IN the wildest part of the mountainous belt that, stretching in a wide semicircle round Gibraltar, cuts the rocky peninsula off, as it were, from the rest of Spain, is situated the Casería de Sanona; a lone house, now dwindled down to a mere farm; but, as both its name implies, and its appearance bespeaks, formerly a place of some consequence.
It was brought to its present lowly state during the last war, when its inhabitants were so reduced in number, as well as circumstances, that hands and means are still equally wanting for the proper looking after, and attending to, the vast herds and extensive dehesas[95] and forest-lands belonging to it. The consequence is, that the wolves and wild boars, from having been so long permitted to roam about in undisputed possession of the woods, have in their turn, from being the persecuted, become the aggressors, and are now in the habit of making nightly predatory visits to the cattle folds and plantations of the Casería, carrying off the farmer’s sheep and heifers, and destroying his winter stock of vegetables, whenever, by any neglect or remissness of the watch, an opportunity is afforded them.
Besides the animals above mentioned, deer, and, in the winter, woodcocks, find the unfrequented ravines in the vicinity of the Casería equally well suited to their secluded habits; and, tempted by the promising account of the sport the place afforded, a party was formed, consisting of three of my most intimate friends, myself, and a piqueur, to proceed thither for a few days’ shooting.
Sending forward a messenger to the Casería, as well to go through the form of asking its proprietor to “put us up,” during our proposed visit, as to request him to have a sufficient number of beaters collected—on which the quality of the sport mainly depends—we provided ourselves with a week’s consumption of provisions and ammunition, and, leaving Gibraltar late in the afternoon, proceeded to Los Barrios; whence, we could take an earlier departure on the following morning than from the locked-up fortress.
The Piqueur who usually accompanied us on these shooting excursions was a personage of some celebrity in the Gibraltar sporting world, and his name—Damien Berrio—will doubtless be familiar to such of my readers as may have resided any time on “the rock.” By birth a Piedmontese, a baker by profession, Damien’s bread—like that of many persons in a more elevated walk of life—was not to his taste. At the very mention of a Batida, he would leave oven, home, wife, and children; shoulder his gun, fill his alforjas—for he was a provident soul, and, though a baker, ever maintained that man could not live on bread alone—borrow a horse, and, in half an hour, “be ready for a start.”
Possessing a perfect knowledge of the country, a quick eye, an unerring aim, and a nose that could wind an olla if within the circuit of a Spanish league, Damien was, in many respects, a valuable acquisition on a shooting party. And to the aforesaid qualifications, befitting him for the staff, he added that of being an excellent raconteur. In this he received much assistance from his personal appearance, which, like that of the inimitable Liston, passed off for humour that which, in reality, was pure nature.
His person was much above the common stature, erect, and well-built, but his hands and feet were “prodigious.” His face—when the sun fell directly upon it, so as to free it from the shadow of his enormous nose—was intelligent, and bespoke infinite good nature, though marked, nevertheless, with the lines of care and sorrow. His costume was that of a French sportsman, except that he wore a high-crowned, weather-beaten old hat, placed somewhat knowingly on one side of his head, and which, of itself alone, marked him as “a character.”
To those who have not had the pleasure of his acquaintance, a precis of his early history may not be unacceptable; those who already know it will, I trust, pardon the short digression.
Born on the sunny side of the Alps, some fifteen years before the breaking out of the French revolution, Damien, at a very early age, was called upon to defend his country against the aggression of its Gallic neighbours. He was draughted accordingly to a regiment of grenadiers of the Piedmontese army commanded by General Colli; and, in the short and disgraceful campaign of 1796, was made prisoner with the brave but unfortunate Provèra, at the Castle of Cosséria.
On the formation of the Cisalpine republic soon afterwards, our grenadier, released, as he fondly imagined, from the necessity of any further military service, purposed returning to his family and regretted agricultural pursuits; but, on applying for his discharge, he found that he had quite misunderstood the meaning of the word freedom. “What!” said the regenerator of his oppressed country; “what! return home like a lazy drone, when so much still remains to be done! No, no, we cannot part with you yet; we are about to give liberty to the rest of Italy; you must march; can mankind be more beneficially or philanthropically employed? Allons! en avant! vive la liberté!"—“And so,” said Damien, “off we were marched, under the tail of the French eagle, to give freedom to the Facchini of Venice, and Lazzaroni of Naples; and to spoil and pillage all that lay in our way.”