The Car of Destiny
At San Fernando, I was assailed by doubt. What if, after all, the car we
sought had not gone to Cadiz, but had here taken the coast road to
Algeciras? The great conference was only just over, there; tourists of all
nations were flocking to the town, attracted by curiosity; and as the
place boasts the most beautiful hotel in Spain, it seemed likely that in
flying from Seville the Duke should choose Algeciras instead of Cadiz. But
some fishermen, on that rope of sand which binds Cadiz to the mainland,
had seen a car pass a few hours before. Yes, only one; and they thought it
was grey. It had four or five passengers, and was going to Cadiz.
Thither we spurted, Dick studying a plan of the city as we flew along the
straight road embanked above the sand. By the time we arrived in silver
Cadiz he was able to say in which direction I must drive to find the chief
hotel; and in an open _place_ not far from the crowded port we stopped.
Dick stayed to guard the car from the crowd which quickly collected, while
I went to question the landlord.
No travellers with an automobile were stopping with him at present; but
one had arrived a couple of hours ago, perhaps, and its passengers had
wished to remain overnight. Unfortunately, however, as a big ship had just
come in from America every room was taken.
There was no other hotel at which persons of taste could stop in comfort;
and after some discussion, the owner of the car had decided to run on to
Algeciras by way of Tarifa. The party, consisting of three ladies, one
gentleman, and the chauffeur, had taken a hasty meal, and had got away
about an hour and a half before our arrival.
“Those beastly _bandidos_!” I exclaimed to Dick in a rage of
disappointment. “If it hadn’t been for them we should have been on the
heels of the grey car, and caught it up here at the hotel. I should have
been able to snatch Monica away from under their noses—for I know she
wouldn’t have failed me.”
“Those beastly _bandidos_ introduced you to the King,—don’t forget that,”
said Dick consolingly. “And the day may come before long when you’ll be
glad of that introduction. You can never tell, in a life like yours. And
once Carmona’s at Algeciras, why, you’ve got him in a kind of _cul-de-sac_
from which he can’t escape, any more than a mouse can jump out of a basin
half full of water. If he takes rooms at the Reina Cristina, you’ll come
plump upon him. If he tries to return by road, he’ll run into your arms;
and one or the other must happen unless he puts his auto on a train or
steamer, neither of which is likely.”
Somewhat comforted, I proposed to follow at once, but Dick wistfully
reminded me that the afternoon was wearing on, and he was wearing with it.
Soon he would be worn out, unless I gave him something to eat. It seemed
years since that cup of coffee and roll of the early morning.
If we needed nourishment, the car needed water. Both needs were supplied
somewhat grudgingly by me, though the physical part of me did appreciate
the coolness of the restaurant, and the strange dishes for which Cadiz is
famous; the mushroom-flavoured cuttle-fish, the golden dorado in sherry.
Then off we started again, to take a road which the landlord warned us was
none too good. People who travelled by carriage or diligence had evil
things to say of the fourteen to eighteen hours of journey, though the
scenery was fine. This did not sound enlivening; but what good horses
could do in fourteen hours, the Gloria could do in three or four.
Through ramifications of narrow streets I steered the car out of Cadiz. In
all directions they branched off from one another, interlacing,
overlapping with the intricacy of a puzzle. The houses were high, too, and
there was not a window with glittering balcony of glass and iron, where
dark-eyed women did not lean between heaven and earth, to smile down upon
our humming motor. It was all very quaint and gay, in spite of ancient,
tragic memories; and though few cities of Spain are older than Cadiz—which
claims Hercules for founder—the white houses looked as clean as if they
had been built yesterday or some mediæval model.
We tore back to San Fernando; and soon came upon the bad surface which had
been prophesied. The Gloria bumped over ruts and grooves, and scattered
stones, and perforce I had to slacken speed lest she should break some
blood-vessel. Nevertheless we did not waste time in covering the six miles
to Chiclana de la Frontera; and when we had crashed through this ancient
stronghold of the Phœnicians we jolted out into an open, sandy solitude,
with only the knoll of Barosa to break its blank monotony.
Even a mind preoccupied must spare a few thoughts for Graham and the
“Faugh-a-ballaghs,” on this ground where Spanish men and British men
fought shoulder to shoulder against the French invader. But when we passed
the road branching away to Conil, and held straight on across the little
river Salado, I heard a thing more instructive than history, more exciting
than romance.
A man we met—who looked almost old enough to remember the brave days of
the great tunny fishing—had seen a large automobile, not more than an hour
ago. Evidently, then, we were gaining on the quarry. The news gave me
courage.
The sea and the Straits of Gibraltar were near now, and though they were
not in sight yet, nor the sandy headland of Trafalgar, the smell of salt
came to us with the wind.
At the old Moorish town of Vejer de la Frontera (scarcely a town in this
storied corner of the world but tells, with its “de la Frontera,” of days
when the Moors were crushed back, ever farther and farther) we had
travelled full thirty miles from Cadiz. Childish voices screaming round
the car cried that another automobile was not far ahead; and like a
racehorse nearing the finish, we put on speed, dashing at a rush to the
Laguna de Janda, over the ground where Tarik the Conquerer began his great
running fight with Rodrigo. So through little Venta de Tabilla, leaving
the lake to plunge into an imposing gorge which was a doorway to the sea.
There, spread out before, were the straits and the burning African coast;
Europe and Africa face to face; white Tarifa jutting into the green waves;
Trafalgar in the distance, smothered in clouds like clinging memories;
Tangier opposite, a crescent of pearls, tossed seaward by towering blue
waves which were the Atlas Mountains. Taking the wild beauty of the scene
with all that it meant, it was one of the great sights of the world—the
world once supposed to end here, with Hercules’ pillars.
As the Gloria sprang on towards Tarifa, a fierce wind which had been lying
in wait leapt at the car and sent her staggering. Gust after gust darted
from ambush, half blinding our ungoggled eyes with the sand they flung by
handfuls into our faces. But we jammed on our hats; and the Gloria bore
the onslaughts bravely, her voice drowned in the screaming of the wind,
which might have been the war cries of those Moorish armies whose
battleground this land had been for seven centuries.
As the good white road mounted the shoulder of a down on its way to
Tarifa, that most Moorish of all Spanish towns stood up like a model cut
out of alabaster in a frame of jade. Clear against the sky rose the
crumbling tower of Guzman el Bueno, the Abraham of mediæval history; but
our way, instead of leading through the strange old city, passed the
horseshoe gate of entrance, and bore us up into the mountains.
Not a soul did we meet, once we turned our backs upon Tarifa. Only the
wild wind would not desert us, but roared in strange voices along the
hollows of the land, in a country where all was wild. The rough mountain
sides were peppered with stunted oaks; and as our way ascended more
thrilling grew the views, with the smoke of great steamers streaming black
pennons over the sea, and the Atlas Mountains squatting Sphinx-like to
guard the African shore.
Then, we lost the hard blue line of water, screened behind mountains; and
slipping down over the summit we hid from the bellowing wind. The car flew
like a circling bird round the wide curves, and dropped us in peaceful
vales sheltered by cork forests, and rocky walls inlaid with the silver of
trickling streams.
Thus, back to the wide sea view and downs whose flowery carpet was torn by
jagged nail-heads of rock. Cork trees, sombre as giant olives clad in
mourning, strong in their corselets and shields of half-stripped bark as
knights in armour, covered the hills like a vast army. At the foot of the
hoary warriors, waved bracken and yellow iris in tangled masses; high
above their heads sailed here and there a golden eagle of a vulture,
looking like paper birds or Japanese kites.
Far below us the white houses of Algeciras lay scattered, a broken
necklace of white beads; and from across the water that dark lion,
Gibraltar, crouched as if waiting to spring.
Whether Dick or I saw it first I can’t tell, but we exclaimed together,
“There’s the other car!” And there it was, a moving speck upon the road in
a white cloud of dust.
After it we went with a bound of increased speed. No need now to stop and
ask the way to the hotel; all we had to do was to follow and catch up with
the Lecomte at the steps of the Hotel Reina Cristina. A wild idea flashed
into my head, that I would snatch Monica as she alighted from Carmona’s
car, fling her to Dick in mine, jump in after her myself, and be off
before the others had time to recover from their surprise.
The more I thought of this the more feasible did it seem. No slowing up
for sharp turnings now; trust to luck that the road was clear ahead! I was
thrilling with hope and excitement as we dashed after the disappearing
dust-covered automobile into a wide open gateway. The scent of heliotrope
and rose geranium, hot under the April sun, intoxicated me as we swept
along the white avenue, and came in sight of the other car just drawing up
before an arcaded loggia.
XXXV
THE MOON IN THE WILDERNESS
Two ladies and their maid were getting out. An American young man was
helping them down. The grey car was not a Lecomte. The owner, his
chauffeur, and the three women were of types entirely different from those
we sought.
The discovery, coming after such exaltation of hope, was like a blow over
the heart.
“Hard luck,” exclaimed Dick. “But Carmona’s car must be somewhere.”
“If it ever started,” I said. “I begin to think now that Carmona rallied
his brigands, and sent me out to meet them, knowing I’d surely follow if I
believed he had gone that way.”
“Oh come, there’s hope still,” Dick consoled me. And turning to the owner
of the car, he asked if he had seen another grey automobile. He had not;
and, on further questioning, he went on to tell us that he had started
from Seville meaning to stop at Cadiz and come on here to-morrow; but the
hotel had been full, so he had “rushed it” to Algeciras. These details
proved that his was the motor we had been chasing from the first; and the
excellent Spanish which the Californian spoke to the porters accounted for
one misleading bit of information.
While the party of care-free tourists went indoors, Dick and I stood in
our coats of dust to discuss the situation. We soon agreed that there was
but one thing to do. Wire Colonel O’Donnel for news of Carmona’s
movements, and wait where we were for an answer.
To none save those who count every moment precious could such a delay have
been irksome. The place was a paradise, the garden a corner of Eden, and
the Reina Cristina more like the country house of some Spanish millionaire
than a hotel.
Leaving the Gloria, we went in to write a telegram; and in a court,
charming as the _patio_ of a Moorish palace, we sat to plan out a message.