(1/3) Go Saddle the Sea (20 page)

"Oh, I see," said Sammy, laughing. "So that is why you let off the rockets and scare the starlings."

"Just so! Even if they are away in the fields, they cannot say they do not hear my rockets. And even if they were deaf they would see the puffs of smoke and see the birds whirling about in the sky, and know that it was time to come and pay their respects to God."

We took a great liking to Father Ignacio, and I felt certain that the farmer whom we had seen hiding his
ox in the cave had done so entirely because of his own grudging, spiteful nature, and not due to any fault on the priest's part.

Father Ignacio told us that he made the gunpowder for his rockets out of pigeon dung (another thing he had learned from the French) and that he was gradually persuading the people of the town into better ways.

"The children enjoy my fireworks," he explained, "so they come to visit me, and by degrees I make friends with their parents also."

Then he asked us about ourselves, and we told him our histories. Since I had told my full tale to Sam, I could hardly do less to this good man. He asked me if I would like him to write a letter to my grandfather, just to say that he had seen me and that I was alive and well. I thanked him and said I would be grateful, especially if he would be so kind as to wait a few days, until I should have found a ship at Santander and be safely embarked for England.

At that he laughed very kindly, and said, "So be it! I have run away from home myself—I suppose every boy has to do it once—I will not hinder you! But mind you write to your grandfather from England."

"Oh yes, of
course
I shall do that."

Father Ignacio was interested to hear that Sam was going to work for Don Enrique, whom he said he had often heard spoken of as a worthy and honest man.

Then the priest's housekeeper came to say that a sick woman was asking for him, so, walking out on
this errand, he accompanied us as far as the
posada
of Don Enrique's cousin. This man, Don Manuel Colomas, was a big brawny fellow; he greeted us civilly but gave rather a gruff good-day to the priest, who bade us good-bye and went on his way.

Don Manuel led us into his house, received the note we had for him, and asked how he could serve us—Don Enrique's friends were his friends also, and everything in his house was ours to command. Had we breakfasted? We said yes, at the priest's house.

"That one!" he muttered. "Father Interference! I'll wager you got scanty enough pickings under
his
roof."

But we said no, we had done well and that Father Ignacio had been very kind. However, since, after traveling most of the night, we were now decidedly fatigued, we asked if we might lie down and sleep in some corner for an hour or two.

Don Manuel hospitably provided us with a large bedroom, overlooking the front courtyard of his
posada,
as well as a stall for the mule. We flung ourselves down on well-stuffed flock mattresses and were soon fast asleep.

When I awoke I was amazed to find that the sun lay low in the west; almost the whole day had gone by, wasted in sleeping. Sam was already awake, leaning on the windowsill and watching the people and dogs in the courtyard.

Very vexed at having slept so long, I asked him why he had not awakened me sooner.

He said, "Eh, lad, ye needed the rest; why should I rouse ye? 'Tis not long yet since ye lay sick abed. And all life lies ahead; there's time a-plenty! Besides, I've been well amused, looking out here."

I joined him and saw a group of village men who were watching with laughter and applause while a lively little hunchbacked fellow poured wine from a bottle which he held at a great height above his head, first into his mouth and then into a whole trayful of cups without spilling a single drop. Then he handed the cups to all in the crowd.

"Hollo!" said Sammy. "Here comes our friend from this morning."

"You mean the priest?"

"No, no—t'other fellow—the farmer who was so nice of his ox. He looks fair betwattled about something."

And indeed the man from the cave mouth, who rushed through the yard gate just then, appeared to be in a perfect passion. We observed him with great interest as he launched into what seemed a furious tirade, waving his arms up and down, holding them out wide, bawling until he was red in the face, and stamping his feet.

We were too far away to hear his words but after a few moments Sammy said, laughing, "I tell ye what! 'Tis all Lombard Street to a china orange that his ox has got itself stuck fast in the cave—look at the way he holds his arms!"

"I believe you are right," said I. "Let us go down and find out."

We went down to the courtyard. Don Manuel was there, too, now; he received us politely but absently—he was listening to the farmer's indignant tale.

The latter was shouting.

"And it is all the fault of that meddling prosing aggravating officious busybody of a priest! If it, weren't for him, I'd never even have
thought
of taking the beast into the cave. I say, damn the day he came to this town!"

Some of the bystanders laughed unkindly, and one called out, "The priest has had the use of everybody else's ox, Pepe! Fair play, now! Why should yours be the only one to escape? This must be the judgment of heaven—you might as well resign yourself!"

"Ah, have a heart, neighbors!" said Pepe indignantly. "I don't come here to be laughed at—I need help! Who'll come and help me drag the wretched animal out? For pity's sake—it will die of cold and hunger in there!"

Half mocking, half sympathetic, a crowd of them went along with him, over the fields, back to the wooded hillside where we had met him in the morning. Sam and I followed, curious to see what kind of fix the ox had got itself into, and how they would rescue it.

Some of the men had brought ropes with them, and torches made from tarred bundles of rushes, and these last were needed, for the ox had gone quite a long way
into the cavern; Pepe, foolishly, had not tethered it, but had simply tied a hurdle across the mouth of the cave so the animal could not get out. Consequently it had wandered farther and farther back, along a narrow passage, until its horns had jammed against the rock walls on either side. Then, struggling, pushing, terrified no doubt, the poor beast had become even more tightly wedged, and now stood rigid like a prisoner in the stocks, bawling and bellowing lamentably; in that rocky enclosed place its frantic noise, doubled in volume, sounded like the Trump of Doom.

Since the ox had become fixed while going inward along the passage, the men could not get at its horns to put a rope round them, for its massive body occupied the whole space. They tried roping its hinder legs and dragging backward, but the passage took a turn not far from where the ox had stuck, and became very narrow, so that they could not get sufficient purchase to pull it out. The men hauled and struggled and cursed, the poor ox groaned and trumpeted, but no progress was made; if anything, during the struggle, the wretched animal thrust itself farther in.

"The cursed beast will die here, in the cave," said Pepe, raging and weeping.

I had a thought, and said to Sammy, "I shall fetch the priest."

He burst out laughing and said, "Do 'ee know, I had that very same notion! But go ye, lad—ye can run faster than old dot-and-go-one."

So I ran back across the fields to the priest's house,
where, by luck, I found him at home. When I explained the problem and my idea he laughed, too, and said, "Well, well, we do not know that it will work, but it is certainly worth trying. Ah, that Pepe! He is the stingiest rogue in the village. He would burn down his own barn rather than let anyone else have a day's use of it. Perhaps this may be a lesson to him."

As we approached the cave› it was plain from a good distance away that nothing had changed. We could still hear the ox bellowing mournfully inside, as if it thought its last moment had come.

Sam, outside the cave mouth, greeted us cheerfully and said, "You will be welcome here, Father. I think they are at their wits' end!"

Indeed the group of men had run clean out of strength and patience.

In spite of Pepe's protests, they seemed inclined to return to the
posada
and leave the ox to its fate.

"It got itself in there, let it get itself out," one said, and another, "Maybe it will find its own way out during the night," and a third, "You will just have to bring a saw tomorrow, Pepe, and saw off its horns."

"Saw the horns off my beautiful Zea, who has the widest pair in the village? Never! Besides, how would I get at them! Neighbors, neighbors, don't desert me!"

"Well, well, Pepe, what's this?" blandly inquired Father Ignacio. "In trouble, are you?"

Pepe looked very foolish when he saw the priest, but as he had no other source of help, he swallowed
his pride and said, "Oh, Father, if you have any notion how to get this obstinate animal out of there, I wish you would tell me. I would be greatly obliged!"

"So it's the ox that is obstinate, is it?" said Father Ignacio, laughing. "I wonder if animals reflect the natures of their masters? However, let us see what we can do. This boy here, who fetched me, has an idea which may perhaps help to shift your poor Zea out of the awkward spot where it has wedged itself."

"Oh, Father, if only you can budge it, I will plow your land every day for a month."

"Easy, friend, easy! You had better not make any rash promises. Besides," added the priest, smiling, "the last corner of my little bit of land would only take that great beast of yours half a day. But now, let us study the situation. Are there other passages in this cave? Is it possible to get round to the front of the ox?"

Unfortunately there were no other passages. The cave consisted of a single tunnel, threading deep into the hillside. And the ox was plugged well along it, like a cork in the neck of a bottle.

Father Ignacio made his way to the ox's hindquarters—the villagers politely standing aside for him. The passage, quite wide at the mouth, became narrower and narrower, to the point where the ox had become fixed.

"Humph," said Father Ignacio, turning to me (I had followed behind him, carrying his equipment), "this is not going to be so simple."

"What is the plan, Father?" asked Don Manuel, who must have arrived while I was fetching the priest.

"I want to give the ox a fright from the other side, so as to startle it into going backward," explained Father Ignacio, and he said to me, "Do you think you could climb through underneath the ox, my boy? I believe you are the only person here who is small enough to do so. It will not be very pleasant," he added calmly.

I was of the same opinion. There might just be room to squeeze past the animal's legs, but there was considerable risk of being trampled. Also the floor of the passage was slimy and disgusting where the ox had stamped and struggled and slipped all day long and voided its dung in terror and exhaustion.

However, I was not going to show myself a coward in front of these strangers, or Sam, so I said, "I will try, Father."

After all, it was I who had had the idea in the first place, so I supposed it was up to me to carry it out.

"Don Pepe," said Father Ignacio, "have you any means of soothing your beast while the boy crawls under his legs? Can you talk to him? Calm him down? We do not wish the boy to be trampled to death."

"Anything Pepe says to the animal is more likely to put it in fear of its life!" somebody shouted teasingly.

But others called out, "Sing to the ox, Pepe! Sing the song you sing while you plow! Perhaps the ox will go to sleep!"

They all began to sing a slow, rhythmic chant which, it seems, the men of those parts use when they are plowing:

"Walk, buey, walk
Bite, plow, bite,
Carve up my field; turn it into bread!
Walk, buey, walk.
As the knife cuts the loaf,
Carve my red earth into white bread."

Among all the voices I could hear that of Sammy, cheerfully upraised, and then he began to invent new twirls and flourishes to vary the tune—and perhaps to let me know that he hoped I was managing my part of the business without too much fear or difficulty.

Crawling between the legs of that ox was certainly one of the strangest and most disagreeable tasks I have ever undertaken. I would sooner spend twenty hours learning Latin or reading about the martyrdoms of the saints with Father Tomás than go through that again. Although the calm regular sound of the men singing
did
seem to soothe the ox in some degree, I could tell that it was still very nervous and ready to panic at any new occurrence. I had to creep and squirm, thrusting my way past its bony hocks, expecting every minute that it would pick up a huge cloven hoof and plant it on some part, of my body.

Having wriggled my way past the hind legs, I crouched underneath it and found that the worst part of the task still lay ahead of me, for the front legs were much thicker, and seemed immovably planted in the narrow passageway. When I tried to push and squeeze between them the ox became frightened and bellowed; the sound, coming from directly above me, was like a tremendous clap of thunder.

"Are you making good progress, my son?" called Father Ignacio calmly. He was holding a torch, but its light did not penetrate past the bulk of the ox.

"I am having a little trouble with the front legs, Father," I called back I had one elbow in a patch of mud, and was trying to lever myself past a massive, hairy leg with the other elbow, pulling myself sideways over the rocky, slimy ground like a crippled lizard, and expecting at every moment that the ox, with some hasty fretful movement, would crush me like a slug against the cave wall.

At last, after what seemed hours of pushing and squeezing, but was, in reality, I suppose, about ten minutes, I managed to struggle past its knees, and took a few moments to get back my breath. Beyond the ox, the passage was about four feet wide; it felt like a huge hall, and I stood up, enjoying the sensation of being able to straighten my shoulders and stretch my arms. Then I found the muzzle of the ox in the dark, and gave it a pat, to show that I bore no sense of grievance for all the trouble it had given me.