The Car of Destiny
here are things from Madrid. It may happen they are new to you. We shall
be pleased if you taste them.”
Then proud, hesitating fingers hesitated no longer, but descended upon
thin slices of ham, shredded and sweetened eggs, cheese, and _mazapan_.
Nobody betrayed eagerness, but faces beamed, especially when the
road-mender, proud of us as if we had been his relations, went round with
our wineskin, cordially bidding every man put it to his lips.
As the company ate and drank, the Cherub circulated among them, and soon
was primed with the abbreviated life-story of each person, though he had
apparently asked no questions. Somehow, it was the first impulse of the
most reserved soul to confide in the Cherub; and when the meal was
finished, and no excuse remained for lingering, the wild birds, tamed by
kindness, flew away regretfully.
“They’ll all have good words to speak for automobilists after this,” said
Pilar.
“Until some ruffian comes tearing along, upsetting their carts and
breaking their illusions,” added Dick.
When we were ready to go on, the road-mender’s wife would not be content
unless Pilar would have a look at the house, which she took, and came back
delighted. “Tiny rooms, but clean as wax,” she reported. “Pictures and
crucifixes and Toledo knives on the snow-white walls, and beautiful bright
copper in the kitchen. I believe I could be happy to live there—with
someone I loved.”
Was the image of Don Cipriano in her mind as she said this? or Dick’s
tanned face and whimsical grey eyes? Or did she think only of an existence
in the society of her father?
“Beware gutters!” was the road-mender’s last word as we spun away; and we
were glad of the warning; for despite careful driving, a few seconds of
inattention might have sent us crashing into and over a deep trough across
the road, half hidden by thick dust. There were many of these gutters,
which might have been put underneath in the form of culverts; but, as the
Cherub remarked, since nobody takes the trouble to complain, in Spain, why
should anyone bother?
There were broken patches, too, where somebody had begun to build a
bridge, and then apparently forgotten all about going on with it; but
luckily there were side tracks made by other pioneers, by which, with
care, one could skirt the great square hole, and land safely on the other
side.
Thus we arrived before a walled town with a Moorish gateway; and, for all
the changes which had come or gone since the days of those who set it up,
the place might have been under a spell of enchantment, a kind of
“sleeping sickness,” for at least five hundred unnoticeable years.
Our maps said that it was Ciudad Real; Colonel O’Donnel added that of all
garrison towns it was the one which young officers hated worst. And while
the car paused with panting motor for a discussion as to the way on, two
dark youths by the roadside interested themselves in our situation. They
had red handkerchiefs twisted round their heads, and the smarter of the
pair wore two sombreros, one over the other—a simple way of carrying his
Sunday hat on week-days; and they looked up from a meal of maize bread and
onions to enter into conversation.
Had our honours any doubt as to the road? If so, and our worships would
deign to mention the destination desired, they might have the happiness of
helping us.
We wanted to go to Manzanares, I replied.
In that case, replied the owner of the two sombreros, there was a short
cut which would be of assistance. Not only would it save us a bad section
of road, but an hour’s time as well. We must not go through the town, but
turn to the left round the wall, nor must we enter the village which we
would soon see, but skirt that also. Presently we would come to fields
planted with olives, and our way would lead through these. We must not be
disheartened if it appeared wild and rough. We should be able to pass, and
in the end would be glad that we had availed ourselves of such advice.
Taking this for granted, I gave each of the lads a peseta, which they
accepted more as their just due than as a favour. To avoid the town, it
seemed that we must steer into chaos, void and formless; but there were
only a few hundred yards of desert. Beyond, we found ourselves in a good
road, which led to the white village we had been told to expect; and
there, as we were already primed with information, we wasted no time in
asking questions. Instead, we plunged into open country, with a vista of
olive trees in the grey-green distance. From fair, the road dwindled to
doubtful; then to a certainty of badness. It narrowed; softened to a
sandbank; hardened into a wilderness of rocks and stones scattered between
deep ruts dug by the wheels of ox-carts. Apparently no other vehicles than
these had ever weathered the terrors of this passage; yet we persevered;
for here were the promised olive trees, so near, indeed, that we lurched
against them as we rocked from side to side. We had been warned whatever
happened not to be discouraged, and we cheered each other bravely, while
our heads bumped the roof. “We shall be out of this presently,” we gasped.
“It will surely be all right soon.”
Meanwhile, however, it was a nightmare; the sort of thing which a
delirious chauffeur might dream and rave of, in a fever; and instead of
improving, the way grew worse.
“Can it be possible those chaps deceived us on purpose?” I jerked out
between chattering teeth, as the car sprang from one three-foot rut into
another, in spite of Ropes’ coaxing.
“I’ll bet it’s a trick of Carmona’s,” gasped Dick, at the risk of biting
his tongue. “I thought that fellow in the two hats looked a fox.”
“I _did_ see them laughing when I glanced round after we passed,” said
Pilar, as jumpily as if she rode a trotting horse. “But I—thought—they
were pleased with the pesetas.”
“I expect they’d got more than we gave, to send us the wrong way,” growled
Dick. “We must have been dreaming not to think of it.”
“We can’t go about suspecting everyone we meet to be in Carmona’s pay,”
said I. “We’d be mistaken as often as right, and then we should feel
small. After all, there isn’t much harm done.”
“It’s a wonder we haven’t smashed something, sir,” sighed the much
enduring Ropes.
“That’s what Carmona prayed to his demons we would do,” said Dick.
“I’ll back San Cristóbal against them all,” said I.
“Besides, there was the mule with the four white feet, and the goat-herd,”
Pilar reminded me.
“I can’t say they’ve brought us luck.”
“Wait,” said Pilar.
“Meanwhile let’s turn back,” said Dick. “Another hundred yards like this,
and even if we don’t smash the differential or the chassis, Ropes will get
side-slip of the brain. Half an hour of such driving must be equal to a
week in Purgatory for a chauffeur.”
We did turn back, and feeling years older, arrived once more at the point
from which he had started. We would have given something to see the man
with the two hats, and his companion, but they had prudently taken
themselves off, like full-fed vultures. This time we made no inquiries,
but trusted to our intuition and our maps, which, without once
contradicting each other, led us into a decent road that seemed like a
path to paradise after all we had endured.
Making up for lost time, and revelling in joy of motion, we put on our
best speed, which for a few moments brought the roadside telegraph posts
as close together as fir trees in a Norwegian forest. But suddenly the
motor slowed, and stopped with a tired sigh within sight of a village
white as newly polished silver.
“Petrol gone,” said Ropes. “It oughtn’t to be, but it is. Extra strain in
that short cut of the Duke’s used it up.”
He got out, and untied a _bidon_ from the reserve store fastened upon the
foot-board. But the tin was light in his hand as a feather. He gave a low
whistle, and a shadow darkened his face, a shadow which was not made by
the brim of his motor-cap as he bent his head to examine the _bidon_.
“There’s a leak here, sir,” he said to me—for though Dick was now supposed
to be his master, in moments of stress he clung to old habits. “Looks as
if the tin had been pricked with some sharp instrument. H’m! Shouldn’t
wonder if it had been. It would be of a piece with all the rest.”
“You mean at Toledo?”
“Yes, sir. Everything was right, then. I bought enough petrol in Madrid to
last to Cordoba, pretty well all we could carry, and ordered more to meet
us there, _grande vitesse_, in case I couldn’t get it—as you said we were
sure now to go that way.”
“Well, let’s look at your other bidons. We shall be in a fix if we’re held
up here.”
“Two more empty,” announced Ropes. “And three _bidons_ don’t suddenly take
to leaking, of themselves. I suppose if I’d had my wits about me, I’d have
looked, at Toledo, before starting; but who’s to think of everything? I
did have a thorough go at the car, for fear of mischief, but forgot the
_bidons_ However, there’s one to go on with, I’m pretty sure; for it’s
stowed away in a place nobody would think of, if they had to do the
villain act in a hurry.”
Whereupon he handed out a new _bidon_ from the tool box, and we both gave
a sigh of relief to see that it was intact. At least, we had now enough to
get us to Manzanares; and at worst we could but be hung up there while
Ropes went back by train as far as Madrid to buy petrol.
While we had been making these discoveries, however, the village had been
discovering us. It was not the time of year, as Pilar said, for bears and
monkeys to arrive by road, therefore when something was seen approaching
rapidly and stopping suddenly, the inhabitants of the white town had not
been able to bear the suspense. Somebody had given the word that there was
a thing to see, and out Torralba came pouring in its hundreds, a brilliant
procession a full quarter of a mile long.
Youth and beauty took the lead. Girls with arms thrown round the shoulders
of one another’s blue, pink, or yellow jackets skipped along the dazzling
road like peasant graces. Little, star-eyed brown boys had apparently
taken the trouble to step off Murillo’s canvases to find out what we were,
while their toddling sisters cried at being outdistanced. Behind these
came men, middle-aged and old, in strange-shaped caps like fur and leather
coal-scuttles, women with bare black heads, or faded blue handkerchiefs
shadowing withered faces, and beggars hobbling on their sticks; a
shouting, laughing army pouring its bright coloured stream down the white
line of the straight road. And before the Gloria had been refreshed with
her long drink of petrol, the wave of life had broken round her bonnet.
Bright eyes stared, brown hands all but touched us; and children knew not
whether to shriek with fright or laugh with joy as they saw themselves
reflected in the glass turned up against our roof. But at the first cough
of the motor as it throbbed into waking, the throng rolled back, dividing
to let us pass, as if the car had cloven it in two, and joining again to
tear home in our wake.
All the able-bodied women who had not come out to meet us were sitting
before the doors of their white houses, making lace mantillas and flounces
for the young Queen-elect,—Torralba is famous for its lace-makers,—and
they waved work-worn hands as we ran by, wishing us good speed, or
throwing an improvised _copla_ after the vanishing Gloria.
Now we were in Don Quixote land; and had we gone back to his day as we
entered his country of La Mancha, our red car could have roused little
more excitement. Village after village turned out for us; always the same
gorgeous colours against the background of white houses and blue arch of
sky; always the same brilliant eyes and rich brown faces with scarlet lips