The Car of Destiny Part 43

Somewhat comforted, I proposed to follow at once, but d.i.c.k wistfully reminded me that the afternoon was wearing on, and he was wearing with it.

Soon he would be worn out, unless I gave him something to eat. It seemed years since that cup of coffee and roll of the early morning.

If we needed nourishment, the car needed water. Both needs were supplied somewhat grudgingly by me, though the physical part of me did appreciate the coolness of the restaurant, and the strange dishes for which Cadiz is famous; the mushroom-flavoured cuttle-fish, the golden dorado in sherry.

Then off we started again, to take a road which the landlord warned us was none too good. People who travelled by carriage or diligence had evil things to say of the fourteen to eighteen hours of journey, though the scenery was fine. This did not sound enlivening; but what good horses could do in fourteen hours, the Gloria could do in three or four.

Through ramifications of narrow streets I steered the car out of Cadiz. In all directions they branched off from one another, interlacing, overlapping with the intricacy of a puzzle. The houses were high, too, and there was not a window with glittering balcony of gla.s.s and iron, where dark-eyed women did not lean between heaven and earth, to smile down upon our humming motor. It was all very quaint and gay, in spite of ancient, tragic memories; and though few cities of Spain are older than Cadiz-which claims Hercules for founder-the white houses looked as clean as if they had been built yesterday or some mediaeval model.

We tore back to San Fernando; and soon came upon the bad surface which had been prophesied. The Gloria b.u.mped over ruts and grooves, and scattered stones, and perforce I had to slacken speed lest she should break some blood-vessel. Nevertheless we did not waste time in covering the six miles to Chiclana de la Frontera; and when we had crashed through this ancient stronghold of the Phnicians we jolted out into an open, sandy solitude, with only the knoll of Barosa to break its blank monotony.

Even a mind preoccupied must spare a few thoughts for Graham and the "Faugh-a-ballaghs," on this ground where Spanish men and British men fought shoulder to shoulder against the French invader. But when we pa.s.sed the road branching away to Conil, and held straight on across the little river Salado, I heard a thing more instructive than history, more exciting than romance.

A man we met-who looked almost old enough to remember the brave days of the great tunny fishing-had seen a large automobile, not more than an hour ago. Evidently, then, we were gaining on the quarry. The news gave me courage.

The sea and the Straits of Gibraltar were near now, and though they were not in sight yet, nor the sandy headland of Trafalgar, the smell of salt came to us with the wind.

At the old Moorish town of Vejer de la Frontera (scarcely a town in this storied corner of the world but tells, with its "de la Frontera," of days when the Moors were crushed back, ever farther and farther) we had travelled full thirty miles from Cadiz. Childish voices screaming round the car cried that another automobile was not far ahead; and like a racehorse nearing the finish, we put on speed, dashing at a rush to the Laguna de Janda, over the ground where Tarik the Conquerer began his great running fight with Rodrigo. So through little Venta de Tabilla, leaving the lake to plunge into an imposing gorge which was a doorway to the sea.

There, spread out before, were the straits and the burning African coast; Europe and Africa face to face; white Tarifa jutting into the green waves; Trafalgar in the distance, smothered in clouds like clinging memories; Tangier opposite, a crescent of pearls, tossed seaward by towering blue waves which were the Atlas Mountains. Taking the wild beauty of the scene with all that it meant, it was one of the great sights of the world-the world once supposed to end here, with Hercules' pillars.

As the Gloria sprang on towards Tarifa, a fierce wind which had been lying in wait leapt at the car and sent her staggering. Gust after gust darted from ambush, half blinding our ungoggled eyes with the sand they flung by handfuls into our faces. But we jammed on our hats; and the Gloria bore the onslaughts bravely, her voice drowned in the screaming of the wind, which might have been the war cries of those Moorish armies whose battleground this land had been for seven centuries.

As the good white road mounted the shoulder of a down on its way to Tarifa, that most Moorish of all Spanish towns stood up like a model cut out of alabaster in a frame of jade. Clear against the sky rose the crumbling tower of Guzman el Bueno, the Abraham of mediaeval history; but our way, instead of leading through the strange old city, pa.s.sed the horseshoe gate of entrance, and bore us up into the mountains.

Not a soul did we meet, once we turned our backs upon Tarifa. Only the wild wind would not desert us, but roared in strange voices along the hollows of the land, in a country where all was wild. The rough mountain sides were peppered with stunted oaks; and as our way ascended more thrilling grew the views, with the smoke of great steamers streaming black pennons over the sea, and the Atlas Mountains squatting Sphinx-like to guard the African sh.o.r.e.

Then, we lost the hard blue line of water, screened behind mountains; and slipping down over the summit we hid from the bellowing wind. The car flew like a circling bird round the wide curves, and dropped us in peaceful vales sheltered by cork forests, and rocky walls inlaid with the silver of trickling streams.

Thus, back to the wide sea view and downs whose flowery carpet was torn by jagged nail-heads of rock. Cork trees, sombre as giant olives clad in mourning, strong in their corselets and shields of half-stripped bark as knights in armour, covered the hills like a vast army. At the foot of the h.o.a.ry warriors, waved bracken and yellow iris in tangled ma.s.ses; high above their heads sailed here and there a golden eagle of a vulture, looking like paper birds or j.a.panese kites.

Far below us the white houses of Algeciras lay scattered, a broken necklace of white beads; and from across the water that dark lion, Gibraltar, crouched as if waiting to spring.

Whether d.i.c.k or I saw it first I can't tell, but we exclaimed together, "There's the other car!" And there it was, a moving speck upon the road in a white cloud of dust.

After it we went with a bound of increased speed. No need now to stop and ask the way to the hotel; all we had to do was to follow and catch up with the Lecomte at the steps of the Hotel Reina Cristina. A wild idea flashed into my head, that I would s.n.a.t.c.h Monica as she alighted from Carmona's car, fling her to d.i.c.k in mine, jump in after her myself, and be off before the others had time to recover from their surprise.

The more I thought of this the more feasible did it seem. No slowing up for sharp turnings now; trust to luck that the road was clear ahead! I was thrilling with hope and excitement as we dashed after the disappearing dust-covered automobile into a wide open gateway. The scent of heliotrope and rose geranium, hot under the April sun, intoxicated me as we swept along the white avenue, and came in sight of the other car just drawing up before an arcaded loggia.

x.x.xV

THE MOON IN THE WILDERNESS

Two ladies and their maid were getting out. An American young man was helping them down. The grey car was not a Lecomte. The owner, his chauffeur, and the three women were of types entirely different from those we sought.

The discovery, coming after such exaltation of hope, was like a blow over the heart.

"Hard luck," exclaimed d.i.c.k. "But Carmona's car must be somewhere."

"If it ever started," I said. "I begin to think now that Carmona rallied his brigands, and sent me out to meet them, knowing I'd surely follow if I believed he had gone that way."

"Oh come, there's hope still," d.i.c.k consoled me. And turning to the owner of the car, he asked if he had seen another grey automobile. He had not; and, on further questioning, he went on to tell us that he had started from Seville meaning to stop at Cadiz and come on here to-morrow; but the hotel had been full, so he had "rushed it" to Algeciras. These details proved that his was the motor we had been chasing from the first; and the excellent Spanish which the Californian spoke to the porters accounted for one misleading bit of information.

While the party of care-free tourists went indoors, d.i.c.k and I stood in our coats of dust to discuss the situation. We soon agreed that there was but one thing to do. Wire Colonel O'Donnel for news of Carmona's movements, and wait where we were for an answer.

To none save those who count every moment precious could such a delay have been irksome. The place was a paradise, the garden a corner of Eden, and the Reina Cristina more like the country house of some Spanish millionaire than a hotel.

Leaving the Gloria, we went in to write a telegram; and in a court, charming as the _patio_ of a Moorish palace, we sat to plan out a message.

The people of the hotel confirmed our fears that no answer could come from Seville till morning; so d.i.c.k busied himself in choosing rooms, while, to save time, I took the car by the sea road to the telegraph-office in town.

How many miles up and down those flower-bordered paths d.i.c.k and I walked next morning waiting for news, neither could have told. Eleven o'clock had struck when Colonel O'Donnel's answer was brought to me in the garden.

"On receipt of wire, interviewed verger," I read. "Made him confess to accepting large sum from agent of C-- to send you on wrong track. Making inquiries and hope let you know in few hours whether C-- really gone; if so, which direction. Advise you stop Algeciras till hear from me again. Am sending on luggage there."

"A few hours!" I was beginning to know too well what a few hours could mean in Spain where, to a population of philosophers it mattered nothing if a thing happened to-morrow or the day after.

Gibraltar was empurpled with night and sequined with ten thousand lights when the next telegram arrived-a message which covered two telegraph forms.

"Just learned C-- left to-day for Granada with same party. Took train, and whether shipped automobile not found out. C-- believed to be ill. Friend at club says C-- been heard say knows at Granada man worth twenty physicians, natural bone-setter, herb doctor. Perhaps wishes consult this person. Illness seems mysterious. House of C-- well known at Granada.

Inquire at Washington Irving, where suppose you will stay. Will wire or write to that address."

I should have been off within the hour, but the quickest way of reaching Granada was by Ronda, and there was no road for automobiles. One could walk, one could ride, along a bridle path through gorges unsurpa.s.sed for grandeur; but it was an expedition of two days, whereas if we could curb our impatience until early morning, we would reach Ronda by train in about four hours.

Not being quite mad, we waited, rose at five, and before seven were steaming out of Algeciras, while the great cloud-cataract of the Levanter churned and boiled over Gibraltar. On a truck, travelling by the same train, was my brave Gloria, none the worse for yesterday's wild flight, and ready for another when she could take the road beyond Ronda. I had not ceased yet to wonder at the expedition with which she had been shipped.

d.i.c.k discovered, however, that the manager of the line was a Scotsman, a kind of fairy G.o.dfather for all the region round, which explained the mystery; and his road was wonderful. In a gla.s.s coach, which was an "observation car," we tore through scenery so diversified that it might have been chosen from the finest bits of a whole continent. There were wooded ravines tapestried with pink sweetbrier; there were far hill-towns like flocks of gulls resting on the edge of giddy precipices; there were strange old fortresses; ruined Moorish castles; velvet-green fields with aloe hedges grey as lines of broken slate; dark, n.o.ble gorges sprinkled with mother-o'-pearl flakes of white wild roses, that drifted down the red rock into water green as onyx. There were blossomy bits of Holland and long tracts of Switzerland. Glacier-mills in narrow gorges were like empty niches for colossal statues of saints; pink and white orchards foamed at the feet of ancient look-out towers; black rocks, like huge watch-dogs, seemed to crouch on cushions of wild flowers; and weeping willows fringed the river with silver before it dashed away to do battle among the mountains; acacias showered perfume, and orange groves pushed so near to the train that a hand reached out could have plucked their golden globes.

There were caves and underground rivers, haunted by enchanted Moors; and at last, a brief glimpse of Ronda hanging high against the sky, vanishing like the fabled Garden of Iram, and not to be seen again until the train mounted the cliff by many loops.

Just as we arrived at the end of the journey a thought in my brain seemed to snap like the trigger of a carbine. In my haste to get off by the first morning train I had forgotten to try and find more petrol at Algeciras, although I had not enough left to get the car to Granada.

There was just time to telegraph back to the Reina Cristina and beg some of the young Californian, who had fallen so deeply in love with the place that he intended to stay a week. We had become friendly and he would certainly grant the favour, therefore we might count on travelling that night by acetylene and moonlight. Meanwhile, there was a long day to wait, but I tramped off my restlessness as best I could in exploring every foot of Ronda.

After that one look upward from the train, when Ronda hung before our eyes over a thousand foot gorge, we had at last sneaked in, so to speak, by a back door. If it had not been for that first glimpse, and if we had not read "Miranda of the Balcony" we should not have guessed, in walking from the station to the Alameda, that Ronda differed from other Moorish towns.

But far away was a barrier of iron railing, and a curious effect as if beyond it everything ended except the sky. We walked on, reached that railing, and leaned over.

No picture, no book had been able to give us a real idea of Ronda. It was stupendous-wonderful. We stared down at the world beneath as if we hung in a balloon, for the rock fell away from our feet, a sheer precipice; and men working in the valley below were like tiny crabs. The Moorish mills were white, broken hour-gla.s.ses, shaking out a stream of silver; geese on the river were floating bread-crumbs; a string of donkeys crawling up the steep Moorish road were invisible under their packs, which looked like mushrooms with moving stems.

The noise of the river floated up to us with a m.u.f.fled roar, and across the deep valley its water had cut, tumbled a wild mountain-land, crossed here and there by white threads of road which clung to the sky-line and disappeared.

"Great Scott, if this eagle's nest doesn't take the cake!" exclaimed d.i.c.k, always modern. "If there were any more to take, it could have that, too.

Hurrah for you, rock and river. You're sublime."

But we had not seen all, by hanging over that iron railing, nor nearly all. There was the palace of the Moorish King, and the terrible steps cut by Christian captives. There was the bridge swung over the gorge; and the far-famed "window" of rock, one of the wonders of the world. There was the old Roman amphitheatre, turned into a bull-ring; the town wall, which Hercules helped to build; the Roman gate, and the Moorish gate, and the house where Miranda lived; and a hundred other things to be found by mounting steep hills or sliding down wild precipices.