From the mirador, or pretty terrace on the top of the house, entwined with vine-leaves and jasmine, and partly shaded with the fig and various sweet-scented plants, a lovely view of well-nigh the entire valley, with its mass of vegetable life, its wide orange groves, and its waving palms, is obtained, while the fragrance of the orange flower is wafted through every casement. The winter climate of the valley is mild and delicious, as its tropical vegetation amply testifies; while the heat in summer is never too intense, for an opening through the heart of the mountains towards the north-west, through which a small silver river flows to the sea, admits the freshening breeze.
From Soller we started on a beautiful walk to the port (El Puerto de Soller), situated on the north-west coast. The road lay through orange groves, and avenues of gigantic bamboos and enormous aloes, the little river flowing swiftly on by our side. When we had advanced some distance an old battered bridge appeared before us. This was the bridge of La Má, where in the middle of the sixteenth century a fearful struggle, accompanied with great slaughter, occurred between a host of invading Turks and the gallant men of Soller. The inhabitants of the little town, although greatly outnumbered, were nerved by the energy of despair, and it was a question of "to do or die." They must either conquer or leave their old men, their wives, their kindred, and little ones to enemies who knew no mercy, but would certainly doom them to dishonour, death, or slavery. Arming themselves, therefore, hastily with whatever weapons they could collect, the little band of six hundred [31] knelt down in the market-place and prayed fervently to the God of the Christians to bless their arms. Then, committing their families to the care of heaven, they marched to the attack. The Turkish army, having landed at three o'clock in the morning, had imagined they could take the town by surprise, while its inhabitants were sunk in slumber; but their fleet had been previously seen in the offing by the Majorcans from their watch-tower at the port, and signalled to the Soller garrison. At the bridge of La Má the opposing forces met, and the battle raged with equal ardour on both sides. In the midst of the struggle a rumour reached the Christian troops that another band of Turks had appeared near their town by a circuitous route, and were slaughtering their families and firing their homes. This sad message for a moment fell upon their hearts like a knell of despair, and for a short time they were so dispirited that the Turks gained some temporary advantage. At this critical moment the calm, quick wisdom of Juan Angelats, the patriot leader, saw that upon one supreme effort depended the issue of the day. Leaping upon a mound, with the banner of the Red Cross of St. George waving in his hand, and in full sight of both armies, with bare head and flaming eyes, he shouted, "Sons of Soller! if we retire we are scattered and lost. Rally, rally! Our families are in the hands of God. Charge for vengeance and Saint George, and let not an infidel escape. Forward, in the name of the Holy Virgin!" With one loud shout the gallant band rushed on with the impetuous speed of a vast bolt discharged upon the foe. Nothing could withstand the violence of their assault, and crossing the river over the heap of Turkish dead, they spread death and destruction among the Mohammedan troops, being resolved neither to ask nor to give quarter. Ysuf, the enemy's leader, fell pierced through and through, and the falling ranks of the infidels, dropping victims at every step in their retreat, fled in wild disorder to their galleys; only one-fourth of the invaders eventually landing at Algiers to attest the prowess of the Christian patriot.
Shortly after passing the bridge of La Má we arrived at the port of Soller, formed by a little bay, at the entrance of which, on either side, rise lofty rocks, covered with olive, and with patches of dwarf oak, while occasional pines wave their sombre heads gloomily in the breeze. It is a wild and desolate place, the only sound which is heard being that of the blue waves as they dash ceaselessly on the silent shore. A ruined Moorish tower rises up, stark and grey, on the storm-battered rocks, like some melancholy spirit brooding over recollections of the past. A few small fishing craft, which are all that seek refuge here, sway to-and-fro, moored to the shore, beneath some humble cottages overlooking the low wall of the little harbour. The bay itself is to all intents fathomless, being the basin of an extinct volcano, and there is consequently no anchorage for ships.
FOOTNOTES:
[28] The usual passing form of salutation in Majorca. It means "good day," or "good night," or anything civil in fact.
[29] There may be some who will suspect this account of an almost unknown but comparatively near island to be exaggerated. To such we say, some day, instead of going to Geneva, go to Majorca.
[30] We were accompanied by Captain Graham, Her Majesty's Consul at Palma; Captain Wood, R.N., and Mrs. Wood. To all of them we are indebted for the greatest kindness and courtesy shown to us during our stay in Majorca.
[31] Strange to say—the number of the gallant few who rode at Balaclava.