This marauding life was ill-suited either to our hero’s taste or habits, and accordingly he embraced the first favourable opportunity of quitting the service of the “Regenerator of Italy.” How he managed to effect his liberation I never could find out, it being one of the very few subjects on which Damien was close; but I suspect—much as he liked shooting—that the love of the smell of gunpowder was not a natural taste of his. Be that as it may, he made his way to Spain—took to himself a Spanish wife—and settled at Gibraltar.
His language, like the dress of a harlequin, was made up of scraps,—French, Spanish, English, and Italian, joined in angularly and without method or regularity; and all so badly spoken, as to render it impossible to say which amongst them was the mother-tongue. Nevertheless, Damien got on well with every body, and his bonhommie and good nature rendered him a universal favourite. In other respects, however, he was not so favoured a child of fortune; for, though no idle seeker of adventures, in fact, he was wont to go a great way to avoid them, yet, as ill luck would have it, adventures very frequently came across him. And it generally happened, as with the famed Manchegan knight, that Damien, in his various encounters, came off “second best.” That is to say, they usually ended in his finding himself minus his gun, or his horse, or both, and, perhaps, his alforjas to boot.
By his own account, these untoward events invariably happened through some want of proper precaution—either whilst he was indulging in a Siesta, or taking a snack by the side of some cool stream, his trusty gun being out of his immediate reach, or when committing some other imprudent act. So it was, however, and these “petits malheurs,” as he was in the habit of calling them, had generated a more than ordinary dread of robbers, which, in its turn, had produced in him a disposition to be gregarious whenever he passed the bounds of the English garrison.
In travelling through the mountains, we always knew when we were approaching what Damien considered a likely spot for an ambuscade, by his striking up a martial air that he told us had been the favourite march of the regiment of grenadiers in which he had served; giving us from time to time a hint that it would be well to be upon the look-out by observing to the person next him, “Hay muchos ladrones par ici, mon Capitaine—el año pasado (maledetti sian’ ces gueux d’Espagnols!) on m’a volé une bonne escopète en este maldito callejon[96]—Il faut être preparé, Messieurs!” and then the Piedmontese march was resumed with increased energy, growing piu marcato e risoluto, as the banks of the gorge became higher and the underwood thicker.
On regaining the open country, the air was changed by a playful Cadenza to one of a more lively character, and, after a Da Capo, generally ended with “n’ayez pas peur, Messieurs—questi birbánti Spagniuoli”[97] (he seldom abused them in their native language, lest he should be over-heard) “n’osent pas nous attaquer à forces égales.”
Poor Damien! many is the good laugh your fears have unconsciously occasioned us—many the joking bet the tuning up of the Piedmontese grenadiers’ march has given rise to—and every note of which is at this moment as perfect in my recollection as when we traversed together the wild puertas de Sanona.
The town of Los Barrios, where we took up our quarters for the night, is twelve miles from Gibraltar. It is a small, open town, containing some 2000 souls, and, though founded only since the capture of Gibraltar, already shows sad symptoms of decay.
Being within a ride of the British garrison, it is frequently visited by its inmates, and two rival posadas dispute the honour of possessing the golden fleece. One of them, for a time, carried all before it, in consequence of the beauty of the Donzella de la Casa:[98] but beauty will fade, however unwillingly—as in this case—its possessor admits that it does; and the “fair maid of Los Barrios,” who, when I first saw her, was really a very beautiful girl, had, at the period of my last visit, become a coarse, fat, middle-aged, young woman; and, as the charges for looking at her remained the same as ever, I proved a recreant knight, and went to the rival posada.
Nothing could well be more ludicrous than the contrast, in dress and appearance, between the beauty’s mother and the beauty herself—unless, indeed, the visiter arrived very unexpectedly,—the one being dirty, slatternly, and clothed in old rags; the other, muy bien peynado,[99] and pomatumed, and decked in all the finery and ornaments presented by her numerous admirers. The old lady was excessively proud of her daughter’s beauty and wardrobe; and in showing her off always reminded me of the sin-par[100] Panza’s mode of speaking of his Sanchita, una muchacha a quien crio para condesa.[101]
The father of “the beauty” was a notorious liberal; and, having outraged the laws of his country on various occasions, was executed at Seville some years since. He was, I think, the most thorough-going leveller I ever met with—one who would not have sheathed the knife as long as any individual better off than himself remained in the country. Boasting to me on one occasion of the great deeds he had done during the war, he said that in one night he had despatched eleven French soldiers, who were quartered in his house. He effected his purpose by making them drunk, having previously drugged their wine to produce sleep. He put them to death with his knife as they lay senseless on the floor, carried them out into the yard, and threw them into a pit. The monster who could boast of such a crime would commit it if he had the opportunity; and though I suspect the number of his victims was exaggerated, yet I have no doubt whatever that he did not make himself out to be a murderer without some good grounds; and, I confess, it gave me very little regret to hear, a year or two afterwards, that he had perished on the scaffold.