Only a small and light-draft ship could get up the river to the point at which the arms were to be delivered, which was a few miles above Bilbao. I did not care to try it with the “Leckwith” so I chartered a smaller steamer which greatly resembled the “Santa Marta,” a Spanish coastwise ship. To avoid suspicion as to their real destination the rifles and cartridges, in boxes which gave no indication of their contents, were shipped to Antwerp, and I picked them up there. As soon as we were out of sight of land I repainted my ship and made some slight changes in her upper works, until she looked almost exactly like the “Santa Marta.” That name was then painted on her bows and the Spanish flag was hoisted over her. With this precaution I figured that we would avoid any trouble with the forts or any warships we might encounter, and we did; in fact we did not see a single warship. Of course, if we had happened to meet the real “Santa Marta,” we would have had to run for it at least, and it might have been more serious than that, but I simply took a chance that we would not run into her. We saluted the forts as we passed them and they responded without taking two looks at us.
We got over the bar at Bilbao with very little to spare under our keel and went on up the river to the appointed place, where we tied up so close to the steep bank that we threw a plank ashore. A band of gypsies—Gitanos—were camped close by, and in ten minutes they were all over the ship. Among them was a singularly beautiful girl to whom I was drawn. She followed me around the ship, which did not annoy me at all, and insisted on telling my fortune. When I consented she told me, among a lot of other things, that I would be paid a large sum of money in the mountains, and assassinated. Her dire prediction did not cause me a moment’s anxiety, as I have no faith in human ability to discern what the inhuman Fates have prescribed for us, but she was greatly worried by what the cards had told her and begged me, almost with tears in her eyes, to stay away from the mountains. As I then had no thought of going into the hills I assured her that I would do as she advised, whereat she was much relieved.
No messenger from Don Carlos came down to meet us, as had been agreed upon, and after waiting three or four days I sent one of the gypsies to his camp to advise him that the cargo awaited his orders, and the payment for it. He replied that he would send for it and that I should come to his headquarters for the money, as he wished to consult with me about further shipments. He sent along one of his aides to escort me to his camp. The Gitano girl’s warning had made so little impression on me that I did not recall it. It seemed natural enough that Don Carlos should want more arms, as we had expected he would, and that he should want to give personal directions as to where and when they were to be delivered, and without any thought of danger I set forth at once. George Brown, my sailing master, a gigantic Nova Scotian, and Bill Heather, the second officer, accompanied me, as they wished to see the country and, perhaps, the famous Pretender.
The Carlist camp was located well up in the mountains, nearly twelve miles from where we were tied up. Following the aide, we walked diagonally away from the river for about six miles, which brought us to the foothills. Then we switched off to the left for a mile and turned sharply to the right into a canyon, which we followed for three miles or more when it turned to the right again, and a two-mile tramp landed us at the headquarters of the claimant to the Spanish crown. The camp stretched away through the woods that covered the plateau to which we had climbed but we had no opportunity to inspect it, nor to form any intelligent idea as to the number of troops, for right at the head of the canyon was a large square tent, surmounted with a flag bearing the Carlist arms, which we rightly guessed was occupied by the Commander-in-Chief.
We were halted there and after a short wait I was ceremoniously ushered into the august presence of the Pretender. He was standing as I entered, for impressive effect rather than from courtesy, and I am compelled to admit that in personal appearance he had a great advantage over any real King I have ever seen. Perhaps forty years old, he was in the full glory of physical manhood; six feet tall, powerfully built, and unmistakably a Spaniard. He had a full beard and moustache as black as his hair, large dark eyes, a Grecian nose, and a broad high forehead which suggested a higher degree of intellectuality than he possessed. But his cold face was cruel and unscrupulous and I felt—what I afterward found was fact—that his adherents followed him chiefly from principle and were dominated much more by fear than by personal loyalty. Yet, despite a face forbidding to any keen student of human nature, he was an imposing figure, with evidences of royalty that were exaggerated by his manner. He greeted me with frigid formality in contradiction of the warm welcome I had expected, as due a saviour of the Carlist cause, and his first words, spoken in fair English, were a curt statement that he had no money but would pay for my cargo through his London agent within two months.
Chagrined at the manner of my reception and surprised at his attitude, I inquired, with some heat: “How is it possible, Your Majesty, that you are not prepared to carry out the agreement made with your agent who was acting, as he convinced us, with your full authority? Our contract stipulates that my cargo is to be paid for in cash and unless this is complied with I cannot deliver it and we will be compelled to accept no further orders from you.”
“If my agent made such a contract as that,” he retorted with assumed indignation, “he did it on his own responsibility alone and I refuse to be bound by it. I have stated my terms. If you do not care to accede to them you can go to the devil.”
It was plain that I would make no headway in that direction so I went about on the other tack, using honeyed words in place of harsh ones.
“I beg Your Majesty’s pardon,” I said with much deference, “for momentarily losing my temper. It was due to the heat and the long tramp. I am not accustomed to such enervating exercise. I see now that Your Majesty is joking. It could not be otherwise, for the word of a King of Spain is sacred.”
The flattery went home, as I supposed, and while he repeated that he had stated the exact situation, his manner was more friendly.