Such, then, was to be our landing at Iviza! For three-quarters of an hour we waited, looking out at the slashing rain and feeling so unutterably miserable that, had it been possible—even at this eleventh hour—to turn back to Palma, we should assuredly have turned. But it was not possible, as the Isleño was bound for Valencia, and when the boat came back for the third time to fetch us and one native gentleman—the only passengers left on board—there was nothing for it but to grope our way to the wet, slippery ladder and from thence to drop either into the tossing boat, or, as seemed far more probable, into the sea.
And now, in this blackest moment of our whole journey, appeared a deus ex machina in the shape of the aforementioned señor; prompted by the kindness of his heart, and perhaps not unmoved by the sight of two very forlorn strangers, he took us in charge and reassured us; there would be no danger at all, he said, if we would cling firmly to the chain at the foot of the steps and wait for the boatmen to catch us; he would tell them to be careful, and as for our valises, a boy would come up and fetch them when we were safely in the boat. He helped us down the swaying ladder, and unseen arms clutched us and dropped us on to a seat, where we sat down in two large puddles. Our unknown friend jumped in after us, and the silent oarsmen pulled away from the black hull looming overhead, and rowed us across the inky, swirling water to the quay, where a row of twinkling lights along the harbour’s edge heralded the town.
Landing at a flight of steps, we paid the boatmen their fee of two and a half pesetas, and then splashed away in mud and darkness to the inn, where our new acquaintance left us after promising to look us up on the morrow. Dinner was going on in the big comedór on the ground floor—the company consisting of a number of Ivizan residents and some officers in uniform, with all of whom we exchanged salutations as we took our seats at the long table d’hôte. Never was food more welcome than that set before us. Half an hour later—wet and tired, but no longer hungry—we went upstairs, and were shown into a large red-tiled room, arranged in the Spanish fashion with two alcoves, shut off by glass doors, containing each an excellent bed. Unpacking our valises, we were soon fast asleep, fully prepared to take a more cheerful view of things on the morrow.
But, alas and alas! when we woke and went to the window the prospect was as dispiriting as ever. The fonda stood on the very edge of the water, and we looked out upon a landlocked port shrouded in fog. It was still raining, and the leaden sky was merged into a leaden sea spattered with raindrops. A few seagulls drifted past the window, uttering melancholy cries, and the only sign of human life was a solitary old woman who was fishing patiently from her front doorstep, seated under a large umbrella.
At this juncture a voice at the keyhole announced breakfast, and going out on to the landing we found tea and hot buttered toast laid for us on a little table. The tea possessed in a high degree the primary essential of good drinking-water—absolute tastelessness; but the buttered toast was comforting, and as we ate it we discussed the situation seriously.
“Iviza is massed high above the harbour, the lower town separated by a sharply-marked line of fortification from the upper town—the old Jevitzah of the Moors.”
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