On a bright May morning we set out for a fortnight's sojourn in the western marismas. For the last few miles the route lies through broken woodlands, all wrapt in the glory of the southern spring-time. There is no lack of verdure here at mid-winter—not even the deciduous trees are ever really bare: but in May the whole plant-world is fresh-clad in brightest garb and beauty—it is worth staying a moment to examine such prodigal luxuriance. Before us, for example, is a grove of stone-pines, embedded to their centres amidst dark green thicket; through the massed foliage of lentiscus and briar shoots up a forest of waving bamboos, tall almost and straight as the pines themselves; the foreground filled with the delicate mauve of rosemary, with giant heather and heaths of a dozen hues, all wrestling for space, with clumps of pampas-grass and palmetto, genista, butcher's-broom, and wild fennel. Here a mass of abolága, or Spanish gorse, ablaze with golden bloom; an arbutus blanched with waxen blossoms, or the glossy foliage of mimosa; there the sombre tones of the ilex are relieved by the pale emerald of a wild vine entwined upon the trunk. Even the stretches of grey gum-cistus have become almost gaudy with their pink, white, and pale yellow flowers. The air breathes of vernal perfumes, and the infinite chorus of spring bird-notes—the soft refrain of Goldfinch and Serin, Nightingale, Hypolais polyglotta, Orphean and other warblers, the dual note of Hoopoe, and flute-like carol of Golden Orioles, mingled with the harsher cries of Woodchat and Bee-eater, and on all sides the 'voice of the Turtle was heard in the land.'
The sun was high in the heavens ere we cleared the fragrant pinales; yet in the last rushy glade we rode suddenly into a herd of wild pig; females with their half-grown young—probably the exigencies of the season explained their being astir at so unusual an hour. Shortly afterwards the writer almost trod on two boars, deeply slumbering in an isolated thicket—one an old tusker, grizzly with age, and looking almost white as he trotted away across the dunes.
Presently, through a vista of the forest, we sighted the marisma, its muddy expanse to-day blue as the Mediterranean. An animated scene lay before us; the wastes were thronged with bird-life. The horizon glistened with the sheen of Flamingoes in thousands, and the intervening space lay streaked and dotted with flights and flotillas of aquatic fowl. The nearer foreshores, fringed with rush and sedge and dark stretches of tamarisk, were peopled with Storks and Herons, Egrets, Spoonbills, Stilts, Avocets, and other waders. While breakfasting under a spreading pine, we observed commotion among our feathered neighbours—the whole multitude had risen on wing as a single Booted Eagle swept over the scene.
Plate XV. PINTAILED SAND-GROUSE: FEMALE. (Pterocles alchata.) Page 85.
Plate XV. PINTAILED SAND-GROUSE: FEMALE. (Pterocles alchata.) Page 85.
Rambling along the shore, we obtained many beautiful specimens by stalking, including most of those above named, as well as a pair of Marbled Ducks, a wild-cat, and other "sundries." Presently we observed with the glass a score or so of Knots, in full red summer-plumage, busily feeding rather far out. While creeping to them, a Marsh-Harrier rose from some rushes close at hand; I knocked him down and found he was lunching on a Knot. The latter we could not see again—though later in the month they were in thousands—but made out a "bunch" of Greenshanks feeding a little further on, one of which fell to a long shot—an immature bird. Curiously, we found no adults here, though in March they were numerous in some disused salinas beyond Tangier, but no young ones. The adults are distinguishable by their whiter appearance at a distance.
Our course lay across a wide bight of the marisma, which projects into the land. Crossing this, nearly knee-deep in mud and water in many parts, we fell in with three packs of Sand-Grouse (Pterocles alchata). They were excessively wild, flying fast and high, something like teal, anon like plover, and uttering a chorus of harsh croaks. On the open marsh we almost despaired of outmanœuvring them. We stuck to them, however, and, after many failures, obtained some beautiful specimens of both sexes, and well worth the trouble they were; for no bird we have ever seen rivals the Pin-tailed Sand-Grouse for delicacy of pencilling and the harmonious contrasts of infinite colours in its plumage. In the females especially, the spring-plumage is so variegated as to defy description, the patterns, so to speak, being as elaborate as the tints. Briefly, her back is finely reticulated with yellows and browns, blacks and maroons of various shades, all relieved by clean-cut bars of pale blue. Her head is speckled above the black line which passes through the eye; below that, the cheeks and throat are plain buff, and the chest clear bright chestnut, doubly margined with black and with a pale blue band above. In the male the features of the spring-plumage are a black throat, and a line of that colour through the eye. The pale sage-green back is covered with large lemon spots, some of which extend to the scapulars and tertiaries. The eye-circlets and eyelids are bright blue in both sexes, and at all seasons: of their winter-dress and habits we write elsewhere; but no description or sketch of ours can do adequate justice to this gem among birds.
The name of sand-grouse is not appropriate, for they are in no sense grouse, and are never found on sand—always on mud, and when shot their feet and bills are generally covered therewith. There is another and larger species, the Black-bellied Sand-Grouse (Pterocles arenarius), which is not found here, but is very abundant in parts of the upper marisma, towards Seville, and especially in the so-called Isla Menor, where we have shot several when bustard-driving, and found a nest with three long elliptic eggs on May 28th, besides seeing several others found by our men. These birds—in Spanish Corteza—nest on the bare pasturages of the upper marisma, and also on the high central plateaux of Spain, in Castile, La Mancha, &c., a very different region. The Pin-tailed species is known as Ganga, signifying a bargain, in reference to its edible qualities.
STILTS—HOVERING OVERHEAD.
STILTS—HOVERING OVERHEAD.
After heavy rains in April, the mud and water in the marisma were unpleasantly deep for either riding or walking—we had now abandoned the punts; and on the low islands many thousands of eggs had been destroyed by the rising of the water. A great variety of birds were now nesting, Stilts and Avocets being, perhaps, the most conspicuous. We found a few eggs of both on the mud-flats to-day (May 5th), but a few days later they were in thousands. The Stilts make a fairly solid nest of dead black stalks of tamarisk, &c., and lay four richly-marked eggs, all arranged points inwards; the Avocet's eggs are larger and lighter in colour, and these birds seldom have any nest at all, the three eggs merely laid at random on the bare cracked mud, often an inch or two apart. Three is the usual complement.
AVOCETS.
AVOCETS.
A most curious picture do these singular birds present, either while flying past or hovering overhead on quick-beating pinions, with their absurdly long legs extending far behind like dead straws. The Avocet is much the more sprightly and game-like of the two, with his shrill pipe and elegant flight, now rapid and "jerky," now skimming low on the water. But we never tire of watching the quaint actions and postures of the Stilts, troops of which stalk sedately in the shallows close at hand. So extremely long are the legs of this bird that, with their short necks, they cannot reach down to the ground, nor pick anything up therefrom. They are consequently only to be seen feeding in water about knee-deep, for which purpose their peculiar build specially adapts them, picking up seeds, insects and aquatic plants from the surface.[21]
We found many nests of Peewit and Redshank, those of the latter by far the best concealed, always in some thick clump of grass or samphire. Such familiar notes sound strangely incongruous amid the exotic bird-medley around, and the fact of their remaining to nest so far south is an ornithological curiosity. Birds which are at once inhabitants of the extreme north of Europe, and yet capable of enduring the summer-heats of the Andalucian plains, set at nought one's ideas of geographical distribution. As already mentioned, we also found in April the Dunlin nesting on the lower Guadalquivir, and our friend Mr. W. C. Tait has detected the Common Sandpiper remaining to breed on the Lima and Minho in Portugal.
There also lay scattered on the dry mud many clutches of smaller eggs belonging to two other species, the Kentish Plover and Lesser Ring-dotterel. The latter, less common, were only beginning to lay, choosing the drier, gravelly ridges of the islets. The eggs of the Kentish plover we had found as early as April 14th, and in May many were already much incubated. Neither of these make any nest—nothing but a few broken shells—and some eggs were deposited in a hollow scratched in dried cattle-droppings. On these islands were also many nests of the Spanish Short-toed lark (Calandrella bætica, Dresser—a species peculiar to this region), artlessly built of dry grass, and placed in small hollows like a dunlin's, sometimes among thistles, as often on bare ground without covert. We found the first eggs on May 9th. On the larger grassy islands there also breed the Calandra, Crested and Short-toed Larks, with Ortolan, Common and Reed-buntings.
May 8th, 1872.—A remarkable passage of waders occurred to-day: the banks of the Guadalete swarmed with bird-life, some of the oozes crowded with plovers, &c., as thick as they could stand. A mixed bag included whimbrels, grey plovers, ring-dotterel, curlew-sandpiper, sand-grouse, &c. Many of the Grey Plovers were superb specimens in perfect black-and-white plumage, and the Curlew-Sandpipers in richest rufous summer-dress. Unfortunately, the attractions of the Great Bustard, several of which were also in sight, proved irresistible: but I had the satisfaction of riding home that evening with my first bustard slung to the alforjas. The next day, as is often the case, hardly a passage-bird was to be seen, and my bag only contained a pair of Grey Phalaropes, and a female Montagu's Harrier.
GREY PLOVERS—SUMMER-PLUMAGE.
GREY PLOVERS—SUMMER-PLUMAGE.
May 9th, 1883.—The effects of dawn over the vast desolations of the marisma were specially beautiful this morning. Before sunrise the distant peaks of the Serrania de Ronda (seventy miles away) lay flooded in a blood-red light, and looking quite twice their usual height. Half an hour later the mountains sank back in a golden glow, and long before mid-day were invisible through the quivering heat-haze and the atmospheric fantasies of infinite space. Amid a chaotic confusion of mirage-effects, we rode out across the level plain—at first across dry mud-flats, partly carpeted with a dwarf scrub of marsh-plants, in places bare and naked, the sun-scorched surface cracked into rhomboids and parallelograms, and honeycombed with deep cattle-tracks made long ago when the mud was moist and plastic. Then through shallow marsh and stagnant waters, gradually deepening. Here from a rushy patch sprang three yeld hinds from almost underfoot, and splashed off through the shallows, their russet coats gleaming in the morning sunlight. Gradually the water deepened: mucha agua, mucho fango! groaned Felipe; but this morning we intended to reach the very heart of the marisma: and before ten o'clock were cooking our breakfast on a far-away islet whereon never British foot had trod before, and which was literally covered with Avocets' eggs, and many more.
Here, while I was busy selecting, numbering, and preparing some of the most typical clutches, Felipe, whom I had sent to explore another islet close by, came up with five eggs, which he said he thought must be gull's. I saw at a glance he was right, and jumping up, espied among the clamorous crowd of marsh-terns, avocets, stilts, pratincoles, and other birds overhead, a single pair of strangers—small, very long-necked gulls. These I promptly knocked down, and at once recognized as Larus gelastes, one of the rarest of the South European gulls, and of whose breeding-places and habits comparatively little was known. Only a few days before I had received a letter from Mr. Howard Saunders especially enjoining me to keep a strict look-out for "the beautiful pink-breasted, Slender-billed Gull"; we therefore at once commenced a careful investigation of all the islands in sight, never dreaming but that our two gulls and the five eggs were duly related to each other. It was therefore with no small surprise that shortly afterwards I found another gull's nest containing two very different eggs (white ground, spotted with black and brown like those of Sterna cantiaca), from which I also shot a female L. gelastes.[22] This time, however, there was no room for doubt: for the bird while in its death-throes actually laid a third egg in the water—a perfectly coloured and developed specimen, the exact counterpart of the two in the nest. Then, to make assurance doubly sure, I found on skinning the first pair of gulls that the female contained a fourth perfectly developed specimen of this very distinct egg. This of course placed the identity of the eggs of L. gelastes beyond doubt: it was, however, equally certain that the first five eggs (which were dull greenish or stone-colour, faintly spotted with brown) belonged to some other species. Accordingly I returned to the first-named islands, and at once perceived two or three pairs of small black-hooded gulls: these had doubtless been overlooked in the morning, mixed up as they were among numbers of gull-billed terns and other birds. They would not allow approach within shot, so I was obliged to risk a long chance with wire-cartridge. The bird was "feathered," but escaped at the moment. Two days afterwards, however, on a second visit, I found it lying dead, and recognized it by the jet-black hood and strong bill as Larus melanocephalus, another of the rarer gulls, and presumably the owner of one of the first two nests. Those of the slender-billed gull, it should be added, were composed of yellow flags, the nests of L. melanocephalus of black tamarisk-stalks and other dark materials. To obtain in a single morning the nests of two of the rarest of European breeding birds was a measure of luck that rarely falls to the lot of an ornithologist: though the discovery, made a few hours later, of the breeding quarters of the flamingoes, appears to carry more ornithological kudos—quantum valeat.
May 11th.—The Pratincoles are now beginning to lay—one or two eggs in each nest: but subsequently we got them in baskets-full. Some of these eggs when freshly-laid have a beautiful purplish gloss. Three is their complement, and they make hardly any nest, merely a few broken chips of shells. We also found to-day, on the marismas of Guadalete, two nests of the Montagu's Harrier, each with five or six eggs, mere outlines of broken twigs arranged on the bare soil, one among low scrub, the other in the corn. The Marsh-Harrier breeds much earlier. We found this year three nests at the end of March—much more solid structures, built of dead flags, &c.: one was in standing corn, another on the ground in a cane-brake, the third on the top of a dense bramble-thicket, fifteen feet high—a very awkward place to get at. Occasionally, where there was much water, we have found the Montagu's Harrier also nesting in brushwood, three or four feet above the ground. In the water beneath are strewn skulls of rabbits, vertebræ of lizards, &c.
IN THE MARISMA—STILTS.
IN THE MARISMA—STILTS.
Later, again, are the Terns: the Whiskered and Black species (Hydrochelidon hybrida and H. nigra) breed in colonies both in the open marisma and on the lagoons of the Coto Doñana, building their nests far out on the lilies and floating water-weeds. All these lay three eggs, those of the Whiskered Tern mostly greenish with black spots, a few olive-brown. The eggs of the Black Tern are much smaller, and of a rich liver-brown, heavily blotched with black. The larger Gull-billed Tern (Sterna anglica) breeds only on the islets of the marisma. I obtained their eggs, and those of the Lesser Tern (S. minuta) on my first visit on the 23rd of May.
These islands which we have just described lay some six or eight miles from the low shores of the marisma, and at that distance no land whatever was in sight. The coup d'œil therefrom presented an extraordinary scene of desolation. The only relief from the monotony of endless wastes of water were the birds. A shrieking, clamouring crowd hung overhead, while only a few yards away the surface was dotted with troops of stilts sedately stalking about, knee-deep—in no other situation do their long legs permit them to feed. Further away large flights of smaller waders flashed—now white, now dark,—in the sunlight. Most of these were ring-dotterels, dunlins, and curlew-sandpiper, the two latter in full summer-plumage. A marsh-harrier, oologically inclined, was being bullied and chased by a score of peewits: and now and then a little string of ducks high overhead would still remind one of winter. Beyond all these, the strange forms of hundreds of flamingoes met one's eye in every direction—some in groups or in dense masses, others with rigidly outstretched necks and legs flying in short strings, or larger flights "glinting" in the sunshine like a pink cloud. Many pairs of old red birds were observed to be accompanied by a single white (immature) one. But the most extraordinary effect was produced by the more distant herds, the immense numbers of which formed an almost unbroken white horizon—a thin white line separating sea and sky round a great part of the circle.
But this chapter is long enough, and we must reserve for another the rest of our experiences among the flamingoes.
An incident occurred during our exploration of the marismas in the spring of 1883 which illustrates the desolate and unknown character of these wildernesses, and also brought to light a curious fact in natural history. Far away on the level plain I noticed two large animals evidently watching me. They were certainly not deer, which in spring often wander out into the marisma, but never so far as to where I then was. They stood too high on their legs for deer, and had a much greater lateral width as they stood facing me—their contour, in fact, somewhat resembled a couple of the long-stemmed, conical-topped, stone-pines, which are so characteristic of the adjoining woodlands. But there was something in their appearance even at the distance that prompted an attempt to reach closer quarters—there was a distinct game-look about them. I changed my cartridge for ball, and attempted an approach with all available caution, lying flat in the saddle and advancing obliquely by long "tacks," besides using the patero's, or native duck-shooter's, device of stopping at intervals to give the horse an appearance of grazing. But it was no use: while still a quarter of a mile away, the strangers simultaneously wheeled about and made off with shambling gait. Then for the first time, when their broad-sides were exposed to view, I saw that they were two camels, one much larger than the other.[23] Probably no one who reads this will be more surprised than was the writer at the apparition of the long-legged, long-necked, hump-backed pair; but there was no room for mistake, for a camel is like nothing else in creation.
Plate XVI. THE SPANISH WILD CAMELS—OUR FIRST SIGHT OF A PAIR IN THE MARISMA. Page 94.
Plate XVI. THE SPANISH WILD CAMELS—OUR FIRST SIGHT OF A PAIR IN THE MARISMA. Page 94.
The camels appeared to have no great pace, and for some distance I pursued them, but it was hopeless. Between us lay an arroyo, one of those wide stagnant channels that in spring intersect the dry parts of the marisma in all directions; and before getting clear of this, splashing through some hundred yards of mud and water, the bactrians were far away, scudding across a dead-level plain that extended to the horizon.
I had heard on my first visit to this wilderness (in 1872) of the existence of camels therein, and that they had lived there wild for forty years or more, but was as incredulous as perhaps some of our present readers may be, and as some certainly were when I first mentioned the fact in the Ibis, in January, 1884, though then corroborated by Mr. Howard Saunders, one of the joint-editors, in the following foot-note:—"I saw a small herd of these feral camels in the Coto de Doñana, on the 3rd of May, 1868; but, finding that my statement as to the breeding of the crane in that neighbourhood was received with much incredulity, I kept the apparition of the camels to myself. I possessed the eggs of the crane to convince the sceptics, but I could not have produced a camel." Shortly afterwards the statement was somewhat contemptuously criticized by an anonymous writer in The Field, who claimed to be himself acquainted with the marismas, and ridiculed the idea of camels existing there in a wild state. "The startling statement," wrote Inhlwati, "as to the existence of wild camels in the neighbourhood of Seville or Lebrija has taken me and my friends who know that country well by utter surprise; and that camels should have been roaming about there and breeding, so to speak, as perfectly wild animals in a state of nature, seems to us utterly incredible.
"The marismas in the summer time are covered with cattle, and of course they are accompanied everywhere by their herdsmen; and, so to speak, every foot of open ground is more or less under daily inspection. And, as the camel is a grazing animal, it would naturally be found in the more open parts of these marismas or marshes, where they could hardly have avoided detection and, as a certain consequence, capture or death for so long a period as you mention.
"So valuable an animal would be such a prize to the poor Spanish peasants, that they would turn out to a man to obtain it; and there are, besides, too many English sportsmen at Seville and Jerez to allow the chance of so novel a chase to slip through their hands unnoticed.
"I may mention that a company is in existence for the drainage and better utilization of these marismas of Lebrija, and I can hardly imagine that such animals as camels could have escaped the notice of their surveyors and staff during their detailed surveys of the district.
"I may add, that my friend, the Belgian Consul at Seville, happens to be with me now, and quite agrees with what I have said. It would be very interesting if you could obtain any further news about these strange wanderers."
To this the following foot-note was appended by the Editor of The Field:—"It is somewhat strange that our correspondent should ask for further information respecting animals whose existence he regards as 'utterly incredible.' But the statement has not been made that there are wild camels anywhere near Seville. The districts explored by Mr. Abel Chapman are far removed from human habitation, and are not those in which herds of domestic cattle are ever seen. The fact that Mr. Chapman described for the first time the singular nests of the flamingo, which exists there in colonies, that have never before been figured [see next chapter], proves that neither Inhlwati nor his friend can know the country well, and that 'every foot of ground' cannot possibly, as he states, 'be open to daily inspection.' The fact that the camels have been observed on different occasions by two well-known naturalists—men trained to the close and accurate observation of animals, who both give their names—should have entitled their remarks to a different reception."
We have inserted the above extracts in full partly because they are a good example of the reckless way some people are prone to rush into print, and who, because they may have some acquaintance with a subject, think they are thereby entitled to speak as with complete knowledge. The marismas of Lebrija are, as a matter of fact, many miles away on the other side of the Guadalquivir.
No doubt it is a "startling statement" that wild camels are roaming at large in Europe, or anywhere else—it would hardly seem more incredible if a herd of hippopotami were reported in the Upper Thames. The camel has never within historic times been known to exist in a wild state: it has always been the servant of man, a beast of burden and domesticity.[24] More than this, a certain physical disability or cause has been alleged to exist, which, if correct, would render their permanent continuance, in a natural state, an impossibility. Nor could any region be well conceived so ill-adapted—indeed repulsive—to the known habits and requirements of an animal always associated with arid sandy deserts, as the Spanish marismas, which, always marshy, are subject to actual inundation during six months out of the twelve.
The discussion had, at any rate, the merit of evoking the following additional information respecting the Spanish camels, their introduction and habits. First I will quote a letter from my co-author, dated from the Coto Doñana, March 1st. "Dear Chapman,—Your letter has reached me here, where we are shooting deer for the last time this season. I am glad I happened to be on the spot, having an opportunity of asking the guardas and others for the facts respecting the camels, which I hope will be sufficient to convince the sceptics of their existence here and of the truth of your observation, which I am surprised to hear has been called in question.
"The camels were brought here first from the Canary Isles by Domingo Castellanos, Administrador to the Marques de Villa Franca, in 1829, he intending to make use of them in the Coto for transporting timber, charcoal, &c. The descendants of this Domingo, the two brothers Barrera of Almonte, now own the fifty or sixty animals which make the marisma lying between the Coto proper and the Guadalquivir their feeding-ground. They seldom appear on the wooded parts, remaining winter and summer in the marisma, moving with the greatest ease in winter through the mud and water, from one island to another, occasionally coming to the woods to pasture on the tops of the young pines.
"You know, from your flamingo experiences, how vast a waste is comprised between the borders of the Coto and the river (Guadalquivir) which accounts for the camels being seldom seen except by herdsmen and others (Mr. Abel Chapman, to wit) whose business may take them out into the watery wilderness. Manuel Ruiz, conocedor of the Villa-Vilviestre herd,[25] now tells me that at about three-quarters of a league from the Cerro-Trigo he saw yesterday three females with their young, which he judged to be about twenty days old.
"I can send you any further particulars required, and if the unbelievers will not swallow your camel, we must do what Mr. Saunders did with the doubted specimen [of the crane's egg], and bring before them a Spanish-born camel, hump and all. Nothing is easier. Sport pretty good so far—five stags, four pigs, two lynxes."
We are also kindly privileged to quote the following statement of Lord Lilford's personal observation of the wild camels:—"I was not aware till I saw Saunders' note at the end of your paper and read the subsequent correspondence in The Field, that any one doubted the existence of camels in a virtually wild state in the marisma. I once saw four or five of them together at a vast distance, and, in 1872, came across their 'spoor' several times when exploring the marismas of the Coto. Their existence is perfectly well known to many people at San Lucar, and, no doubt, also at Jerez. I heard of them first in 1856.... What Mr. Buck says of the habits of the camel is, as far as I can remember, pretty much what I heard from several of the guardas of the Coto in 1872.... My son reminds me of what I had quite forgotten, viz., that he and our doctor saw some camels in the marisma somewhere on the proper right of the western branch of the Guadalquivir last May (1888), when I was confined to my ship by an attack of gout in the right hand."
Plate XVII. WILD CAMELS—THROUGH THE BINOCULARS Page 98.
Plate XVII. WILD CAMELS—THROUGH THE BINOCULARS Page 98.
Lastly, we quote the following from a "Catalogue of the Mammalia of Andalucia," by Don Antonio Machado y Nuñez, published at Seville in 1869:—"The first camels, which were introduced with the object of breeding them, came from the Canary Islands, and in a few years became a herd of about eighty. In 1833, a few years after introduction, they were used as beasts of burden and transport in the province of Cadiz, employed in the carriage of materials used in making the high road from Port St. Mary to San Lucar de Barrameda (more than thirty years ago), and also in conveyances to Arcos, Jerez, Chichlana, and other towns. But some untoward accidents on the roads through horses being frightened at the sight of such strange animals,[26] and the necessity of separating them from horses in the yards, combined with other matters easy to remedy, caused them to fall into disuse as beasts of burden and carriage, and thus the economy and advantages obtained by their introduction were lost. They were then used for agricultural purposes, and some lands which Don Rafael de Barrera holds are at this time (1869) cultivated by the aid of camels, which are used for ploughing and other agricultural work."
At the present time the descendants of these camels live and nourish in the marismas in a wholly wild state, and since the sequestration of the Messrs. Barrera are practically ownerless.
We have fallen in with them on several subsequent occasions. On January 6th, 1888, we descried a herd of nineteen, of various sizes, all dreamily ruminating, knee-deep in the marisma, each form reflected in the still water beneath. Our whole shooting-party (including seven or eight Englishmen) enjoyed the sight, the herd remaining in view during the half-hour we spent at lunch on the edge of the marisma. With powerful field-glasses we brought the camels close up, and watched them putting their heads down as though grazing on the grasses beneath the surface. Presently they moved on to a rushy islet some three miles from the shore: hard by stood a rosy troop of flamingoes, and the intervening waters were dotted with numberless fleets of ducks and geese. It was a unique spectacle, one that could hardly be matched outside this out-of-the-world corner of Europe.
In 1890, and again several times in the spring of 1891, we fell in with camels. On March 5th we rode within 500 yards of eight, two of which were about the size of sheep. In appearance they are very shaggy beasts, and vary much in colour, some being of a light tawny hue, while others are very dark brown, but all seem grey about the neck.
On one of these occasions a curious incident occurred. It was in December, 1890—an intensely cold and dry season, almost unprecedented in Spain for the severity of the frost—when, in mid-marisma, leagues from water or covert, and specially on the look-out for camels, a keen eye detected in the far distance a roving fox. All dismounted, and letting the horses graze, hid behind them and awaited his approach. Then, with only a single podenco, or hunting-dog, Frascuelo by name, and after a straight-away chase of five or six miles at top-speed over a sun-dried plain, bare and level as a billiard-table, we fairly rode bold Reynard down, and killed him.
As evidence of the "staying powers" of the camel, our friend Antonio Trujillo tells us that some years ago he came on one stuck in a bog. For six days he was unable to reach the spot, and daily watched the poor beast helplessly floundering. On the seventh day he found it possible to assist the camel to escape. All around within reach of the poor creature's mouth, he found that the very earth was eaten away. Yet when helped to regain firm ground, the camel walked quietly away, apparently but little the worse, and was soon browsing heartily on the tops of some young pine-trees.
It is, perhaps, worth adding, in reference to the antipathy shown by horses towards camels, that when during the night bands of the latter have occasionally strayed from the marismas to the vicinity of our shooting-lodge of Doñana, at once a commotion has broken out in the stables, though placed in an enclosed square. All at once the horses have begun shrieking, kicking, and displaying every sign of fear, which could only be explained by their detecting the effluvia of some passing camels.
Though Flamingoes are found in many of the countries bordering on the Mediterranean, and their rosy battalions are familiar to Eastern travellers through Egypt and the Suez Canal, yet their mode of nesting, and especially the manner in which birds of so singular a form could dispose of their extremely long legs while incubating, has remained an unsettled question. Till within the last decade, in default of more recent observations, sundry ancient fables have passed current. Dampier described the nests of flamingoes seen by him two hundred years ago—in September, 1683—on one of the Cape de Verde Islands, as being high conical mounds of mud upon which the female sat astride ("Voyages," i., pp. 70, 71); and for two centuries this cavalier position has been accepted as history, no further observations having been made, though flamingoes have nested irregularly in various parts of Europe—even in France (in the marshy Camargue, the delta of the Rhone), and in Southern Spain.
In the latter country several efforts have been made by naturalists to obtain more precise knowledge of the breeding habits of the flamingo, especially by Lord Lilford and Mr. Howard Saunders, but, from various causes, without definite results. "The heat on those plains in June, when the flamingoes are said to nest," wrote the latter, "is something tropical, and it is no joke to wander for days over a district as large as our 'Eastern Counties,' on the chance of stumbling upon a colony of flamingoes somewhere or other." The element of chance, however, is a potent factor, and it eventually fell to the writer's lot to discover that for which other and better naturalists had sought in vain. The following is a narrative of our explorations in the marisma in the spring of 1883:—
The first encounter with flamingoes that year had a somewhat ludicrous result: after riding all day across the wastes, we had arrived towards sunset within sight of our quarters for the night, when a herd of these birds was observed feeding in a reed-girt creek. They seemed unusually favourably placed for a stalk—for these wary fowl seldom approach within shot of the slightest covert; but on reaching the outermost rushes, the pack was seen to be at a hopeless range, and rose immediately on my appearance. To my surprise, a "treble A" wire-cartridge nevertheless dropped four—three falling direct to the shot, and a fourth "towering" and falling dead a little further out. One tall fellow was only winged, and seeing that he was walking right away from me, and getting into deeper water, Felipe took my horse and rode round to cut him out. Meanwhile the short twilight was over, and darkness overtook us some distance out in the dreary marisma. In the gloom I mistook the bearings, and only, after splashing about for a time that seemed eternal, managed to reach the shore, laden with three huge birds, wet through, hungry, and hopelessly lost. For a mile or two I struggled on through thorn and tangled brushwood, till at last, coming suddenly upon a herd of sleeping beasts—bulls, for all I could tell—I gave it up, and decided to weather out the night in the jungle, with the sand for a couch, and a flamingo for a pillow. Great was the relief, about midnight, to hear a distant shot; I responded with a fusillade, and shortly afterwards B——, with Felipe, and Trujillo's mighty frame loomed through the darkness, and the duress was at an end.
FLAMINGOES ON FEED.
FLAMINGOES ON FEED.
During the month of April we searched the marisma systematically for the breeding-places of the flamingoes: but though we explored a large area, riding many leagues in all directions from our base through mud and water, varying from a few inches to three or even four feet in depth, yet we could see, at this season, no sign of nests. Flamingoes there were in plenty, together with ducks, divers, waders, and many kinds of aquatic birds already described: but the water was still too deep—the mud-flats and new-born islets not sufficiently dried for purposes of nidification, and as far as we could see the only species which had actually commenced to lay were the purple herons, coots, Kentish plovers, peewits, and some others.
Of the flamingoes themselves we secured several more lovely specimens; during two mornings devoted to shooting them, we bagged eight, six adults in rich rosy plumage, and two immature. Flamingoes are always shy and watchful birds, and their great height gives them a commanding view of threatening dangers: but there are degrees in intensity of wildness, and despite the unquestionable difficulty of flamingo-shooting, we would certainly not place these long-necked birds in the first rank among impracticable wild-fowl. Wild geese, for example, many of the duck-tribe, and nearly all the larger raptores far exceed them in incessant vigilance and downright astuteness. Flamingoes, however, will not, as a rule, permit of approach by the ordinary Spanish method of the stalking-horse, or cabresto: while the treacherous pony is still two gunshots away, the warning croak of the sentries is given, and at once the whole herd start to walk away, opening out their ranks as they move off. The method we found most effective to secure them was by partially surrounding a herd with a line of mounted men, who rode far out beyond them and then drove them over our two guns, each concealed behind his horse and crouching knee-deep in water. Of all the dirty work that wild-fowling in its many forms necessitates, this flamingo-driving takes the palm. It is mud-larking pure and simple, man, horse, and gun alike encased in a clinging argillaceous covering like the street-Arab amphibians below London Bridge.
It is a fine sight to see a big flight of flamingoes, say five hundred, coming well in to the gun—entrando bien á la escopeta! The whole sky is streaked with columns of strange forms, and the still air resounds with the babel of discordant croaks and cries. How wondrously they marshal those long uniform files, bird behind bird without break or confusion, and how precisely do those thousand black wing-points beat in rapid regular unison! Flamingoes are not "hard" birds: their feathers being loose and open, and the extremely long necks a specially vulnerable part, they may be brought down from a considerable height even with small shot. One evening, while collecting specimens of small birds on the open marsh, the writer killed a pretty right-and-left at flamingoes with No 6. Happening to see them on the wing a long way off, I lay down flat among the low samphire-scrub and presently had them (five) right overhead. Both these birds fell stone-dead. On another occasion, many years before, at the Veta Lengua, our four barrels, each loaded with nine treble-nesting slugs, brought down three fine flamingoes from a herd rising at upwards of 180 measured paces. But having obtained specimens, we did not further molest these singular birds.
A RIGHT-AND-LEFT AT FLAMINGOES.
A RIGHT-AND-LEFT AT FLAMINGOES.
Flamingoes were not the sole attraction: the desolate region around abounded with wild life, furred and feathered, and many a pleasant bye-day was put in among the "vermin." One morning we rode out to some distant thickets where a neighbouring herdsman—half peasant, half poacher—complained that a family of lynxes were working havoc among his kids. Our friend, a man of square iron-knit frame, with the eyes and claws of an eagle, rode before us, no less than eleven wire-haired podencos (hunting-dogs) made fast to his saddle-bow by cords of twisted esparto. The first thicket tried held a lynx, which, disturbed by the podencos, bolted at speed right between us and rolled over with a dose of "treble A" about her lugs. From this one small mancha the dogs put out, besides the lynx, several partridge and rabbits, a Montagu's harrier, and a pair of mallards! This lynx was a female, a full-grown and handsome example of Felis pardina, much infested (as are most of the scrub-haunting animals) with ticks, especially about the head: but it was not much more than half the size of an enormous male which we subsequently found. Unluckily, half our pack were then wasting their energies on a big boar, which, after trotting close up to where the writer stood, turned back with a valedictory grunt and disappeared. The rest of the pack had meanwhile driven the lynx to the outside of the thicket, where we had already viewed him and regarded his fate as sealed; when, with sudden fury, the big cat turned on his foes, and scattering the podencos with some tremendous fore-arm blows, made good his escape to the fastnesses of the Algaida de la Pez.
SPANISH LYNX.
SPANISH LYNX.
Some years afterwards the writer killed a magnificent male lynx, one of the largest and most beautifully marked we have ever seen, at this mancha—probably the same beast.
These scrub-clad plains abounded with tall grey foxes (Vulpes melanogaster) and mongoose (Herpestes widdringtoni), with genets, badgers, and wild-cats, of all of which we shot specimens. Three wild-cats we bagged by moonlight, from screens placed to command an open glade where rabbits are wont to pursue nocturnal gambols. Waiting in ambush beneath the star-strewn heavens, in the silent brilliance of the southern night, no sound save the churring of nightjars, or the whistle of stone-curlew, broke the stillness: bats and small owls flicker in uncertain flight against the dark sky, and across the glade rabbits glide like phantoms: presently a larger shadow announces their deadly enemy, the Gato montés. Two of these wild-cats were males, large and powerful brutes, weighing 9½ and 10¼ lbs. respectively, and tinged with warm chestnut colours beneath. The big lynx we could not weigh, being beyond the limit of the spring-balance. He probably reached near half a hundredweight. But we must return to our flamingoes.
During the month of April, as already mentioned, all efforts to discover their breeding-places proved futile. It was clearly too early in the season, and the writer now lost nearly a week through a smart attack of ague, brought on by constant splashing about in comparatively cold water with a fierce sun always beating down on one's head. In May, however, we had better luck. Further to the eastward flamingoes had always been most numerous, and once or twice we observed signs, early in May, that looked like the first rude beginnings of architecture. We have already described the archipelago of islets that lay far towards the eastern shore, and on which we had found the rare gulls, and such a variety of waders and other aquatic birds breeding (p. 93), together with the immense numbers of flamingoes that lined the horizon. We must now return to those bird-islets, to the scene where we broke off at the end of Chapter VII on the afternoon of the 9th of May.
A TOILET IN THE WILDERNESS.
A TOILET IN THE WILDERNESS.
As there stated, the immense aggregations of flamingoes in those middle marismas, surrounded the horizon in an almost unbroken line. But, on examining the different herds narrowly with the binocular, there was an obvious dissimilarity in the appearance of certain groups. One or two in particular seemed so much denser than the others: the narrow white line appeared at least three times as thick, and in the centre looked as if the birds were literally piled upon each other. Felipe suggested that these birds must be at their pajeréra, or breeding-place, and after a long wet ride we found this was so. The water was very deep, the bottom clinging mud: at intervals, for a hundred yards or so, the laboured plunging of the mule was exchanged for an easier, gliding motion—he was swimming. The change was a welcome relief to man and beast: the sensation of sitting a swimming animal is not unpleasant, but it will give some idea of the labours undergone in these aquatic rides in the marismas in May, 1883, if we add that a fine mule, a powerful beast worth £60, succumbed to the effects of the fortnight's work.
On a nearer approach, the cause of the peculiar appearance of the herd from a distance became clearly discernible. Many of the birds were sitting down on a low mud-island. Some were standing upon it: and others again were standing in the water. Thus the different elevations of their bodies formed what had appeared a triple or quadruple line.
On reaching the spot we found a perfect mass of nests. The low, flat, mud plateau was crowded with them as thickly as its space permitted. These nests had little or no height above the flat surface of mud—some were raised an inch or two, a few might be five or six inches in height; but the majority were merely circular bulwarks of mud barely raised above the general level, and having the impression of the bird's legs distinctly marked upon them. The general aspect of the plateau was not unlike a large table covered with plates. In the centre was a deep hole full of muddy water, which, from the gouged appearance of its sides, appeared to be used as a reservoir for nest-making materials.
Scattered all round this main colony were numerous single nests, rising out of the water and evidently built up from the bottom. Here and there two or three of these were joined together—"semi-detached," so to speak: these separate nests stood six or eight inches above water-level, and as the depth was rather over a foot, the total height of the nests would be some two feet or thereabouts, and their width across the hollow top some fifteen inches. None of these nests as yet contained any eggs, and though I returned to the pajaréra on the latest day I was in its neighbourhood (May 11th) they still remained empty. On both occasions many hundreds of flamingoes were sitting on the nests, and on the 11th we had a good view of them at close quarters. Linked arm-in-arm with Felipe, and crouching low on the water to look as little human as possible, we approached within some seventy yards before their sentries showed signs of alarm: and at that distance, with the glass, observed the sitting birds as distinctly as one need wish. The long red legs doubled under their bodies, the knees projecting as far as, or beyond the tail, and their graceful necks neatly curled away among their back-feathers like a sitting swan, with the heads resting on their breasts—all these points were unmistakable. Indeed, as regards the disposition of their legs, it is hardly necessary to point out that in the great majority of cases (the nests being hardly raised above the level of the mud) no other position was possible—to sit astride on a flat surface is out of the question.
FLAMINGOES AND NESTS.
FLAMINGOES AND NESTS.
Still none of the crowded nests contained a single egg. How strange it is that the flamingo, a bird which never seems happy unless half-way up to his knees in water, should so long delay the period of incubation: for, long before eggs could be laid and hatched in these nests and the young reared, the full summer-heats of June and July would have set in, the water would have entirely disappeared, and the flamingoes would be left stranded in the midst of a scorching desert of dry, sun-baked mud.
Being unable myself to return to the marisma, I sent Felipe back there on the 26th of May, when he obtained eggs—long, white and chalky, some specimens extremely rough. Two is the number laid in each nest. In 1872 the writer obtained eggs taken on May 24th, which is therefore, probably, about the average date of laying. Owing to the late period at which incubation takes place, we have not had an opportunity of examining the young flamingoes when newly-hatched, or of endeavouring to solve the biological problems which appear to cluster round their adolescent anatomy. In June and July, 1872, the writer spent some time in the marisma, but unfortunately was not aware, at that time, of the interest attaching to these points.
According to native accounts, very few young flamingoes are ever reared in Spain. Though in wet seasons eggs are laid in thousands (they are sold by boatloads in the neighbouring villages), yet few, if any, of the young Spanish flamingoes reach maturity—possibly by reason of their lateness in nesting, and the rapid changes in the state of the water in the marisma.
In the spring of 1891, after an exceptionally severe winter in Spain, and with comparatively little water in the marisma, flamingoes were remarkably scarce, and we believe that none bred in Andalucia that year.
Since the author's description of the nesting habits of the flamingo first appeared in the Ibis (January, 1884), its accuracy has been corroborated by independent observations made on the West Indian island of Abaco by His Excellency (now Sir) H. H. Blake, when Governor of the Bahamas. The value of the corroboration is enhanced by the fact that the above-named gentleman was unaware at the time he wrote that the long-vexed question had already, three years previously, been solved: and his graphic description in the Nineteenth Century for December, 1887, is, as regards facts, almost identical with the present writer's account of a similar scene narrated in the Ibis for January, 1884.
Plate XVIII. FLAMINGOES ON THEIR NESTS. Page 112.
Plate XVIII. FLAMINGOES ON THEIR NESTS. Page 112.
One other point before we leave the flamingo and its haunts. We have seen it stated that the brilliant colours of the flamingo do but reflect the brilliancy of its environment—that these bright colours have been acquired through the æsthetic tastes of the bird and by "selective preference"; then, proceeding to enlarge on a "fascinating theory," its expounder goes on from particular to general, and to demonstrate that this Darwinian principle is generally operative in ornithic coloration. Whether birds in general have or have not æsthetic tastes in the matter of coloration or ornament, we are not prepared to say: but to our less imaginative minds it is a question whether there exists in nature a shred of real evidence in support of such a hypothesis. The flamingo truly has a brilliant plumage, but never a brilliant environment. No one who has been intimately acquainted with these birds in their haunts could have conceived such a sentiment; for anything less brilliant than the bleak and tawny monotony which characterizes the chosen homes of the flamingo it would be impossible to imagine. The flamingo itself, indeed, is the one solitary speck of pure bright colour amidst the broad leagues of mud and muddy water which it so conspicuously ornaments. Other birds are there, it is true, but to them the same remark applies. They, also, are as bright, pure and conspicuously different from their environment as are the flamingoes. What more exquisite examples of bright, spotless beauty amidst strongly contrasted surroundings than the stilts and avocets, the lovely southern herons, egrets and spoonbills, the gulls and marsh-terns? These are but a handful of examples fatal to such a theory, and they could easily be multiplied indefinitely.
That many brilliant bird-forms affect brilliant surroundings, that the fauna of the cold and colourless north in general lacks the gorgeous hues of certain denizens of the tropics, or, again, that many creatures possess hues assimilated to the general tone of their destined haunts—all these are facts which we readily recognize. But are such facts much more than coincidences? Or is it wise to deduce any binding rules or axiom therefrom? As regards protective assimilation in colour, that is quite a different thing: its advantages are self-evident, and its application more or less universal throughout the animal-world, but it is hardly to the point. Protective coloration we recognize and understand—it is an every-day phenomenon—but æsthetic tastes in colour we utterly reject.
The composition of the human mind is undoubtedly speculative: and to those of deep thought, as distinguished from others the bent of whose energies tends rather towards action, the temptation to theorize—to venture on the dangerous regions of inference and deduction—appears irresistible. The contemplative thinker formulates theories the apparent beauty of which fascinate his imagination. Collateral evidence which seems to substantiate, is, in general, not difficult to find—that of a negative or prejudicial character is not sought. Then with a mind unconsciously biassed in favour of a preconceived idea, it may happen that probabilities are mistaken for facts, evidence for proof: and thus a new hypothesis is duly launched, based on ten, fifty, or a hundred adduced circumstances, the whole of which may be merely coincidences, and exceptions to the rule if applied to the millions of unadduced cases, and perhaps, even in relation to the particular examples cited, of no direct bearing in the sense in which it is sought to apply them.
As an example of the class of theories alluded to, we have read that the colours of the sea-gull tribe are dark above and light below in order, on the one hand, that they may escape the searching scrutiny of the eagle soaring above, and, on the other, avoid alarming their finny prey beneath. If there was anything in this idea, it would, at least, be a hard case for those sea-birds not so coloured, and it should be added that of the birds which are so coloured several species take three or four years to attain adult dress. How do they survive those earlier years? But a very slight acquaintance with the subjects in life shows that there is actually nothing in it. Lying in one's gunning-punt, the whitest-breasted gulls, as viewed from below against the lightest of cloud backgrounds, are seen as clearly as if the bird's colour was actually black. Every detail of form and movement is clearly distinguishable—the clean-cut wings and tail, legs pressed close up under the latter, the pointed head turning from side to side as it searches the waters. Its colour makes no difference, and is no factor at all. Then from high above, from the heights of a sea-cliff, what man of even moderate vision cannot distinguish with equal ease the movements of the black-backed gull from those of the pale herring-gull and paler tern? And both eagles and surface-swimming fish are infinitely keener of vision than the sharpest-eyed of our kind.
These remarks are penned from no love of argument, nor inspired by invidious motive, but simply with a view to get at facts and thereby advance the interests of science: that is, of true knowledge.
The existence of the brigand, it would appear, is desirable in order to cast a glamour of heroism over the adventures of travellers in foreign lands. Many Peninsular tourists mention encounters with "brigands," and according to some books on Spanish travel, their authors were frequently experiencing hair-breadth escapes from these gentry, who were, of course, bristling as to their persons with deadly weapons—as is, in fact, nearly every harmless peasant or goatherd one may meet in the wilds. The tendency to overcolour is, perhaps, natural to imaginative writers; but it is a mistake to rush to the other extreme, and to deny in toto the survival of this fraternity in modern Spain.
In his "Gatherings from Spain"—one of the best books ever written—Ford draws a picture of Spanish brigandage, actual and imaginary, and diagnoses the whole status of these "men of the road," as it existed in his day, with a knowledge and terseness that cannot be excelled. And although Ford wrote fifty years ago, yet his remarks stand substantially correct at the present day; the only change of importance being that measure of reclamation which half a century of equal laws has succeeded in effecting in the prowling gitano or gypsy, in Ford's day a lawless pariah, the curse of rural Spain.
Though nowadays the traveller may, and probably would, traverse Iberia in every direction without personal molestation, yet the race of José Maria, the Jack Sheppard of the Peninsula, whose safe-conduct was more effective than that of his king, is not extinct, though, like other rapacious animals, his home is now confined to mountain-fastnesses, whence he only emerges to seize by a sudden coup some opportunity for plunder, of which his satellites have sent him notice—for, by profuse generosity and terrorism, the ladron en grande holds the sparse hill-peasantry in a bond of allegiance.
Putting on one side the conventional and highly-coloured notions that pass current, the condition of bandolerismo, or brigandage, at the present day may be thus defined:—There is first the noble outlaw, or "professional" robber-king, a rare and meteoric personage, of whom anon; and there are the sneaking petty pilferers who rob as opportunity serves, or as their wild environment almost suggests. These voltigeurs of the road are normally peasants, goatherds, or mere good-for-nothings; content to confine their energies to minor larcenies, and whose poor ambitions soar no higher than relieving solitary wayfarers of their watches, loose cash, &c., as happened to a friend of ours while traversing the sierras between Paterna and Alcalá. Though a fight is no part of these footpads' tactics, yet in favourable situations a single hidden scoundrel may command the way, and dominate a dozen travellers who know not whether that sudden summons to halt and lay down their loose goods and chattels proceeds from one or from a score of assailants, concealed amid the tumbled rocks and dense underwood of a narrow pass. And, after all, it is probably wiser, if caught in such a trap, to lose a few dollars than to risk life.
Very different is the character of the noble robber-chief, or ladron en grande. In this man who leads the lawless, and, by force of predominant will, controls and commands a cut-throat gang, but ill-disposed either to subjection or discipline, there are qualities that, rightly directed, might attain any object sought—qualities of moral force, courage, and an iron will, that one cannot but admire. Men of this calibre appear but at intervals; for "nature is chary in the production of such specimens of dangerous grandeur." Such a man was José Maria; and of late years a fine example has been afforded by the notorious outlaw, Vizco el Borje, of whose methods of procedure the following incident, as narrated to us almost in the words of its principal victim, will serve to give a good idea.
At the little mountain-village of Zahrita it is the custom to celebrate the annual festival of its patron saint, San Antonio, by an amateur bull-fight, a performance at which the smartest of the young bloods of the village take the principal parts. For many years it had been the habit of the owner of the neighbouring pasturages to provide the bulls for this annual function free of charge; and on the eve of the festival the son of the well-to-do proprietor, Don Pedro de M——, was, with his steward Diego, and a herdsman, engaged in selecting some of the most fiery and active young bulls. Both were dismounted, and, rein in hand, were walking round the herd, when they were suddenly arrested by a sharp summons to halt and surrender. Then, turning round, they found themselves face to face with the muzzles of three levelled guns bearing upon them—the three mounted men having stolen up behind and taken them unawares. Resistance under such circumstances was out of the question. The guns of both Pedro and his servant hung in their saddle-slings, but any movement in that direction would have brought instant fire upon them. Before they had well recovered from their surprise, one of the brigands coolly dismounted and took possession of both their guns, the other pair meanwhile each keeping his man well "covered." The unlucky Pedro was now completely at the mercy of his aggressors. At the order of one of these, evidently the chief, the prisoners remounted and followed his lead, the others closing in behind, and precluding all chance of escape, except at the risk—or certainty—of being shot down. The guide took a line leading towards the higher sierra, and avoiding the frequented track. Arrived in a densely close thicket, the cavalcade halted, and one man was sent forward to reconnoitre. A shrill whistle was heard in that direction, and presently nine other horsemen rode in. The captives were now ordered to dismount, their eyes were closely bandaged, and they were informed that their lives depended on implicit obedience to orders, and that it was better for them to see nothing and to hear less—the latter an almost unnecessary injunction, since hardly a word had been spoken. For hours the captives were led forward, their horses stumbling along a rocky ascent, and they presently knew, by the absence of brushwood, that they had reached the higher regions of the sierra; then a halt was ordered, they were assisted to dismount, and led on foot along a passage whose echoing sounds told them it was subterranean. Here, in an extensive cavern, probably the long-abandoned workings of a Roman mine, his eyes were unbandaged, and Pedro found himself in the presence of his three original assailants. The only furniture in the cave consisted of a few empty boxes; on one of these glimmered a flickering wick in a saucerful of oil. The robber-leader drew up another box for a seat, and producing writing materials, ordered Pedro to write to his dictation as follows:—"My dear father, I am in the power of sequestradores, who make good plans and bind fast. It is madness to put Government on their track—they will escape and you will lose your son. Your secrecy and money at once free me. You can send the silver by Diego, our steward, who bears you this. Let him appear on the mountain-road between Grazalema and El Bosque, riding a white donkey, and bringing ten thousand dollars." ... At this point the prisoner, who had so far written as directed, stopped short, and point-blank refused to demand such a sum—declaring he would not take from his brothers any part of their patrimony, and that the only sum he would accept of his father was such as might fall to him as one of a numerous family. The fairness of this, and the undaunted attitude of Pedro, seemed to please the brigand, who declared, with a shake of his hand, that whatever bargain was struck should be honourably adhered to. The sum of 6,000 dollars was then inserted, the missive signed and sealed, and Diego, who had remained blindfold, was led to a point in the sierra which was familiar to him, his eyes unbandaged, and told to make the best of his way with the note to Jerez. This, as the dawn was just breaking, he had no difficulty in doing before night.
After Diego's departure, the chief invited his captive to sup with him and join in a borracha (skin) of wine, under whose influence the bandit became more genial, and related certain facts concerning his personal history. He had formerly been an officer of carabineros, but being dismissed for some, as he held, trifling fault, all means of subsistence were denied to him, and losing caste step by step, there had gradually developed in his breast an intense hatred of all social arrangements, which had finally led to his present state of outlawry. First he had been a smuggler, but, as the Spanish proverb runs,—
| "De contrabandista á ladron |
| No hay mas que un escalon." |
| (From a smuggler to a thief |
| The step is short, the time is brief!) |
Little by little his revolt against law and order led him into further excesses and more outrageous acts of crime. The daring courage and character of the man had attracted rogues of lesser calibre to his side, and now Vizco el Borje was the acknowledged chief of the party of plunder and anarchy.
The following night another party of robbers arrived: the captive was again blindfolded, and the dark journey resumed. For three days and nights the same course was pursued—the brigands each morning at dawn going to ground in a fresh earth. An amusing incident occurred during one of these nocturnal marches. The cavalcade was suddenly brought to a stop, and the words passed down the line—Civiles, civiles! The prisoner now hoped that his deliverance was at hand; the chief ordered his band to close up their ranks—the prisoner being removed some yards to the rear—and to prepare to fire. During the panic, and amidst the clicking of locks, Pedro took the opportunity of slightly raising his bandage. The robbers were halted on a narrow ledge of the mountain-side—a sheer rock-wall behind and a precipitous slope below making any lateral movement impossible. A direct retreat was of course available, but this did not commend itself to the chief, who, under the shadow of the cliff, had the approaching horsemen at a disadvantage. The clatter of hoofs sounded nearer and nearer, and as the first beast appeared on the ledge it was evident there had been a false alarm. The heavily-laden transport of a gang of smugglers advanced along the narrow track, and as they slowly filed past the robber-troop, the only words that passed were Buenas noches! and the reply Vayan ustedes con Dios! Good night, and God go with you!
CIVIL GUARDS.
CIVIL GUARDS.
On the second night Vizco had left his captive, saying he had other work in hand: but, a day or two afterwards, Pedro received a message from him, stating that, owing to the vigilance of the authorities, no opportunity had offered itself of meeting Diego and the white donkey at the appointed tryst: and instructing him again to write to his father, with fresh directions to forward half the stipulated ransom to Grazalema, where means would be found of receiving it—the other half to be borne by the white donkey to a freshly-appointed spot among the hills. Overjoyed at receiving this second assurance that his son still lived, the father, though an old man, set off at once, with six hundred pounds in cash, on the long ride to Grazalema. Then for two days he hung about its precipitous streets in an agony of suspense almost unendurable. No one spoke to him till the third morning, when a man leading a pony laden with the rough woollen cloth which is made in Grazalema and forms the staple industry of the little town, accosted him as he passed with the words—"Follow me." The pony was stopped before a small shop wherein some of the same woollen cloths were exposed for sale: and passing through into the small back-room, the old father found a man seated whose appearance was that of a cloth-pedlar—men who with their sturdy ponies carry on a trade or barter of these coarse woollens throughout the sierras.
After the customary Andalucian exchange of civilities, the pedlar, looking the old man straight in the face, said, "Have you the three thousand dollars? You know this?" and he produced Pedro's pencil-case. The money was at the posada, and soon the old man, ripping up the stuffing of his saddle, returned to the pedlar's shop with that sum. The money was counted out, and Vizco el Borje, springing on top of that honest-looking freight of coarse cloth, was soon clear of the streets of Grazalema and steering his pony to some well-known mountain-lair.
While these events were occurring in Grazalema poor Diego was wearying of his long-delayed assignation. For three days he and his white donkey hung about the remote spot which had been indicated: and at last, on the third evening, as he was entering the village of Benocaz, a goatherd said, "At the well beyond the village you will find a woman in black who will direct you to those you seek." He passed along the line of white casitas which form the only street of Benocaz, and by the old Moorish draw-well beyond sat a woman in black. As directed by the goatherd, he addressed her, "Que hora es?" and the reply, "Las doce," was what he had been told to expect. The woman at once struck over into the hills till she reached a well-worn track and directed Diego to follow this till accosted by a shepherd. He did as he was bidden and after two hours' rough riding over the dark hill, heard the same words, "Que hora es?" "Las doce," he replied, and was piloted by this new guide to a cavern, in which, to his intense joy, he found his young master, alive and well. The money was at once paid over, and though at first the brigands refused to release their captive on the ground that only half the stipulated sum had been brought, yet suspense did not last long, for during the night a messenger from Vizco arrived, announcing the due payment of the other half, and instructing the robbers at once to set free their prisoners, and to place them on a road which they would know. And on the following evening, after a captivity of fifteen days, Pedro rode once more into the city of Jerez.
Since the above was written Vizco el Borje has died—died as a robber-chieftain should die, by the rifle-ball. Several times, towards the end, his life was only saved by his magnificent pluck and resource. But at last, while campaigning in the Sierra Morena, not far from Córdova, his whereabouts became known to the authorities—presumably through treachery—and after a series of desperate deeds of bravery, the bold brigand was finally surrounded, all retreat cut off, and Vizco el Borje fell with five bullets in his body.
We now give a brief history of a robber of the other type—and, incidentally, of the vagaries of judicial justice in Spain.