each of the english frigates had a spanish one in the leeward side."

"Their position could not have been better," pointed my master.

"That's what I say," repliec Marcial. "The commander of our squadron, D. José Bustamante, was slow that day, because if that had been me... Well, sir, the english comodón* (he meant commodore) sent to the Medea one of those good-for-nothing officers who said, with no fig leafs or anything like that, that although war hadn't been declared, the comodón had been ordered to capture us. That's what being english is like. Fighting started shortly afterwards; our frigate took the first hits in the port side; we returned the salvo, and gunshot comes, gunshot goes... In the end, we didn't smash those heretics then and there, because the devil went and set fire to the Santa Barbara of the Mercedes, which blew up in no time at all, and with that we all felt so crushed! It was not a lack of courage, but rather that thing they call the morale, because after that we thought ourselves defeated. Our frigate had more holes than cloth in the sails, the ropes broken, five feet of water in the hold, the mizzenmast fallen, three holes next to the waterline, and quite a few dead and injured. In spite of this, we kept up the blow-out with the english, but when we saw that the Medea and the Clara, unable to continue where hauling down the flag, we tried to retreat defending ourselves as well as we could. The damn english frigate was hunting us down, and since it handled better, we didn't magage to get away and had to strike down the colours ourselves at three o'clock, after they killed a lot more people, and I was half dead belowdecks because a bullet decided to remove my leg. Those bloody bastards took us to England, not as prisoners, but detained; but as letters went between London and Madrid, they kept the money all the same, and I think that the King of Spain will be seeing those five million pesos, as soon as I grow a new leg.

"You poor man... and you lost your leg then?," said Doña Francisca in a more compassionate voice.

"Yes, madam. The english, knowing that I was no dancer, thought that I had quite enough with just one. During the journey they cared well for me; in a village there they call Plinmuff (Plymouth) I was six months in the pontoon, with the baggage ready and the papers for the other world... Alas, God decided that I wasn't going to sink yet and an english physician gave me this pegleg, which is better than the one I had, which hurt a lot because of that goddamn rheumatism, while this one doesn't hurt even if they hit it with a load of grapeshot. I haven't yet had a chance to test its hardness, but I think it does, even though I haven't yet been able to test it with the stern of any english soldier."

"You are being cocky and may God spare your other leg. A wise man is cautious and..."

With Marcial's tale now finished, the discussion about whether my master would go with the fleet or no started anew. Doña Francisca persisted in the negative and D. Alonso, who was meek as a lamb in the presence of his dignified wife, sought pretexts and came up with all kind of reasons to try to convince her.

"We are going to watch, wife, just to watch," said the hero with pleading gaze.

"Enough parties," replied the wife. "You two eyesores are in no condition to..."

"The joint fleet is going to remain at Cadiz and they will be trying to force entry," said Marcial.

"Then you can go watch the show from the walls of Cadiz, but from the boats... I say no and no, Alonso. In forty years of marriage you haven't seen me angry (actually, it was something of a daily event), but I swear that if you go onboard... then Paquita no longer exists for you."

"Wife," complained my master with clear affliction. "Do you want me to die without experiencing that pleasure!"

"What a thing to find pleasant, you fool! Watching how those madmen kill each other! If the King of the Spains listened to me, he would tell the english to go away and say «Mine dear vassals aren't here for you to have fun with. Go play with each other if you want». What do you think? I may be foolish, but I know what is going on here. And that is that the First Consul, Emperor, Sultan or whatever he is calling himself this week, wants to fight the english, and since he doesn't have brave men to do it, he has tricked our good King and convinced him to lend him our own, and so he is bothering us with his wars at sea. Tell me, what is in this for Spain? Why must every day be cannonfire and more cannonfire because of iciocy? Before those things Marcial has told us, what damage had the english done us? If they did as I say, mister Bonaparte could go to war on his own or not at all!"

"It is true that the alliance with France is doing us great harm, because any benefits are for our ally, while all the disasters are for us," said my master.

"Then, you bloody fools, why does your blood boil because of this war business?"

"The honour of our nation is on the line and once the dance has started, it would be a disgrace to back out. When I was last month in Cadiz for the baptism of the daughter of my cousin, Churruca said to me: «This alliance with France, and the damn treaty of San Ildefonso, which has become a subsidy treaty because of the cunning of Bonaparte and the weakness of Godoy, is going to be our ruin, the ruin of our fleet, if God doesn't save us, and, in the end, the ruin of our colonies and the Spanish trade in America. In spite of this, we must keep going»."

"I have said that the Prince of Peace is getting into things that he doesn't grasp. A man without education! My brother the archdeacon, who supports prince Fernando, tells me that mister Godoy is a simpleton, who hasn't learned latin or theology, whose learning amounts to knowing how to play the guitar and the twenty two ways of dancing the gavotte. It would seem that they have made first minister because of his pretty face. That is how things go in Spain; and then hunger and more hunger... everything so expensive... the yellow fever devastating Andalucia. Everything is awesome, yessiree... And all that is your fault," said Doña Francisca, speaking increasingly loudly, as her face reddened. "Yes, sir, you who offend God killing so many people; you, who should go to the church to pray and keep the devil from prancing across Spain doing his business, instead of going into those bedeviled ships."

"You are coming to Cadiz, too," said D. Alonso, frantically trying to rouse his wife's enthusiasm. "You will go to Flora's and from the balcony there you will be able to comfortably watch the fighting, the smoke, the explosions, the flags... It is a very pretty thing."

"Thank you, thank you! I would drop dead of fright. We are going to stay here, because he who looks for danger, in danger dies."

So ended that dialogue, the details of which I have preserved in my memory, in spite of the time passed. It oft happens that the very distant things from our childhoods are better recorded in our memories than those witnessed in our adulthood, even with full command of one's mental faculties.

That night D. Alonso and Marcial kept confering whenever the suspicious Doña Francisca left them alone. When she went to the parish to attend the novena, as was her devout custom, both sailors breathed more freely, like schoolchildren who lose sight of the teacher. They locked themselves in the study, produced some maps and examined them with great attention; then they read some papers where they had noted the names of many english ships with the sizes of their crew and number of cannons, and after their intense conference, where reading alternated with vigorous commenting, I realized that they were designing a naval battle plan.

Marcial moved his arm and a half to represent the advance of the squadrons and the explosions of their salvoes, with his head, the balance of the fighting ships; with his body, a sinking ship falling to the side; with his hand, the rise and fall of the signal flags; with light whistling, the commands of the bosun; with the beating of his pegleg, the roaring of the cannon; with his furry tongue, the swearing and calls of battle; and since my master was helping with the greatest of gravities, I decided to help, encouraged by their example and driven by that haunting need to make noise that dominates the temper of boys. Unable to contain myself, seeing the enthusiasm of both sailors, I started turning around the room, since the familiarity extended by my master allowed me to do so; with my head and arms I represented a vessel catching the winds, while at the same time I was shouting those resounding monosyllabics that resembled the noise of cannon, like boom, boom, boom! My dignified master and the mutilated sailor, both as childish as myself in that instance, didn't stop me, since they were lost in their own thoughts. How I have laughed afterwards remembering that scene and how true it is that, as far as my playmates of that game were concerned, the enthusiasm of old age turns the elderly into children, resurrecting the mayhem of youth as the grave approaches!

They were lost in their conference, when they felt the steps of Doña Francisca returning from the novena.

"She is coming!" cried a terrified Marcial.

At once, they hid the maps, hiding their excitement and started talking about other topics. As for myself, either because young blood cannot be easily quenched or because I didn't hear in time the arrival of my mistress, kept running around the room, displaying my excitement with sentences such as "full to starboard!"... "raise the sails!"... "fire the port broadside!"... "boom!". She approached me in a fury and with no warning fired a salvo with her right hand so accurately that she hit my stern hard enough to make me see the stars.

"You too!," she shouted slapping me with no mercy. Turning towards her husband with burning eyes, she said. "You see, you teach him to lose respect... Do you think that you are still at the Caleta, you ne'er-do-well?"

The punishment continued in the following fashion. With me walking to the kitchen, crying and ashamed, after striking the colours of my dignity, and without thinking about defending against so superior an enemy; Doña Francisca hunted me down and put to the test the back of my neck with her hand, repeteadly. At the kitchen, I dropped anchor and cried, thinking of how poorly my naval skirmish had gone.

*Meaning lazybones.

 

[Murazor]

Chapter V

To oppose the foolish determination of her husband, Doña Francisca did not just depend on the previously described reasons. In addition to those, she had another, extremely powerful one, which she didn't use in the discussion, perhaps because it was well known to all participants.

However, the reader does not know and so I must say it. I believe that I previously wrote that my masters had a daughter. This daughter was called Rosita, scarcely older than myself, since she was just over fifteen years old, and her marriage had been arranged already with a young artillery officer called Malespina, from a family of Medinasidonia, remotely related to my mistress. The wedding day had been set for the end of October and it should be obvious that the absence of the bride's father would have been rather inconvenient in those solemn days.

Now I will say a few things about my young mistress, her fiancé, her loves, her arranged nuptials and... Oh dear! My memories take a melancholic tone, rousing in my fantasies images that are both unfortunate and exotic, as if they came from some other world, awakening in my tired heart feelings that, to be honest, I am not quite sure whether they bring me joy or sorrow. Those passionate memories, that nowadays shrivel in my brain like tropical flowers brought to the icy north, sometimes make me laugh and sometimes make me think... But let us continue with the tale, for the reader gets tired of annoying musings about matters that only a single mortal cares about.

Rosita was extremely fair. I remember perfectly her beauty, although it would be very difficult for me to describe her features. It is as if she were smiling in front of me. The expressions of her face, different from all others, is for me, because of the clarity with which it appears in my mind, like one of those primordial notions that we seem to bring from another world or to receive from some mysterious power while we are still in the cradle. And, in spite of this, I think that I would be unable to draw her, because what was has been reduced to a shapeless idea in my head, and nothing causes such fascination or so subtly escapes description as a cherished ideal.

When I first came to the house, I thought that Rosita belonged to a higher kind of creature. I will explain my thoughts so you might marvel at my stupidity. When we are kids and a new being comes to the world in our house, our elders tell us that they have brought him from France, from Paris, or from England. In this peculiar way deceived in regards to the way of perpetuating the species, I thought that children appeared on demand, packed in a crate, like a bundle of trinkets. Thus, when I saw for the first time the daughter of my masters, I reasoned that such a beautiful person couldn't have come from the factory in Paris or England that made the rest of us, and convinced myself that there existed some charming region somewhere, where divine makers knew how to craft such outstanding examples of the human kind.

Since we were both young, even though we belonged to different classes, we soon started treating each other with the familiarity that was natural to our age, and my greatest joy was to play with her, enduring her many impertinences, because even in our games there was never any confusion about our classes: she was always the young mistress and I the servant, so I always received the worst part and if there were slaps to suffer, there should be no need to say who received them.

Accompanying her back home when she left school was my dearest dream, and when somebody else received that sweet task because of some unexpected duty, my pain was deep and I compared it to the greatest pains that can be experienced in life, thinking it impossible for me to suffer greater hurt no matter how long I lived. Climbing on her command the orange tree in the courtyard to pick the orange blossoms from the highest branches was for me the greatest of delights, a higher position that that of the best king of the world sitting on a golden throne; and I don't remember greater happiness than that of running after her in that divine and immortal game they call hide-and-seek. If she ran like a gazelle, I flew like a bird to catch her faster, grabbing her in whatever part of her body happened to be within my reach. When the roles turned, when she was the huntress and I the prey, the pure and innocent delights of that sublime game doubled, and the ugliest, coldest place where I waited crouched for the hug of her eager arms, became a true paradise. I will add that I never, in any of those scenes, had a single feeling or thought in the slightest removed from the most refined idealism.

And what can I say of her singing? Since she was very young she had learned to sing the olé and the cañas, with the skill of a nightingale, which is a kind of bird that knows all about music without having learned anything. Everyone praised her for her ability and formed huddles to listen to her, but I was offended by the applause of her admirers and would have wished for her to turn mute for all others. That singing was wistful, even modulated by a young voice. The notes turned on themselves, tangling and untangling, like a thread of sound that climbed out of sight and vanished in the distance, only to descend as a deep timber. It sounded like something sung by a little bird, that first flew Heavenwards and then landed next to our own ears. If I am allowed to use a tasteless comparison, it felt as if the soul reached out towards the sound and then retreated before it, but always following the melody and connecting the music with the beautiful singer. So odd was the effect, that hearing her sing was for me a humiliation, particularly when in the presence of other people.

As I've said already, we had more or less the same age, since she was only some eight or nine months older than myself. But I was small and emaciated, while she developed full of vitality and so, when I had been for three years in the house, she looked much older. Those three years passed without either of us suspecting that we were growing up, and our games didn't stop, for she was the more mischievous, while her mother scolded her and kept her on a short leash, trying to make her do work.

After those three years I realized that the shape of my idolized young mistress was growing wider and rounder, completing the beauty of her body. Her face grew rosy-cheeked, fuller; her great eyes brighter, even as her gaze became calmer and less erratic; her way of walking grew slower; her movements maybe no swifter, but certainly different, even though I cannot explain now the difference anymore than I could back then. But none of these caused me as much confusion as the transformation of her voice, that gained a certain gravity quite unlike that lively and joyful chirping that had often told me to join her in play, disturbing my good sense and making me forget my duties. The blossom had turned rose, the chrysalis butterfly.

In an ill-fated, mournful day, my young mistress appeared wearing a long dress. That transformation caused such impression in me, that I didn't speak a word in the whole day. I was shocked like a man who has been vilely deceived, and my fury towards her was so great, that in my internal monologue I proved to myself with the strongest evidence that the swift growth of my dear mistress was a crime. The fever of rationalization had been roused and I discussed about that topic with myself, in the solitude of my sleeplessness. What most disturbed me was seeing how a few yards of fabric had completely changed her personality. In that day, a thousand times cursed, she talked me in a formal way, commanding me gravely and even offhandedly to carry out the duties I least liked. Later, she who had so often been accomplice in covering up my laziness, scolded me and called me slothful. And there hadn't been so much as a smile, a jump, a swift run, not a bit of olé, no hide-and-seek, no pretending anger followed by laughter, not even a little argument or a slap from her white hand! It was the most terrible crisis in my existence! She had become woman, while I remained a boy!

It doesn't need saying that there were no more romps and games; I didn't climb again the orange tree, allowing the blossoms to grow undisturbed by my infatuated rapacity and to luxuriously spread their suggestive fragance; we didn't run in the courtyard and I didn't walk her home from school anymore, even though I had been so proud of that task that I would have defended her from an army if it had tried to take her away. Afterwards, Rosita walked with the greatest gravitas and circumspection; several times I noticed that when climbing a stair ahead of me, she took pains to ensure that not an inch above her beautiful ankle showed, and this system of deceitful hiding was an affront to the dignity of the eyes who had seen above that line. Nowadays, I laugh remembering the heartbreak that those things caused.

But greater misfortune awaited still. A year after her transformation, aunt Martina, Rosario the cook, Marcial and other characters of the serving staff, were busy one day because of a serious matter. Using my eager ears, I learned that there were alarming rumours in circulation: the young mistress was going to marry. The thing was unexpected, for I was not aware of any boyfriend, but back then parents arranged everything, and the odd thing is that sometimes things turned out for the better.

In any case, a young man from a great family had asked for her hand and my masters had granted it. This young man came to the house along with his parents, who were counts or marquises with a bombastic title. The suitor wore his dress uniform, because he served in the Navy, but in spite of his elegant apparel, his looks were disagreeable. My young mistress must have tought the same, because from the first moment she showed disgust towards that marriage proposal. Her mother tried to convince her, futilely, and painted in the most flattering terms the good features of the suitor, both his high lineage and his great wealth. But the girl remained unconvinced and opposed those reasons with very sensible counterarguments.

But the scoundrel kept mum about the main reason, and this main reason was that she had a boyfriend, whom she truly loved. This boyfriend was an officer of artillery, called D. Rafael Malespina, who had good looks and charming bearing. My young mistress had met him at church and disloyal love claimed her, while she prayed; because the temple has always been, because of its poetic and mysterious atmosphere, to open the gates of the soul to love. Malespina loitered near the house, something I saw several times; and those loves became the talk of Vejer, so the other man eventually learned of this and there was a challenge. My masters learned of this when news came to the house about Malespina dealing his rival a mortal wound.

Great was the scandal. The devotion of my masters was so shocked, that they couldn't hide their anger, and Rosita was the main victim. But months passed, the wounded officer healed and since Malespina was himself highborn and wealthy, the political atmosphere of the house started showing signs of young D. Rafael's impending entry. The parents of the defeated man eventually gave up on the marriage and the winner's came to ask for his son the hand of my young mistress. After some delays, it was granted.

I remember when the older Malespina came. He was a curt and stuck-up man, with a jacket of thirty colours, many ornaments in his clock, great girth, and a long, pointed nose, which seemed to scent those he talked with. He talked a lot and didn't let others get in a word edgewise. He said everything and no thing could be praised, because at once he said that he owned something better. Since then I deemed him a vain and mendacious man, something which I was able to see clearly afterwards. My masters offered him a warm welcome, as they did to his son who came with him. After that day, the boyfriend started coming to the house every day, along or with his father.

A new transformation of my young mistress ensued. The indifference she showed me became so pointed, that it bordered on scorn. I then clearly realized for the first time, cursing it, the humbleness of my position; I tried to explain to myself the right I knew my betters had to their superiority, and wondered, full of anguish, whether it was fair that others were noble and wealthy and learned, while I could trace my lineage to the Caleta, my own person as the sum total of my wealth and I barely could read. Seeing the reward earned by my ardent affection, I understood that I couldn't aspire to anything in the world, and only later gained the firm conviction that a constant and intense effort of my own would perhaps give me all that which I didn't have.

In the face of disregard she displayed, I lost my familiarity. I didn't dare to open my lips in her presence and she inspired more respect than her parents. Meanwhile, I saw intently the signs of the love that dominated her. When he was late, I saw her anxious and sad; the smallest noise that announced the presence of someone made her beautiful face light up and her black eyes shined with hope. If he appeared, it was impossible for her to disguise her happiness and then they talked for hours upon hours, always in the presence of Doña Francisca, since my young mistress was not allowed to have conversations alone, even through the window bars.

There was also much correspondence and the worst part is that I was the messenger of both lovers. That filled me with such rage...! Following orders, I would go to the square and find there, always on time, young Malespina, who game me a letter to give to my young mistress. I carried out my task and she gave me another to give to him. How many times I was tempted to burn those letters, to avoid carrying them to their destination! Luckily, I had sense enough to control that ugly desire.

I don't need to say that I hated Malespina. From the moment I saw him, my blood boiled and when he gave me a command, I carried it out in the worst fashion feasible, wishing to show him my great anger. This seemed to them to be signs of poor upbringing, while I thought it dignity, worthy of proud hearts. This earned me some scoldings and, particularly, was the origin of a sentence of my young mistress, which stabbed my heart like a painful thorn. One time I heard her say, "This boy is so gone to waste, that we ought to send him out."

Finally, they settled on a day for the wedding and a few before happened what I have told in earlier chapters and the designs of my master. Because of this, it will be understood that Doña Francisca had strong reasons, besides the poor health of her husband, to keep him from going with the fleet.

 

[Murazor]

Chapter VI
Part 1

I remember clearly that the day after receiving the slaps on the neck from D. Francisca, driven both by her abiding hatred of maritime warfare and the spectacle of my irreverence, I went out with my master in his midday walk. He offered me his arm and in the other side was Marcial. We three walked slowly, according to the slow pace of D. Alonso and the limited dexterity of the sailor's pegleg. More than anything else that resembled one of those processions in which they carry in an unstable platform a group of old and moth-eaten saints, which threaten with falling if those who carry them accelerate the speed of their march. Those two old men only were swift and lively in their hearts, which worked like machines just completed at the workshop, like a powerful compass that could give good directions but do nothing to increase the seaworthiness of the old, cracked hulls that carried it.

During the walk, my master, after swearing with his traditional certainty that we wouldn't have lost the battle of cape St Vincent if only admiral Cordova had commanded to turn to the other side, started a conversation about the infamous project and, though they didn't speak openly about it, no doubt because I was with them, I understood thanks to some of their words that they intended to go ahead with it on the snide, sneaking out of the house one morning, before my mistress could realize it.

We returned to the house and there they talked about different things. My master, who was always obliging towards his wife, was that day obsequious as never before. Anything Doña Francisca said, no matter how insignificant, he welcomed with inappropiate laughter. I think he even gifted her some trinkets, showing with every act his wish to keep her happy. No doubt, because of that very attitude, my mistress was bolshy and grumbling as I had never seen her. It was impossible for them to have any kind of civilized exchange. I don't know for what stupid reason she lectured Marcial, hinting that he might soon be kicked out of the house; she also told her husband terrible things; and during lunch, although he praised every dish with uncharacteristic warmth, the implacable lady didn't stop growling.

When it was time for praying, solemn ceremony that was carried out in the dining room with everyone in the house in attendance, my master, who other times would earn scoldings by falling asleep while lazily mumbling the paternosters, was very much awake and prayed with true enthusiasm, making his voice be heard above all others.

Another thing happened that has remained fresh in my mind. The walls of the house were decorated with two kinds of items: pictures of the saints and maps, the celestial court in one side and all the courses of Europe and America in the other. After lunch, my master was in the balcony with his navigation chart and following the lines with a trembling finger, when Doña Francisca, who seemed to be suspecting something about their escape plans, and always screamed herself hoarse when she discovered her husband in flagrante delicto of naval enthusiasm, appeared from behind and opening wide her arms she exclaimed.

"Oh you! When I say that you test my patience... I swear that if you keep looking for my wit's end, you shall find it."

"Wife, I was just here looking the chart of the travels of Alcalá Galiano and Valdés with the schooners Sutil and Mejicana, when they went to chart the strait of Fuca, replied my trembling master. "It was a beautiful journey and I think I told you about it."

"When I say that I am going to burn all those bloody papers... Damn sea travels and damn the jew dog who invented them. You should think about the things of God, because in the end you are no boy. What a man, God, what a man!"

It didn't go beyond this. I was near there, but I don't clearly remember if my mistress visited her wrath upon my humble self, testing once again the elasticity of my ears and the swiftness of her hands. That is because such caresses were so plentiful, that I have no clear memory of whether I received some of those in that instance. What I do remember is that my master, in spite of redoubling his courtesies, failed to soften his spouse.

I have said nothing about my young mistress. Let it be known then that she was very sad, because mister Malespina hadn't appeared that day, or written any letters, in spite of my futile efforts to locate him in the town square. Night arrived and with it sadness to Rosita's soul, because there was no hope of seeing him until the next day. But suddenly, when orders had been given to start dinner, strong knocking was heard from the gate; I ran to open and it was him. Before I opened, my hatred had already known it was him.

I yet feel as if I were seeing him right now, when he appeared, shaking dry his rain drenched cloak. Whenever I summon him to my mind, he appears as he was that one time. Talking with forced impartiality, I will say that he was truly a fair looking young man, of noble bearing, good manners, warm gaze, somewhat cold and reserved in demeanour, not very mirthful and extremely polite, with that kind of stiff and heavy courtesy of the nobility of yesteryear. That night he was dressed with a jacket with tails, shorts with boots, portuguese hat and an extremely luxurious silk-lined burgundy cloak, which was the most fashionable garment for the young noblemen of that time.

From the moment he entered, I knew that something serious was happening. He went to the dining room, where all were surprised to see him so late, since he had never before come at night. My young mistress felt happiness just long enough to realize that the reason of that unexpected visit could not be pleasant.

"I come to say my farewell," said Malespina.

Everyone was left dumbstruck and Rosita paler than the paper I write on. Then she went red and once again pale like a corpse.

"What happens? Where are you going, D. Rafael?," asked my mistress.

I must have already said that Malespina was an officer of Artillery, but he was not garrisoned in Cadiz and he was in Vejer on leave.

"Since the fleet lacks enough personnel, we have been ordered to go onboard to serve there," he replied. "It is thought that combat is unavoidable, and most of the vessels lack enough gunners."

 

[Murazor]

Chapter VI
Part 2

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph" exclaimed Doña Francisca, more dead than alive. "They are carrying off you too? Just lovely. But you are from the land forces, my friend. Tell them to deal with that themselves; to look for people if they don't have enough. Because what a lovely joke, really."

"Wife, can't you see that it is necessary...?," said D. Alonso, timidly, before trailing off because Doña Francisca, whose anger was overflowing, started cursing all earthly powers.

"You think that everything is fine as long as it is for your bloody warships. But who the hell is the devil who has commanded that officers from land must board too? No, let me guess. It is something from Mister Bonaparte. No one in these parts could have conceived such a devilry. You go and say that you are going to marry. And you, husband, write to Gravina telling him that this young man cannot go with the fleet."

And seeing that her husband simply shrugged, suggesting that the thing was serious in the extreme, she exclaimed.

"You are useless. Jesus! If I could wear trousers, I'd go to Cadiz and pull you out of this fix."

Rosita wasn't saying a word. I, who had been watching her intently, knew the great turbulence in her soul. She didn't move her gaze from the figure of her boyfriend, and if good manners and etiquette hadn't stopped her, she would have cried loudly to vent the pain of her crushed heart.

"Soldiers are slaves to duty," was saying D. Alonso, "and the motherland demands that this young man board to defend it. In the coming battle you will achieve much glory and your name will shine thanks to some deed that will be remembered in history as example for future generations."

"Yes, that, that," said Doña Francisca, mocking the pompous way in which my master had uttered the previous words. "Yes, and all this why? Because those dolts in Madrid want. Let them come to shoot the cannons and make war... When are you leaving?"

"Tomorrow. My leave has been cancelled and I have been commanded to go to Cadiz at once."

It is quite impossible to describe with words or in writing what I saw in the features of my young mistress when she heard that. The two exchanged glances, and a long, sad silence followed the news of his impending departure.

"This is unendurable," growled Doña Francisca. "In the end, they will take away the peasants, and if they feel like it, womenfolk too..." She then looked towards the sky with the gestures of a fortune-teller. "Oh Lord, I think that I give you no offense when I say that I curse whoever invented ships, that I curse the sea in which they sail, and that I curse the most whoever made the first cannon to fire those booms that drive me crazy and kill so many unfortunates who have never done anyone any harm."

D. Alonso looked at Malespina, looking in his face for some kind of protest against those insults hurled at the noble artillery. Finding none, he said, "The bad thing would be for the warships to lack good equipment; and we would regret..."

Marcial, who had been hearing the conversation from the door, was unable to stop himself and joined in, "We lack nothing? Trinidad 140 guns: 32 of 36, 34 of 24, 36 of 12, 18 of 30, and 10 howitzers of 24. Principe de Asturias 118 guns, Santa Ana 120, Rayo 100, Nepomucemo, San..."

"Who let you in this, Marcial, and what do we care about whether they have fifty or eighty?," cried Doña Francisca.

Nevertheless, Marcial continued his report of warmaking figures, but in a soft voice, speaking only to my master, who didn't dare to show his support.

As for the old mistress, she kept talking, "D. Rafael, don't go, by God. Say that you are from the army, that you are to marry. If Napoleon wants war, let him wage it alone. He can come and say: «Here I am. Kill me, englishmen, or let yourselves be killed». Why must Spain be bound by the whims of that gentleman?"

"Truly, our alliance with France has been a disaster so far," said Malespina.

"Why did they sign it then? They say Godoy is a man without education. Maybe he thinks that a nation is ruled playing the guitar!"

"After the peace of Basilea, we were forced to turn against England, since they had defeated our fleet at St. Vincent," continued the young man.

"Enough with that," shouted D. Alonso, delivering a strong blow to the table. "If admiral Cordova had commanded the lead ships to turn to port, as the most elementary laws of naval strategy demanded, victory would have been ours. I have proven this to exhaustion and at the time I made my opinion be known. Let everyone stand where he deserves."

"That might be so, but the battle was lost," insisted Malespina. "That disaster would not have had such dire consequences if the Court of Spain hadn't signed shortly afterwards the treaty of St. Ildefonso with the French republic, which left us at the mercy of the First Consul, forcing us to help him in wars of interest only to his great ambitions. The peace of Amiens was but a truce. England and France declared war again and then Napoleon demanded our help. We wanted to be neutrals, since our treaties forced us to nothing in that second war, but he was so demanding that to placate him the King had to grant France a subsidy of a hundred million reales, which amounted to buying our neutrality, at a steep rate, but even that great sacrifice was not enough to keep us from being dragged into the war. England forced our hand, seizing those four frigates that came from America full of coin. After that act of outright piracy, Madrid had no choice but to fall in line with Napoleon, who had wished for this all along. Our navy was left in the hands of the First Consul, turned Emperor. He, wishing to defeat through deception the englishmen, made the joint fleet leave for Martinique, in order to make Great Britain's sailors leave Europe themselves. With this scheme he thought to carry out his long wished landing in their island, but that clever ploy only served to display the lack of skill and cowardice of the french admiral, whom upon his return decided not to share with our vessels the glory of the fight at Finisterre. Now, according to the orders of the Emperor, the joint fleet should be at Brest. They say that Napoleon is furious with his admiral and intends to have him removed shortly."

"But, according to what they say, Monsieur Cornet intends to patch things up and wants a battle to hide his failures," pointed Marcial. "I am glad, because this way we will see who can and who cannot."

"What cannot be doubted is that the english fleet is close and aims to blockade Cadiz," replied Malespina. "Our sailors think that the fleet shouldn't leave the bay, where we stand a chance of winning. It seems, however, that the french is determined to leave."

"We will see," said my master. "Either way, the fighting will be glorious."

"Glorious, yes," replied Malespina. "But who says that luck will be with us? Sailors might have illusions and perhaps because they are too close to things, they don't realize how much worse our weaponry is in comparison to that of the english. They, in addition to splendid artillery, have everything that is needed to patch up their ships in short order. And let us not say anything about their manpower. Theirs is beyond improvement, an experienced and highly skilled sailor every one of them, while our vessels are crewed mostly by drafted people, laggard and dullards the lot of them; and the infantry is no model, either, since the empty spots have been filled with ground troops that no doubt have great courage, but get seasick."

"Ultimately, in some days we will know what comes out of all this."

"I know already what will come out of all this," said Doña Francisca. "Those gentlemen will come back home with a cracked head, while saying nonstop that they have achieved great glory.

"And what do you know of this, wife?," snapped D. Alonso, unable to contain a moment of anger.

"More than you do! But may God spare you, D. Rafael, and may you come back safe and sound."

This conversation happened during dinner, which was quite sad, and after this, the four didn't share another word. After dinner, there was a send-off, which was quite emotive, and as a special dispensation, because of the situation, the parents left the young couple alone, allowing them to say their farewells freely and without witnesses, to avoid some incident caused by their deep pain. In spite of my best efforts, I could not witness this and as a result I don't know what happened, but I assume that much tenderness must have come from both parties.

When Malespina left the room, he was pale like a corpse. He said his farewells to my masters, who hugged him with great affection, and he left. When we went to see how my young mistress fared, she had turned into a sea of tears. So great was his pain that even her loving parents were unable to soothe her soul with good reasons or to calm her body with tonics hurriedly brought from the pharmacy. I must confess that I, deeply pained as I was myself, felt my dislike towards Malespina decrease, seeing the misfortune of the poor lovers. The heart of a child forgives easily and mine was not disinclined towards sweet and warm feelings.

 

[Murazor]

Chapter VII

Next morning a great surprise awaited me, while my mistress was about to experience the strongest tantrum she suffered in her whole life. When I woke up, I saw that D. Alonso was being extremely nice and his wife more irritable than usual. When she left for mass with Rosita, I saw that the master hurried to put some shirts and other clothes in a valise, including his uniform. I helped him, because that smelled like an escape attempt, although I was surprised not to see Marcial anywhere. However, I didn't need long to learn the reason for his absence, since D. Alonso after packing his baggage grew anxious, until the sailor finally appeared saying, "Here is the carriage. Let's go before she comes back."

I took the suitcase and in no time at all Don Alonso, Marcial and myself left the house through the door of the pens to avoid being seen; we climbed into the buggy and left as swiftly as the scrawny condition of the horse and the poor state of the road allowed. The road was bad for horses and truly vicious for carriages, but in spite of jolts and jerks we accelerated, and our bodies weren't spared the pain, until the village disappeared from our sight.

I enjoyed that journey extraordinarily, because boys lose their sense with anything new. Marcial was full of joy himself and my master, who initially displayed his happiness almost as openly as myself, saddened quite a bit when we lost sight of the village. Every so often, he would say, "And she knows nothing of all this! What will she say when she comes home and doesn't find us?"

My chest seemed about to burst with the scenery, the joy and freshness of the morning and, particularly, with the idea of seeing Cadiz soon with its peerless bay full of vessels; its busy and lively streets; its Caleta, that for me was once a symbol of the most beautiful thing in life, freedom; its main square, its docks and all the other places I loved so much. We hadn't crossed three leagues when we saw two gentlemen mounted on magnificent sorrel horses, who caught up with us before long. At once we recognized both Malespina and his father, that tall, stuck up blatherer of whom I spoke earlier. Both were astonished to see D. Alonso and even more so when he said that he was headed for Cadiz to board the warships. The son received the news with sorrow, but the father who was a consummated braggart, as I understood then, congratulated my master pompously, calling him flower among seafarers, mirror of sailors and honor of the nation.

We stopped for lunch at the inn of Conil. The gentlemen received what was available, while Marcial and myself got what was left over, which was not a lot. Since I was serving the food, I could overhear their conversation and there I gained a better understanding of the character of the older Malespina, who had first been in my eyes a deceitful liar and then became the funniest chatterbox I had listened to in my whole life.

The future father-in-law of my young mistress, D. José María Malespina, no relation with the famous sailor of the same surname, was a retired colonel of the Artillery, and his whole pride was his profound knowledge of that terrible weapon and his ability to use it like no other. About that topic he displayed the greatest imagination and great ability to lie.

"Artillerymen," he said without stopping even for a moment his chewing," are desperately needed onboard. What is a warship without artillery? But where the effects of this incredible invention of human intelligence are something to behold is in land, D. Alonso. Back during the War of Roussillon... you know that I was part of that campaign and that our every success was due to my skill in the handling of the artillery... In the battle of Masdeu, why do you think that we won it? General Ricardos put me in a hill with four guns, commanding me to hold my fire until he ordered me otherwise. But I, seeing things in a different way, kept my silence until a french column placed itself in front of my position, arranged so that my shots could cross the formation from end to end. The french kept their lines with great accuracy. Well, I aimed carefully one of the guns, aiming towards the head of the first soldier... Do you see? Since the line was perfect, I shot and bam! that shot took one hundred and forty two heads and it wasn't more, because the end of the line had moved a bit. That caused great dismay among our enemies, but since they didn't understand my stratagem and couldn't see me from their position, they sent another column to attack the troops to my right, and that column suffered the same fate, and then another, and another, until the battle was won.

"That's wonderful," said my master, knowing well the size of the lie, but unwilling to call his friend on it.

"Then during the second campaign, under the command of the Count of la Unión, I also taught those republicans a lesson. The defense of Boulou didn't go well, because we ran out of ammo: I, however, caused some heavy damage loading a gun with the keys of the church, but they weren't enough and, in the end, in desperation I threw down the cannon's mouth my keys, my clock, my coins, all the trinkets I found in my pockets and finally even my crosses. The odd thing is that one of those ended hitting a french general in the chest, where it stuck without doing him injury. He kept it and when he went back to Paris, the Convention sentenced him to death or exile, I am not sure which, for accepting awards from an enemy government."

"Such evil!" muttered my master, enjoying himself with the tall tales.

"When I was in England," continued the elder Malespina, "you know that the english government called for me to improve the artillery of that country... Every day I had lunch with Pitt, with Burke, with Lord North, with general Conwallis and other important personalities that called me the spanish jokester. I remember that once, being in the Palace, they begged me to explain what bullfighting is like, and I had to dodge, stab and kill a chair, something that greatly amused the Court, particularly King George III, who was a good friend of mine and always told me to send him good olives from my lands. Oh, he showed me much familiarity. His greatest wish was to learn some words in spanish and, particularly some from this our amusing Andalucia; but he never was able to learn anything beyond 'otro toro' and 'vengan esos cinco', which he used to greet me every day when we had together our breakfast of whiting and sherry."

"He had that for breakfast?"

"That was he liked the most. I had the whiting brought from Cadiz bottled: it kept well thanks to an additive of my invention. I still keep the recipe back home."

"Wondrous. And did you reform the british artillery?" asked my master, encouraging him to continue, since it was so funny.

"Absolutely. I invented there a cannon that wasn't fired, because all of London, including the Court and all the ministers, came to beg me not to make the test, in fear that the shaking caused by the detonation would cause the collapse of many buildings."

"So this great creation has been doomed to be forgotten?"

"The emperor of Russia wanted to purchase it, but it was impossible to move it from its spot."

"You should then create a gun to destroy the whole english fleet with a shot and pull us out of this predicament."

"Oh, I've been thinking about that!," replied Malespina. "And I think that my thoughts may be carried out. I will show you the calculations I have done, not just to increase to a fabulous extent the caliber of our artillery pieces, but to develop shielding plates to defend our ships and castles. It is the work of my life."

With all this conversation, they had finished eating. Marcial and I ate the leftovers in a hurry and continued our journey, they mounted on their horses, us as before, in our bent carriage. The food and the frequent sips which he used to irrigate it had excited even more the inventive of old Malespina, who spent the whole journey bombarding us with his nonsense. Conversation eventually returned to the topic where it had started: the war of the Roussillon; and since D. José kept inventing new deeds, my master who had grown tired of so many lies, tried to distract him from the topic and said, "A war that was a disaster and unsound policy. It would have been better if we hadn't started it!"

"Oh," exclaimed Malespina. "The Count of Aranda, as you know, condemned the war against the Republic since the beginning. We have talked so very much about this...! Because we are friends since childhood, you see. When I was in Aragon, we spent seven months hunting together in the Moncayo. I even had a curious shotgun designed for him that..."

"Yes, Aranda was against it at every turn," cut in my master, avoiding the dangerous path towards the topic of ballistics.

"Indeed," agreed the liar, "and if that eminent man defended so earnestly peace with the republicans, it is because I suggested it to him, as I had earlier convinced him of the bad timing of the war. Alas, Godoy, who back then was already the king's favourite, was determined to continue, just to be a contrarian, as I have been told afterwards. The funniest thing is that Godoy himself was forced to wrap up the war in the summer of 95, when he realized his own uselessness, and then granted himself that bombastic title of Prince of Peace."

"We are lacking, friend D. José Maria, of a good statesman up to the task of ruling, a man to keep us out of useless wars and to keep untouched the dignity of the Crown!," said my master.

"When I was in Madrid last year," insisted the deceiver, "they proposed me to become the Secretary of State. The Queen was quite determined about it and the King said nothing... Every day I'd go to the Pardo to shoot a couple of times... Even Godoy himself would have accepted it, knowing me to be his better, and if he hadn't, I could have found some little castle to imprison him and keep him out of my hair. But I refused, wanting to live peacefully in my village, and left that business in the hands of Godoy. There you have a man whose father was a muleteer in the grasslands that my father-in-law has in Extremadura."

"I didn't know... I thought that even though he was a man of obscure origins, the Prince of Peace belonged to a house of minor gentry, poor in fortune, but of noble origins nevertheless," said D. Alonso.

So continued the dialogue, with mister Malespina uttering lies like temples and my master listening with saintly patience, sometimes looking angry and sometimes amused by so much absurdity. If I don't remember incorrectly, D. José Maria also said that he had encouraged Napoleon to carry out his daring actions of 18 Brumaire.

With these and other things, night found us in Chiclana and my master, terribly tired and bruised by the movement of the dreadful carriage, decided to stay in that village, while the others continued, eager to reach Cadiz that same night. As they dined, Malespina said new lies and I saw that his son listened with sadness, embarrassed to have for a father the greatest liar ever born to man. They said their farewells; we rested until the wee hours of the next day, when we resumed our journey. Since the road was wider and in better condition between Chiclana and Cadiz that in the previous leg of our trip, we reached our destination around eleven o'clock, with our spirits high and in good health.

 

[Murazor]

Chapter VIII
Part 1

I cannot describe the enthusiasm that roused in my soul the return to Cadiz. As soon as I had some time of freedom, after my master settled in the home of his cousin, I left for the streets and ran aimlessly, drunk in the atmosphere of my beloved city.

After so long an absence, things that I had seen many times captivated my attention as if they were new and extremely beautiful. In all the people I encountered in my path I saw a friendly face, and for me everything was charming and joyful: the men, the women, the elderly, the children, the dogs, even the houses, since my childish imagination saw in them something self-aware that made me think of them as sentient beings. I felt as if they shared the general happiness caused by my arrival and saw smiles in their balconies and windows. My soul saw in all the things outside myself its own joy.

I ran through the streets anxiously, as if I wanted to see all of them in a minute. In San Juan de Dios square I bought some sweets, not out of appetite, but rather for the pleasure of showing myself reformed to the sellers, presenting myself as an old friend, since some of them I recognized for the help they had given me in the days of my misery, while others had been the victims of my innocent love of prowling. Most of them didn't remember me, but some bid me welcome with insults and with amused comments about my new demeanor, since they remembered the deeds of my childhood and forced me to retreat at full speed, since some fruits thrown by expert hands threatened to make my decorum crack. Since I was aware of my own dependability, that decision and their mockery gave me more pride than pain.

Later, I followed the wall and counted the ships anchored within sight. I talked with as many sailors ad I encountered in my path, telling them that I was also going with the fleet and asking them emphatically whether Nelson's squadron had already reached port. Then I told them that Monsieur Cornet was a coward and that the coming play ought to be good.

I eventually reached la Caleta and my joy there became boundless. I went down to the beach, and after removing my shoes jumped from rock to rock; looked for my old friends of both genders, finding few of them, for some had become men and had embraced better paths, some had been recruited by the levy, and those that remained barely recognized me. The moving surface of water aroused in my chest feelings and, unable to resist temptation, compelled by the strange magnetism of the sea (indeed, the sound of the sea has always been to me as a voice that sweetly asks during good time or calls with unleashed fury during the storm, I don't know why), I undressed at once and plunged into the sea as if throwing myself into the arms of a beloved person.

I swam for an hour, feeling unspeakable pleasure in this, and after dressing myself again, continued my journey towards the quarter of La Viña, where I found some of the most infamous wastrels of my days of glory in its taverns. Talking with them, I imagined them as being outstanding men and as such I wasted what little money I had inviting them. I asked them about my uncle, but they could not give me any news about the man and, after we had talked a bit, made me drink a cup of moonshine that floored me at once.

During the strongest stage of my inebriation, I suspect that those scoundrels mocked me as much as they wanted, so once I settled down I left that tavern full of shame. Although I had difficulty walking. I decided to pass in front of my former home and I saw at the door a woman dressed in rags who was frying guts and blood. Moved to tears by the place of my birth, I started crying. As a result, that pitiless woman guessed that it was mockery or some scheme to steal her food, so I had to dodge her hands with the swiftness of my feet, leaving for some other time the solace of my feelings.

Later I decided to see the old catedral, where one of the most cherished memories of my childhood had been set, and I entered: it was beautiful in my eyes and never since have I walked the halls of any temple with such a great amount of awe. I felt a strong urge to pray and so I did, kneeling in front of the altar where my mother had put a votive offering for my healing. The wax character whom I had seen as my perfect portrait was still hanging there and took its place with all the gravitas of holy things, but in truth our resemblance was like that of an egg and a chestnut. Nonetheless, that doll that represented piety and maternal love made me feel the deepest respect. I prayed for some time, remembering the suffering and the death of my good mother, who was now enjoying her reward along with God, in Heaven. Alas, the effects of moonshine had not yet left my head, so when I tried to stand up I fell and a sexton left me on the street. In a few more steps, I reached the Fideo street, where we resided and my master, upon seeing my return, reprimanded me for my long absence. If such a offense had taken place in the presence of Doña Francisca, I wouldn't have been spared a strong beating, but my master was less stern and never punished me, perhaps because he was aware of being as much a kid as I was.