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Phantom Regiment; or, Stories of "Ours"

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<h3> CHAPTER XI. THE RATERILLO. </h3> Passing Coria del Rio, a little province and partido, after a twenty miles' ride we halted to dine at Lebrija, which is so famed for its oil of olives, and there we got some prime Xeres, which bore the private mark of the señores Gonzalez and Dubose, the famous wine merchants; and now we enjoyed the hope that our acquaintance Fabrique de Urquija and his "ten thousand hombres" (or whatever their number might be) were sunning themselves on the mountains, and lying in wait for us on the dusty road by Puerto Serrano; and any anxiety we might have felt to reach the coast unmolested began to lessen when we set forth again, while the evening sun was verging towards the western sierras of the province, and pursuing an old and narrow path, so old that perhaps the Christian knights of King Ferdinand might have traversed it to battle with the Emirs of Granada, of Seville, and Cordova, we rode on, amid varied scenery, where luxuriant creepers almost veiled the granite rocks like natural curtains, where large fields of maize surrounded ancient villages left ruined and roofless in the late civil wars, where herds of half wild cattle browsed on the green mountain slope; where the dead man's cross, the wayside chapel, the groves of cork, of olive or orange trees bordered the devious path, and the shattered atalaya that whilome watched the frontiers of Mohammed of Cadiz, towered over all, a landmark to the Guadalquiver. Charmed by the scenery, we allowed the reins to fall on the necks of our horses, and careless as to whether or not we found quarters for the night in an olive wood or in Trohniona, which we were now approaching, and the little spire of which we saw peeping above its bright green groves and tipped with a fiery gleam, we rode on slowly until near a well which flowed into a stone basin, under a rude representation of our Lady of Assistance—a wayside chapel, in fact—a turn of the path brought us suddenly upon two armed Spaniards, who were seated on the sward playing with cards in the twilight, for the time was evening now. One of these, by his gay attire, his embroidered jacket with its silver clasps, his sash of red and yellow stripes and his velvet hat, as well as by the horse which stood near him, well laden with packages, and having a long gun slung at its demipique saddle, I perceived to be a professed smuggler; and on our nearer approach we both recognised our old friend Pedro el Contrabandista, who supplied our mess with cigars, and whose unlucky pursuit by the guarda costa had been the source of so much travelling, turmoil, and inquiry to Slingsby and to myself. There was no mistaking the other as a raterillo—that is, "a little rat," or pickpocket, on whose cloth the regular armed bandit who robs convoys, fights the carabineros, and burns a village occasionally, looks down as the line do on the militia, or as the militia do on the yeomanry. The only weapon of the raterillo is his knife, and perhaps a concealed pistol. Polite almost to servility to the armed man, the raterillo is usually a bully to the peaceable, and to those who are too poor to carry that long musket which is the constant companion of the provincial Spaniard. He doffed his threadbare sombrero and bowed with great humility as we reined up beside them to greet honest Pedro, who received us with a hearty shout of welcome. "Well, amigo mio," said I, "we were not aware that you did business by land as well as by sea." "True, señor, I should have been a woman, for I am never constant to anything; I am glad to meet two noble cavaliers of the garrison travelling here—but why so far from Gibraltar, and without an escort?" "All owing to you, Pedro, my valiant contrabandista, and your troublesome affairs." "Pardon, señor, I do not comprehend." "That devilish shot from the Mole fort." "Oh, yes—ha, ha! it cut in two halves Don Hernan de Lucena, and enabled me to run my little felucca safe into Gibraltar—eh." "Yes, but we had to visit the captain general at Seville, and to explain the affair to him in person. So we are here." "On your way back." "Exactly so." "I owe you a thousand thanks for that little piece of attention from the Mole fort, señores; but for that, I should now, perhaps, have been chained to an oar in the Queen's galleys at Barcelona, for I was as sure of being taken as there is a saint in heaven. Well, señores, we shall sup together to-night at Trohniona—see, yonder is its spire shining like a red star in the sunset; I have my guitar, and shall sing to you the newest seguidilla and some jovial romances about the Granadine Moors, the Castilian Caballeros, or the Carlists, and enchanters; but, meantime, I must finish a game to which I was challenged by this traveller, on whom I shall have, proper revenge, for he has already won from me forty duros; and you the while will do me the favour to accept some of my best cigars." There was no resisting this jolly contrabandista; so, as we had before arranged to halt for the night at Trohniona, we were the better for the companionship of another man, who knew the country, and was doubtless a favourite with the people, and who, moreover, was well armed, stout, and determined. We watched the game between him and the raterillo, who won dollar after dollar with a facility that soon left no doubt whatever in our minds that he was cheating poor Pedro, so Jack and I exchanged frequent glances. "Whose cards are these?" I asked. "The señor travalero's," said Pedro, "and I begin to think he knows the backs better than the fronts of them." The raterillo, whose quick eyes rolled in a restless manner, laughed as he pocketed three other duros of Pedro, who began to lose all patience and to flush, while a dark gleam shot over his eyes; and on detecting in his adversary some real or suspected piece of foul play, he dashed the cards full in his face, crying,— "You are a rogue and a thief—a pitiful little rat, and if you do not yield back every peseta you have won, 'por el nombre de Dios,' I will be at you with my Albacete knife!" "Then the knife be it," retorted the raterillo, crushing his well-worn hat over his eye-brows; "shall we have our feet tied together?" "No, we shall fight it out on the grass, and I will have your black blood and my hard-won dollars together," cried Pedro, who was choking with sudden passion; and quick almost as thought, they confronted each other, their dark faces contorted by ferocity, their eyes flashing fire, their feet planted on the turf, their bodies bent forward ready to spring, and their cuchillos held firmly in the right hand, the thumb being pressed upon the blade in such a manner as to enable them to stab or to cut with equal facility. Several blows had been given and skilfully eluded before Jack and I, who had drawn our swords, could dismount and interfere; but just as we pressed in between them, at the peril of our lives, we heard a cheer like a yell ringing in the hollow, and saw a crowd of armed men rushing down the sloping banks which bordered the road-way. "Ladrones—ladrones—fly, señores!" cried Pedro, as he leaped on his horse and dashed at full speed towards Trohniona, followed by several musket-bullets, while the raterillo vanished in the twilight as if the earth had swallowed him up. In a moment we were surrounded by a crowd of armed banditti—oh, there was no mistaking them!—I was collared and pinioned just as my foot was in the stirrup, and poor Jack Slingsby was knocked off his horse by the butt-end of a long Spanish gun; our swords and revolvers, our watches, rings, purses, and cigar-cases; our horses and valises, all in a moment became the spoil of the Egyptians, and we found ourselves prisoners at the mercy of—Fabrique de Urquija! <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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