The Car of Destiny
could but think that gnomes stole out at night from holes under the hills,
to till the land for absentee owners; for the illimitable fields were
cultivated down to the last inch. We shared a queer impression that we had
strayed into a country which no human eye had seen for centuries; but when
we crossed the broad Douro running to the Bay of Biscay and Oporto, and
steered the car jerkily through the ragged village of Mojales, at an
abrupt turn of the road we were in a different world—a desert of stones.
Prehistoric giants had played with dolmens and cyclopean boulders, and
left their toys scattered in confusion. Stonehenge might have been copied
from one of their strange structures; and they had given later races a
rough idea of forts and cities. Giant children had fashioned stone
elephants, heads of warriors, dogs sitting on their haunches, granite
drinking cups, and misshapen baskets, all of astonishing size. Or was it
water, slow as the mills of the gods, and as sure, which had wrought all
these fantastic designs, and piled these tremendous blocks one upon
another?
A high stone bridge spanned a rocky ravine carved by that slow power in a
few leisure millions of years; and there, sheltered from the wind, would
have been an ideal place for motorists to picnic. But the Duke did not
picnic, therefore we must not. Following hard upon his heels we went on,
up and up into the mountain world, still in the playground of vanished
giants, winding along a road as wild as the way to Montenegro. Rising at
regular intervals before us, on either side stood tall stone columns,
sentinel-like, placed in pairs to guide wayfarers through white drifts in
time of winter storms. The country was wooded, and began to have the air
of a private park, though the heights were close above us now, and our
road ascended steadily. From the scenery of Montenegro we came plump into
the Black Forest; and Baden-Baden might have lain in the valley below
these pointed mountains clothed in mourning pines.
Squish! The brown slush of melted snow gushed out in fountains as our fat
tyres ploughed through, and on either hand it lay unbroken in virgin
purity beneath the pines. Half a mile higher, and even the traffic of
heavy ox-carts and the sun’s fierce fire had had no power to break the
marble pavement. It was shattered and chipped, and carved into deep ruts
by wooden wheels; but there were no muddy veins of brown. Ten minutes
more, and our engine began to labour. Then, before there was time to count
the moments, we were in snow to our axles.
The motor’s heart beat hard, but with a sturdy, dependable noise which
comforted Pilar, who was half laughing, half frightened, at this her first
adventure. At any instant now we might come upon the Lecomte held in the
snow-trap which threatened to catch us.
Ropes kept the car in the wide ruts made by ox-carts, but even with his
good driving we swayed to right and left, leaving the rough track and
ploughing into drifts dangerously near the precipice edge, or skidding as
if we skated on polished ice, failing to grip the frozen surface.
Now was the time to relieve the willing engine. Dick and I sprang out, and
Colonel O’Donnel followed, though we would have persuaded him to keep his
place. Only Pilar was left in the car, with Ropes driving, while we three
men, knee deep in snow, set our shoulders to help the Gloria as she made
the supreme effort. Pushing, and slipping at every step, our blood (which
had run sluggishly with cold) racing through our veins, we were putting on
a great spurt of united force, when gallantly rounding a bend we all but
rammed the back of Carmona’s car.
There it was, stuck in a drift like a frozen wave; and there was Carmona
himself up to his knees in diamond dust, gloomily superintending his
chauffeur who packed snow into the radiator to cool the overheated motor.
All the extra power of the Lecomte gave no advantage over the Gloria here.
Fate had set the stage for us, and we must obey the cue. No ingenuity of
Pilar’s could hide us in the wings any longer, and we must play our parts
as Destiny prompted.
Only one thing was clear. Carmona could have had no idea until now that
the O’Donnels (with that young soldier so like the Forbidden Man) were
travelling in the red car whence he had already plucked a suspected
passenger. The coincidence would seem strange to him; and if he were sure
enough of his ground to risk another error, he would probably denounce me
to the police in the next big town. Disguising my outcast self as an
officer in a Spanish regiment would not be a point in my favour; but—he
could do nothing now. Monica was here, and the moment was mine.
There was a savage joy in the situation, born of exaltation, of the high
altitude, and of uncertainty as to what might come next.
“Shall you keep out of the way?” asked Dick; for we were still screened
from Carmona’s sight by our own car, which Ropes had stopped with a
grinding of the brake; and Pilar’s face was veiled.
“Not I. I’m going to have some fun,” I answered. “It must come sooner or
later, better sooner, or what’s the good of playing Cristobal O’Donnel?”
With that, I appeared from behind the car, and the others were following,
while Pilar leaned out in anxious expectancy.
“How do you do?” said I, in Andaluz as lazy as the other Cristóbal could
have used. I took off my cap to the ladies, and so did Dick and the
Cherub, exposing heated foreheads, damp from honest toil. “Sorry to find
you in such a difficulty. But we’ll soon get you out of that, won’t we,
Señor Waring? Here are three of us with stout shoulders and willing
hearts.”
“Four, counting my chauffeur,” said Dick in English, playing up to my
lead, since there was no stopping me now. “We’re delighted to do anything
we can.”
Carmona glared as an animal glares when it is at bay; only, an animal can
attack his enemies, and he could not attack us; for he was not sure
whether we were enemies or no, and whether he would not be making a fool
of himself if he let us know what passed in his brain.
It was evident that he thought very hard for a moment, and was of two
minds as to what he had better do. But suddenly the baited look vanished
from his face, as a shadow is chased away by the sun, and I guessed that a
course of action had occurred to him with which he was well satisfied.
This seemed ominous for me, and I would have given something to read his
thoughts.
He answered our “How do you do?” with great cordiality—for him; said that
he had been taken by surprise, at first, as he had no idea the motoring
tour of which Señorita Pilar spoke would begin so soon, or bring us upon
his track. It was a good thing for him, however, that we were here, and
not only was he pleased to see us for our own sakes, but would be glad to
accept our kind offer.
Meanwhile Pilar had pushed up her veil, and she and Monica were exchanging
greetings. As for Lady Vale-Avon, her veil was up, too, and her lorgnettes
at her eyes. I did not doubt that she and the Duke had compared
impressions concerning our family party, after the episode at Burgos,
impressions startlingly confirmed now, and Carmona’s cordiality in such
circumstances must have puzzled her. As to the Duchess, her large face was
hidden behind a thick screen of lead-coloured tissue, and I could judge
nothing of her feelings.
When Monica heard the proposal for propelling the grey car through the
drifts, she had the door open in an instant, and would have been out in
the deep snow, if we had not stopped her.
“You must all stay where you are,” said Carmona hurriedly, fearing,
perhaps, that some opportunity for a word would be snatched in spite of
him, if I were really Casa Triana. “The weight of three women makes no
difference whatever; isn’t that true, señor?” and he turned to Dick, who,
according to our story, was the owner of the red automobile as well as the
host of the party.
Of course Dick agreed, and so did we all, that the ladies were not on any
account to get out. The Duke’s chauffeur jumped into his place again, and,
with a twist of the starting handle, the tired motor quivered to its iron
entrails. There was a sudden awaking of carburetor, pistons,
sparking-plugs, valves, trembler, each part which had been resting after
the long pull, striving to obey its master. With a sighing scream of the
gearing, the car stumbled forward and up, our united force pressed into
service. Staggering, plunging, pushing, we gave all the help we could, and
for a few minutes it seemed that with our aid the motor would claw its way
to the highest point.
Our hearts drummed in our breasts, and sent the hot blood jumping to our
heads as if in sympathy with the mighty struggle of the engine. But the
Lecomte’s forty horses, and the strength and goodwill of five men—counting
Carmona, who did as little work as he could—were not enough. The wheels
sank to the axles, whizzing round in the snow without propelling the car;
with the motor unable to do its part, we men alone could not do all. The
automobile would not budge for all our pushing; and, seeing that labour
was lost, we stopped to breathe and raise our eyebrows questioningly at
one another. Carmona, alarmed at finding that his chestnuts could not be
pulled out of the fire by any cat’s-paws at his service, wondered audibly
what he ought to do.
“Someone who came to Valladolid last night was hauled through the drifts
by oxen,” said I. And even as I spoke, like a ram caught in the bushes
ready for the sacrifice, I spied in the white distance the black
silhouette of an enormous ox.
He was not alone, for a more penetrating glance showed that he had a
yoke-fellow as big and black as himself; and guided by a red-sashed boy in
scarf and shawl they advanced towards us slowly but so surely that I
suspected something more than a coincidence. The great lumbering animals
were like blobs of ink against the snow, and the lithe figure of the boy
made a fine spot of colour as he walked before his beasts, his stick to
their noses as if it were a magnet which they, anchored head to head with
a beam of wood, were compelled to follow.
It flashed into my mind that this youth and his oxen were not wandering
through mountain snow-drifts for nothing. The wolves which howl in these
same wild fastnesses on a winter night scent prey; and so I thought did
the boy, with the trifling substitute of petrol for blood. This youth had
made a good haul (in every sense of the word) by accident yesterday; was
out searching for other hauls to-day, and would be while the snow lasted.
We hailed him. He feigned surprise, and hesitated, as if to enhance his
value. Then, casting down long lashes as he listened to our proposal,
pretended to consider pros and cons. It would be a terrible strain for his
animals to drag such a great weight, but—oh, certainly they would be
_able_ to do it. They were docile and strong. Every day nearly they drew
heavy loads of cut logs over the mountains. For twenty pesetas he would
risk injuring his oxen, but not a _real_ less; and they would drag the
grey car to the top of the pass, that he could promise.
“What extortion!” protested Carmona, who is not famed for generosity,
except when something can be made out of it.
“Oh, he’s too handsome to beat down!” pleaded Monica.
That settled it. To please her he would have given twice twenty pesetas
for half the distance. The boy was engaged without further haggling; the
animals were harnessed to the big Lecomte with rope which the youth
“happened” to have; and with a thrilling cry of “A-r-r-r-i! O-lah!” he
struck the two black backs with his goad.
“I can’t bear to see it!” Monica cried, covering her eyes, as the great
heads were lowered to adjust the strain, and every muscle in the powerful,