From his safe refuge at Gibraltar, Torrijos had issued a proclamation, calling on the Spanish people to rise against the tyranny of the Government. On January 24th, 1831, he followed up this manifesto by landing near Algeciras with two hundred followers. Confronted by superior numbers, he was compelled to re-embark for Gibraltar. Six weeks later, March 3rd, 1831, his emissaries won over six hundred of the sailors and soldiers quartered at Cadiz. A riot took place: the Governor, Oliver y Hierro, was killed; the movement threatened to become general. But the rising was soon quelled. The mutineers endeavoured to join Manzanares in the hills round Ronda. On their march they were attacked by Quesada, the Captain-General of Andalusia, at Vejer, a Moorish town scrambling up the rocky cliffs from the river Barbate, sixteen miles from Cadiz. “Prodigies of valour” were performed by the royalist troops, whose losses were one man killed, two wounded, and two bruised. The rebels were defeated. A few escaped to the coast; the majority were either killed with arms in their hands or as prisoners. The followers of Manzanares had dwindled to twenty men; Manzanares himself was murdered by a goatherd, and his companions were spared at Quesada’s request. The only results of these badly planned invasions were the creation of courts martial, the multiplication of spies, wholesale executions, and the establishment of a reign of terror.
Quesada, in spite of his magniloquent bulletin, was a man of mark. Under Queen Christina’s regency he was appointed Captain-General of Madrid. Borrow, who speaks of him as “a very stupid individual, but a great fighter,”[7] was yet stirred to enthusiasm by the energy and courage of the “brute bull,” to whom he devotes some of his most picturesque pages. Almost single-handed, Quesada repressed the military riots at Madrid (August 11th and 12th, 1836). “No action,” says Borrow, “of any conqueror or hero on record is to be compared with this closing scene of the life of Quesada; for who, by his single desperate courage and impetuosity, ever stopped a revolution in full course? Quesada did; he stopped the revolution at Madrid for one entire day, and brought back the uproarious and hostile mob of a huge city to perfect order and quiet. His burst into the Puerta del Sol was the most tremendous and successful piece of daring ever witnessed. I admired so much the spirit of the ‘brute bull’ that I frequently, during his wild onset, shouted ‘Viva Quesada!’”[8] A few days afterwards Quesada was murdered by the nationals at a village near Madrid. Portions of his body were brought back to the city, and in the coffeehouse of the Calle del Alcalá the mangled fingers and hand of the murdered man were stirred in a huge bowl of coffee, which was drunk to the accompaniment of a grisly song.
February 2, 1831.
I send you a proclamation issued this morning. People do not seem inclined to believe it, and think Torrijos had at least two thousand men. If he had, there must have been a vast propagation going on in the bay this winter, and armed revolutionists must have sprung out of the seaweed like so many soldiers of Cadmus. When I was there, I heard much of them from General Don, the Town Major, and Shirreff (the Captain of the Port, who brought us out), and the outside number was computed at six hundred, without arms or money. I believe the people would have no objection here to a change, if it could be accomplished by the act of God, or anyhow without putting them to expense or trouble. They are afraid of everything, I am told—hot water, cold water, shaving, talking, or indeed doing anything. As for their ignorance, it is the result of leaving the mind constantly fallow, and the sharpest Spaniard would get dull, with their 2-o’clock dinners and habits of living. I find them all slow in the movements of mind and body. The climate of this place is most delicious; the rains are over, and the last ten days have been more charming than any July in England, the sun so warm as really to be almost oppressive. Spring is coming on rapidly; the trees are budding, and the vegetation makes gigantic strides. We have not had above ten days’ cold all the winter, and that a degree of cold varying between 36 and 46.
I have had many letters from England, and fear that people are very uncomfortable there. The tone and feeling I collect from the mass of letters are far from satisfactory. I believe we are now in the only quiet place. If ever you should see any real clouds in the horizon, pray give me a timely hint, as I have a wife and three children here, and Gibraltar is a very snug place in stormy weather. I am going to write to Shirreff, and will beg him to let me know the rights of this Spanish business at Gibraltar, and communicate them to you.
There is nothing doing; we live a humdrum life, never going out, neither to the theatre, which is really insupportably dull, nor to the Alameda. We dine late, and are much occupied with those damnable heretical inventions—reading and writing, with those incomprehensible ones to Spaniards—drawing and music, for not even the guitar is played. I have made a large collection of drawings of this most picturesque old town; my wife is hard at work with her guitar, and will play you some real Spanish airs when she gets to Madrid.
There is no such thing as a drawing master. The natives are interested and surprised at all our proceedings, and verily believe we have all arrived from the moon.
February (undated) 1831.
We are here blockaded by the waters, and almost cut off from all communications. The country from the top of the Giralda looks like Venice, and in many of the streets people go about in boats. The state of the poor is very lamentable, and they are distributing bread, etc. Still, the suburb of Triana has risen, and a troop of soldiers has been obliged to be sent there. However, the rain has ceased, and there is a prospect of better weather. I hear occasionally from England, where things are settling down, but people seem to expect a continental war, in consequence of the Polish revolution. However, you are much more in the light than I can possibly be. Is it true that Sir Frˢ. Burdett is dead? I hope not, as he is a great friend of mine and a most agreeable and perfect gentleman, tho’ not a Tory, con licencia de usted [begging your Honour’s pardon]. People seem to think Parliament will be dissolved after all.
This is a sad, dull town for news, as I see nobody, and nobody sees anybody. I have got into a mess by asking some of the Grandees to dinner, and giving them a Spanish dinner and using some Spanish plates. God knows I have neither plates nor plate. They have thought what I meant as a compliment was meant to turn them into ridicule. However, I have gravely explained the matter, and stand right again, rectus in curia, having afforded conversation to this excellent and industrious Capital for some few days.