by Joan Aiken
Having read this letter once, I read it again, for I was so dazed and amazed that I could hardly take in its meaning—or believe it when I had done so.
That my great-aunt Isadora was a mean, malicious, sanctimonious, tale-bearing, prying, ill-natured old hag, I had long known, but that she was actually plotting my death, I still found hard to credit. And yet I remembered Sam's comment when I had told him my story: "If you warn't there, her grandson 'ud get the property." Sam had been right, it seemed. "I'll lay she be main glad you've slipped your cable," he had said. But she had not even been content with that! I still found it difficult to believe that thin, gray, pale-eyed pious old woman had harbored such a devilish plan.
No wonder, I reflected, taking a survey of my life at Villaverde during the past two or three years, no wonder my grandfather had been less and less friendly to me, no wonder he had become so sad and stern and withdrawn from me. Doubtless the old she-vulture was croaking away in his ear the whole time, telling her poisonous tales, blackening my name. •
And no wonder, too, I recollected, that she had been so startled, and even alarmed, when she saw that I had the papers of my father's that Bernie had given me. She must have feared they might prove that my parents were truly married and that I was their legitimate son. No wonder she had seemed so relieved when she saw that the writing was impossible to read!
Thinking of the papers made me wish to look at them again, and I pulled them out of the little oiled-skin pouch that Juana Colomas had kindly made me, in which to carry my book and papers so as to protect diem from the weather.
I said to Sister Benedicta, who was still placidly chopping away at her thyme and lemon (to this day I cannot smell herbs without thinking of Doha Isadora and her wickedness), "May I ask, of your kindness, Sister, if you could read the words on this paper?"
"I will try, my child," she said, "and gladly," laying down her two-handled chopping blade. She took the papers and pored over them shortsightedly, but wis obliged to confess after a while that she could not make out a single word. Nor could Sister Angeles, nor a couple of the other old religious, whom they presently summoned for a consultation.
Greatly disappointed, I thanked them and put the papers carefully away again, then wondered what I had best do. All of a sudden my situation seemed so perilous that I hardly dared set foot outside the convent gate; in case Great-aunt Isadora's hired bravos darted out from some alleyway and stabbed me to the heart!
Then I felt a great coward, and tried to laugh at such foolish fears. Had I not come all this way, through more perils and adventures than Great-aunt Isadora could possibly dream of? Had I seen any signs of assassins prowling after me through the streets of Santander?
I had hot—but how, I wondered, would I know an assassin if I saw him?—except by his knife in my ribs. "Whereas he would know me, I reflected glumly, without the least difficulty, as the holy sisters had done: "a boy resembling a day-old chick." Not for the first time I regretted my conspicuous yellow hair and short stature. Then something else occurred to me.
I said to Sister Benedicta, "Sister, you seemed to be expecting me? How could that have been?"
"Why, my child," she said comfortably, "you must have been some little time, have you not, on the road to Santander from wherever it was that you met Sister Anunciata's stepfather?"
"Yes—yes, that is true." I thought of the days lost fording the flooded river, my wanderings in the mountains, and the three weeks passed at Llanes.
"Four days ago," Sister Benedicta went on, "the news reached our Sister Anunciata of her stepfather's death from lung disease. He wrote her a few last lines on his deathbed, bequeathed her some property in Madrid, and recommended her to look out for a boy like a day-old chick who might come bearing an earlier letter—if he had not already arrived—asked her to give him the letter which you have just read, and to urge him—you—to leave the country, for safety's sake. "Which we would have done, my child, before you quitted this place."
All the old nuns gazed at me benevolently, and I remarked with some heat, "Sister Anunciata's stepfather wrote to warn me that my great-aunt is plotting my death—and the best advice is that I should escape from the country? Am I not to have justice against that evil woman?"
"God will look after that part of the business in His own way, my child," said the oldest of the group, a frail, white-faced old shred of a woman like a withered leaf, who was called Sister Maria. "It is not for you to concern yourself in the matter—indeed your best course is to save her from further wrongdoing by putting yourself out of her reach. God will punish the sinner in His own time, never fear."
This seemed to me very annoying advice, but since no other course appeared open to me at present, I felt obliged to take it.
I thought of writing to my grandfather—but what could I say? "Dear Grandfather, Dona Isadora is a liar and a would-be murderer. She tried to persuade Senor Smith to assassinate me." He would never believe such stuff! And besides, my doing such a thing seemed disagreeably like Great-aunt Isadora's own methods.
However, these thoughts put me in mind of my promise to write to my grandfather from Santander, and I asked the old sisters if I might have the use of a pen and ink and a scrap of paper. These were hospitably provided and I was led to the parlor, where, sitting at a small, highly polished table, I wrote:
"Dear Grandfather: I am now in Santander, about to take ship for England so as to seek my fathers family. I earned the money for the passage by my own work and have not begged or stolen or disgraced you in any way.
"I am sorry now for some of the tricks that I played on you and Grandmother." I added: "But not for those on Dona Isadora," then decided to scratch it out. I ended: "Please give my best greetings to my grandmother and to yourself—your respectful Grandson."
When I had folded and sealed this letter, the sisters very kindly promised to see that it was sent to Villaverde. I offered to give them money, but they refused, saying that they had few needs, whereas I, going over the sea, might have many. So then, visited by a sudden notion, I said, "Sisters, would you like this parrot? She is very good at telling the time, and knows many things about healing herbs and the planets. To tell truth, I would be glad to find a good home for her; I should be anxious, taking her across the sea, in case she was overtaken by some mischance."
In fact, I had thought of giving her to Sam, but thought she would be of more use to the sisters, who were delighted to receive her, and promised to look after her carefully. I thanked them for their help and hospitality, then returned across the road to the monastery, where, to my rage, the porter called me as I passed through the gate, and said:
"Your friend with the lame leg was here while you were gone. He left this note for you."
"Where is he now? When did he leave?"
"How should I know?" The porter shrugged. "He left eight or nine minutes ago. He didn't tell me where he was going."
Hastily I read the note, which was only a few lines.
"Arranged passage for you on English ship, the Beauty of Bristol, sailing two days from now to Bristol which is right close to Bath so will be handy for you. Passage fee will be thirty dollars.On no account leave the monastery till I see you. I will be back by nine. S.P."
Now I was in a most awkward predicament and could have gnashed my teeth at my slowness in returning from the convent. If only I had returned a few minutes earlier! Indeed I ran back to the gate and looked along the road to the town, but Sam was not to be seen. Could he have heard, somehow, of Doha Isadora's schemes—was that why he wanted me not to leave the monastery? Why could he not have waited?
"Why did you not say I was just gone across the road?" I demanded of the porter, a big, stupid ox of a fellow, who replied, raising his brows, "I didn't know that, did I? I wasn't looking where you went. Your mate asked where you were—I said, likely you'd gone back to the town."
No wonder Sam had left again so quickly; now he was probably scouring the town for me.
I was
terribly tempted to go after him—but then I thought how slender a chance there would be of coming up with him in that maze of ships and docks.
Trying to curb my impatience, I sat down and wrote him a note.
"Dear Sam, I have had a warning to leave Santander without delay, as my great-aunt Isadora is trying to have me murdered. You were right about her, you see! It is kind of you to arrange my berth on the English ship, but I have already found one for myself on a Basque ship, the Guipuzcoa, which leaves tonight (I hope) & the fare is only fifteen dollars, so I had best take it and get clear away, though I do not like to run away, and hope the old Fiend burns in Hell. I shall write to my grandfather about her from England. Dear Sam, I hate to part from you, especially without a Good-bye, after all the fine songs we have sung together. When I find my English folk, I shall ask them to have the Law on your wicked uncle and then you, too, can come home. Your affec. Friend, Felix."
The writing of this took me some little time—in fact, I had to rewrite it three times, for at first it sounded too gloatingly triumphant over my success in finding a ship for myself, and then too babyishly sad at parting from Sam—in feet, I had much ado to prevent my pen from begging him to come to England also, although I knew he must not.
At last it was done, and I left it with the porter, and a few coins for his trouble. I had a little time, still, so I sat reading my father's book in the cloister, longing for Sam to appear before it was too late. But he did not.
Then I went to the stable and said good-bye to my bad-tempered friend, rubbing her nose and giving her a couple of maize cakes which Sister Benedicta had tucked into my pocket.
"Take care of Sam," I said to her softly. "Don't play any of your tricks on him, but carry him safely back to Llanes"—at which her only response was a snort—as if she knew very well what the future held in store for Sam, and for her, and for me, too!
Then, since dusk was now beginning to fall, and in a very short time it would not be possible to distinguish a black thread from a white one, I walked away along the road back to the city, looking out vigilantly on all sides, and behind me, too, as I went quickly and quietly toward the harbor.
8. On board the Guipuzcoa; the Comprachicos
Despite my anxieties I reached the port without hazard or hindrance, and sought again the spot where I had encountered the small red-kerchiefed man. I found the place at once, and easily, for he was there ahead of me, jigging impatiently from foot to foot, and looking all around him with his quick, darting black eyes.
"Very good, very good, it is the young señor, follow me if you please, for the ship has already arrived and the captain wishes to make passage again without delay!" he exclaimed in a rush of words the moment he saw me; and, snatching at my hand in his impatience to be off, he began leading me, almost at a run, along the sides of wharves, over narrow catwalks, in between great piles of timber, among casks and bales and crates, until I was thoroughly confused and had no notion whether we were going east or west or north or south, but could only follow him in blind trust. I was slower than he liked, though, first because I was burdened with one of my two saddlebags (I had left the other, the one with the food in it, for Sam), and also because I was still hoping to get a glimpse of Sam and longingly craned my neck this way and that as we came out from behind ships and crossed bridges. Nowhere did I see him, though, and the little man, crying, "Hasten, hasten!" urged me at a faster pace.
At last we descended a flight of weed-encrusted steps, and stepped into a small boat which lay moored at the bottom. I was hardly in the boat before the man had untied the mooring rope, pushed off, and begun rowing away across the tossing green water.
Now, through gathering dusk, I saw that we must have made our way to the western side of the harbor, for the town with all its lights lay behind us and to our right. Ahead of us a dark bulk of land began to loom up which must, I guessed, be the island off which the Guipuzcoa lay at anchor.
After ten minutes? rowing our boat bumped on a sandy bottom, and my guide jumped over the gunwale and pulled the boat up onto a shelving beach. Then he assisted me to disembark and bade me follow again. This I did, across the beach, along a twisting path through bushes, up, up, and then down again onto a small, slippery jetty and thus to where, I suddenly realized, a ship lay moored, so low in the water that, behind the spit of land we had just crossed, she must be almost invisible from the main harbor.
My first impression of the Guipuzcoa was her smallness. Could a ship of that size—she looked scarcely larger than a farm wagon—really be capable of braving the wild Gulf of Gascony and the treacherous English Channel?
As we threaded our way along by the shadowy creek where she lay hidden, all I could see of the ship was a mast, a complicated tangle of rigging, a carved figurehead with dim indications of gilding on it, and more traces of carving and gilding along the deck rail. A few dark figures were flitting to and fro along a gangplank, carrying stores or cargo—sacks, casks, bottles, boxes, a ball of tow, a coil of rope.
My guide, approaching the gangplank, said in a low voice, "I have brought him."
This message, it seemed, passed rapidly through the ship, and in a moment, from among the dusky confusion of stores and tackle on the deck, a cloaked figure somewhat taller than the rest detached itself and crossed the gangplank.
A deep voice said, "This is the young señor who wishes to cross to England? Be pleased to step on board, your worship! We shall make sail in a few moments."
I turned, and would have rewarded my guide, but to my surprise he was nowhere to be seen.
"The young lordship had best come into the caboose," remarked the deep voice. A hand grasped mine and led me over the gangplank and into a kind of deckhouse, where I saw that the deep-voiced man was tall, with hair like tar under a kerchief, arid that he was shrouded in a brown serge boat cloak.
I was glad to get into the deckhouse, for the small deck space outside seemed completely occupied by all the things that were being carried on board, and while the hasty stowage continued, I seemed in danger every minute either of tripping over something or of being knocked flying.
The caboose was a small windowless place, smelling of hot oil and garlic, where an old man was blowing up a turf fire in a clay box. Over the fire dangled an iron pot. A talc-lined lantern swung on a hook from the ceiling and gave dim illumination to the scene.
"Sit there, young master," said the tall man who had led me in, and after giving some rapid instructions to the other, in the Basque language, he went out again, shutting the door behind him.
I perched myself on a wicker hamper and watched the old man cutting up bacon, pimientos, fish, and onions, which he tossed into the pot, together with herbs and chick-peas. The broth he was making smelled very savory and reminded me that I had not eaten—except for Sister Benedictas cake—since our scanty breakfast with Father Ignacio, which now seemed a very long time ago.
Outside, the bumping of stores being dropped on the deck seemed to have lessened.
"Now we shan't be long, your honor," mumbled the old man in my direction—it was the first notice he had taken of my presence. Since he was quite toothless, and spoke the Basque language—addressing me as "Khauna," "lord"—it was not too easy to understand him.
He went back to stirring his soup, mumbling out the verse of a song, tunefully enough, in spite of his great age and lack of teeth. I knew the song, for it was one that Sammy had picked up in Bilbao, and which he had taught me:
"Ichasca urac aundi
Estu ondoric agueri—"
("The waters of the sea are boundless, and their bottom cannot be seen.")
I joined in with the old man, mainly to cheer myself, for, to tell truth, such a reminder of Sam, from whom I had just parted, very likely forever, made me feel so stricken with sorrow that I could have howled like a dog.
At the sound of my voice the old man gave me a great glance of wonder. Besides excelling at cookery, the Basques have a high esteem for music. Father Agustí
n once told me that the Roman name for the Basques, Cantabri, meant "sweet singers." At all events, after I had sung with him, the old man seemed to accord me much more respect than he had done previously.
Presently, becoming impatient of my confinement in this small place, I would have opened the door, but the old man mumbled, "Wait a little, let the young lordship wait! Later he shall see all that is to be seen!" and he waved his hands about to suggest that just now the crew were so busy on deck that I should only be in the way.
Rather reluctantly I sat down again on the uncomfortable wicker basket and stared round at the caboose. Overhead, beside the lantern, swung a dead kingfisher, suspended by its beak. Sam, I remembered, had told me how some ignorant sailors believe that a kingfisher hung up in this way will always turn its breast to leeward.
"How many are there in the crew of this ship, old grandfather?" I asked the cook politely.
"Four, my young lordship—the captain, whom you have seen, and three others—all brave, skillful sailors, thank the saints. And two other passengers."
"For what port in England is the ship bound?"
"We go to Falmouth, and then on to Black Harbour in Ireland."
"And your cargo?"
At this question the old man smiled his toothless grin, and drew a finger across his throat, as if to convey that answering me would be more than his life was worth. From which I guessed that my first conjecture, as to their being smugglers, was a correct one.
Now it suddenly occurred to me that since I had come on board the Guipuzcoa nobody had asked me for any passage money, although I had it ready, wrapped in a small piece of rag (while the rest of my savings were hidden in the false lining of a belt that Juana had made for me).
This fact—that no one had asked me for any money—seemed to me both strange and disturbing. The more I thought about it, the less I liked it These were wild lawless men, the brigands of the sea; their ship was so small that there scarcely seemed room for extra passengers, besides the cargo they carried; was it likely that they would take any person on board without making perfectly certain that he had the money to pay for his trip?
