Condor’S Passage: A Young Spaniard’S Fulfilling Experiences of His Childhood Dreams (Post-Inquisition)

By Rafaello Fernandez

A young man fulfills his long yearned desire to go to sea and earns his way through the ranks of the Spanish kings admiralty in the 17th century to find friendship and love, endure loss and hardship, experience adventure and intrigue.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: Oct 25, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499089332

Rafaello Fernandez

RICHARD DEMMERLE, an avid and able seaman since his youth, grew up in the shadow of maritime history in Long Island. His fascination of the people and vessels which helped shape our modern world have led him to reveal a story of sacrifice and hope during the time of our world’s exploration.

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Copyright © 2014 by Rafaello Fernandez.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2014915819

ISBN:       Softcover               978-1-4990-8934-9

eBook                    978-1-4990-8933-2

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 09/23/2014

Xlibris

0-800-056-3182

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Contents

Preface

Introduction

Characters

Chapter 1 Journey to Sagres

Chapter 2 Vila do Bispo

Chapter 3 Conchita

Chapter 4 Cadiz

Chapter 5 My Unknown Destiny

Chapter 6 First Assignment

Chapter 7 Land ahoy!

Chapter 8 Boar Island

Chapter 9 Narrow Escapes

Chapter 10 Stormy Weather

Chapter 11 Complications

Chapter 12 Refitting

Chapter 13 Enthusiasm Rekindled

Chapter 14 Untouched Treasures

Chapter 15 Jungle Surprises

Chapter 16 Pirate’s Prize

Chapter 17 Homeward Bound

Chapter 18 Swamp Fever Strikes Again

Chapter 19 Sombre Trouble

Chapter 20 Elusive Landfall

Chapter 21 Spain—Ever Closer

Chapter 22 New Adventure Awaits

Chapter 23 Miracles Abound

Chapter 24 A Wounded Bird Returns to Its Nest

Chapter 25 Change of Scenery

Chapter 26 Sagres, a Long Way Off

Chapter 27 Maritime School in View

Chapter 28 A Visit with the Admiral

Chapter 29 Torremolinos

Chapter 30 Demonic Possession

Chapter 31 Well-Earned Reward

Chapter 32 A Navigator Is Found

Chapter 33 New Challenge

Chapter 34 Cadiz Ahoy!

Chapter 35 A New Era Commences

Chapter 36 Land’s End, Here We Come

Chapter 37 An Impatient Wait

Chapter 38 Home to Malaga

Chapter 39 Our Homestead

Chapter 40 Paco’s Lonely Trip

Preface

During the Thirty Years War in Europe, lawless bands of armies from many nations roamed back and forth across the continent. Barbarous acts were committed against innocent citizens, villages were burned, people were executed, and livestock were expropriated for the failing food larders of the armies. The Catholic Spanish Empire and the ruling houses of the north were left exhausted after this long tedious struggle, which was finally terminated in 1648.

In the years that followed, Spain strove to regain its position in the world by increasing its presence on the high seas and expanding its interests through exploration into the far reaches of the known world. During this age of exploration and peace, the great and glorious Spanish realm became little more than a memory. Many were left searching their souls for some new identity.

This is the story of a young man born towards the end of the Thirty Years War. He and many of his countrymen dream of a harmonious world where peace reigns without the fear of personal exploitation. The fear of the conquistadors and the Spanish Inquisition, of little more than a hundred years, is still to be experienced. The year is 1668. Spain along with its northern allies and England are engaged in a conflict with France. This is the beginning of an era where wars are fought in an attempt to balance the dynastic power struggle within Europe. The confrontation between Spain and its allies occurs on the high seas as well as on land.

My name is Paco Luis Santiago Fernandez. I was born in Malaga in 1630, one of a family of five. My father and three brothers work hard in the family vineyards. The long tedious hours of work leave little time to reflect upon improving our station in life. My father is very religious and good-hearted. He made a sacred vow that I was never to undergo the same sort of struggle that plagued him all his life. The wine from our vineyards is known throughout the land. Many of the nobility and other men in high positions come to purchase the exotic Malaga elixir. During one of these visits by a scholarly man, I revealed my lifelong dream to flee the land, possibly go to sea. However, my vision does not include just being a common seaman. I need a post which offers a new challenge each day. This learned man, Don José Gonzales, proposed taking up contact with the director of the maritime school in Punta de Sagres, Portugal, founded by Henry the Navigator.

Introduction

The Condor, a frigate 160 feet long, with a displacement of 1800 tons and a beam of 38 feet, was built in the middle of the sixteenth century by one of the world’s renowned shipwrights in Spain, finds itself anchored in the narrow harbour of Cadiz.

It has served its flag well during the many encounters erupting between Spain and her adversaries. It has been called upon to serve as an ever-alert watchdog in securing the transport of precious gems back to the Royal treasury to replenish the empty coffers. The Condor seems to be enchanted; perhaps there is an angel of mercy perched on the masthead. Never once has it incurred major damage in its frequent encounters. The massive teak deck is impeccably polished and immaculately cared for. Teak is a highly sought-after commodity in the marketplace of the European ship-wright. Its scarcity on the continent means that it has to be painstakingly logged and shipped in from the Pacific colonies. These decks, having seen incredible feats of courage, disclose no evidence of the scathing battles, a most admirable feat for a stalwart captain and his rugged crew.

The captain is a large trim man, in his early forties, his long black hair tied in a knot at the back of his head. He wears a long billowy sleeved shirt, with a brilliant coloured kerchief tied around his neck. His eyes, dark and all-perceiving can be gentle, at the same time very astute. When he finds it necessary, he can see through the mischievous members of his crew. This particular attribute has earned him the highest respect within the naval circles of the known world. His logbook is written through the eyes of a narrator, a painter of words, and it is deserving to be placed on display in Barcelona. It is indeed unfortunate that it be relegated to a dull and unappreciated existence on board the Condor.

The day dawns slowly, with the brilliance of cut crystal reflecting in the sunlight. On the horizon, a wisp of a cloud hangs motionless in the sky. It is so typical for this time of year and this latitude. In mid August, there is hardly anything which one could allude to as a breeze on the satin-smooth surface of the harbour. The heat of August lies heavily over the landscape, its dog-day atmosphere knowing no distinct boundaries. The stifling heat engulfs the ship like a big warm hand, lying anchored in its refuge from the unpredictable storms which frequent the Atlantic portion of the Mediterranean. The captain, half sitting on the aft rail, spyglass held to his eye. His attention is drawn to the bee-like activity of the small boats shuttling between ship and shore loaded with provisions. It has taken him what seems like an eternity to finally become master of this prized possession of the Spanish fleet. Scanning the coastline, he is flooded by memories in his mind. Without realizing it, he sheds tears of joy mixed with heartbreak and they pour down his cheeks. He cannot hold them back. These are the memories of a child before his thirteenth birthday who, at the incessant request of his father, became cabin boy of the largest man-of-war in the Spanish Armada, the Don de Seville. Mistress Fortune was destined to be at his side. The Don de Seville was under the command of his uncle Eduardo Miguel Hernandez.

It was this man who was responsible for kindling the lure and spirit for adventure in his heart.

Characters

Chapter 1

Journey to Sagres

This is the story of a young man born towards the end of the Thirty Years War He and many of his countrymen long for a harmonious world without the fears and uncertainty brought about by years of constant subservience and exploitation.

It is several weeks since I received word from the director of the maritime school. An elation fills my entire body as I read the letter once again, grasping the full meaning of the words. My dream of becoming an officer and navigator is one step closer to culmination. The days pass turbulently, as I am being called to see to this or that. It seems as though my brothers, Carlos and Rodriguez, are trying to convince me of their inability in running the hacienda without my help and supervision. Suddenly, one morning as I am walking in the vineyard, it becomes clear to me the magnitude of my decision. I am proposing to leave my beloved family and the only place I have known as home, for an indefinite period of time. When and if I shall ever see the hacienda again is at this moment unknown. On the one hand, I want to close the door on all this back-breaking labour, yet fearful of saying a permanent goodbye to my family. It is hard to find a suitable middle ground.

After weeks of hard labour and preparation, the day for my departure dawns, my big chance to explore on my own. The fearful and unknown world outside Malaga and the hacienda is a world filled with adventure, anxiety, tragedy, and hope. Walking through the portals to the hacienda, I feel the sun rising in the east caressing its fiery fingers along the contours of my face. It etches the horizon in a light shade of pink, before melting into the azure blue of the morning sky. It promises to be a very warm day, an even hotter journey. The way is hard; the pack on my back jostles every now and then when I stumble over some unseen object in the uneven dirt road. The road, if you can call it that, is no more than a dusty track etched into the parched ground. There is only one thing now, motivating me to continue plodding westward—the maritime school. I have heard that it lies on the westernmost cliffs of Portugal. I have no idea as to how far this is. As my mind plays with these thoughts, I suddenly see a small band of Spanish soldiers riding at a slow pace towards me. Instantly, the fear of the Inquisition races through me. Although the Inquisition is no longer present, the fear and the stories I have heard force me to vault hastily into the cover alongside the path. I hope they have not seen me; the undergrowth is tall enough to conceal my presence. They break into a slow gallop as they pass by me, their lances held high. Their voices are a jumble of words; I understand only an occasional word now and then. Surely I have the letter from the director of the school but am less than enthusiastic about explaining my trip to some insolent and mistrusting officer of the King’s army. My mind tries to make sense of the few words I can understand. Suddenly it becomes clear; they are riding to the few haciendas which have been less supportive of the Royal edicts.

Oh no, not another one! Here comes the fifth crossroad since my midday siesta and still no sign pointing the way to Torremolinos. The sun beats mercilessly down, on my sombrero-covered head. The salty perspiration trickles onto my lips; I silently thank God that I am not losing too much salt. I lick my lips, savouring the taste of the refreshing water. These decisions, how I despise them. They have been nothing but guesswork up to now, and it seems as though they will continue to be so. Am I seeing something moving in the dense haze in the distance? Si! It is a man on a small donkey enjoying his siesta; his head lolling about as the four-footed creature plods unerringly along the way. I have been on the road for days now and am bone-weary. I call out to him, the sound of my voice startling both him and myself out of the heat-induced stupor. In answer to my question, he shrugs his shoulders, his head returning to its accustomed place on his chest. The heat of the day has him once more in its grip as he rides off.

The sun is low. The heat of the day is slowly giving way to a somewhat cooler night as I leave the grove of stunted olive trees. It is interesting, no breeze to be felt, yet looking at these trees, one has the impression that they are constantly under the influence of a strong westerly wind. My feet are sore, my legs weigh a ton. How I would enjoy spending the night right here. The fear of being accosted by highwaymen or soldiers in the middle of the night almost curdles the blood in every muscle. No longer am I aware of sore feet and heavy legs. Coming around the bend and discovering a small village in the distance gives me renewed strength. The six miles to the village seems short; the dusk rapidly advances across the landscape. The fountain in the middle of the village is empty of people. Is the village deserted, or have they all retreated into their houses because of the arrival of a stranger? While pondering these questions, I was scanning the vicinity in the hopes of detecting some form of life. I finally uncover a pair of small black eyes with a nose peeking over the windowsill of an old rickety shack. Curiosity finally getting the best of these eyes, a small boy springs out in front of me, questions as to who I might be and why I might be here, bubbling out of his tiny mouth.

Before I can even answer one of his questions, an elderly man with white hair, long moustache stands in front of me. I am overjoyed that the village is not deserted; my sombrero falls off, landing on my shoulder. A lively discussion and exchange of information follows. I receive an invitation to share a sparse and yet wholesome evening meal with them. Afterwards, we enjoy the cooler temperature of the evening. I am off in my own dream world, drawn there by the coolness of the evening, the weariness encompassing my entire body in its iron grasp. A strange voice is begging to be heard; with some difficulty, I awaken to the fact that the elderly man is offering me a place to rest these weary bones for the night. I am happy.

Though this village is small, I can let myself slide off into a deep sleep. It has been a long and very emotion-filled day. The morning dawns with the sounds of the villagers going about their morning rituals at the well in the square. I am finding it difficult to keep my eyes open. It must be the salt from my perspiration, which somehow acts to bind them closed. I must look a sight, staggering like a drunkard out of the small stall with uneven steps, approaching the well. I am not really prepared for what spills out of the bucket. It is icy, yet somehow very refreshing, reviving my desire to go on. However, before I can collect my things and place them in my sack, the small boy stands in the doorway, gesturing to me to follow him. We find his grandfather in the small cantina waiting for us. Although we have only met the night before, we are conversing like long-lost friends.

There are many years between us, as well as a life full of experiences, some of which I am sure he would not have chosen to experience. As we sip our coffee, a strong black concoction doctored with a shot of sangria, I relate to him what I had overheard on the way here. He reaffirms what I had suspected about these small patrols. In part, they look after the interests of the King; on the other hand, they are notoriously violent in their methods of tax collection. I now leave this small but welcome respite, say my farewells to the old man and his grandson. By now, the colourful dawn has long since faded from the sky. If I could wish myself one thing right now, it would be a companion, which would make this trip lighter somehow, more jovial. It is very difficult to constantly carry on conversations with myself, having nothing but a monotone monologue. Oh, well! Let’s get on with it; if I continue to dawdle this way, I shall never finish this trip.

After many weeks of walking, the scenery undergoes a significant change. The trees are lower, more grotesquely shaped by the prevailing winds from the ocean. The vegetation takes on a deep luscious green, and the terrain has become less rolling. Luckily for me, I always find a small tree under which I can take refuge from the heat of the midday sun. My journey must be coming to an end now. I hear seagulls in the distance long before I see them in the air. Their cacophonous sounds are sharp and penetrating. The screeching of their voices gives the impression of constant defence of their fishing grounds, against an enemy flock. My shoes have been worn through dozens of times and have had to be repaired. The sores on my feet are evidence to the uneven and stony terrain. The simple folk with whom I have spent the nights are surprised that I have been able to evade the highwaymen and the soldiers they prey on the unsuspecting, ill-prepared traveller. The wind is blowing directly in my face; the smell of salt is in the air. The familiar taste greets my tongue. It mixes with my perspiration, forming a crust around the corners of my mouth. Hours have passed since I let my legs dangle in the refreshing cool stream outside the last village. I realize this trip is slowly coming to an end. Every step brings me closer to Sagres.

Chapter 2

Vila do Bispo

I am drudging up the low hill, expecting to see one more in front of me. I am ill prepared for what greets my eyes. The plain seems endless. There are few olive trees to be seen. They are stunted, as are all things growing on this plain, by the prevailing westerly wind blowing in off the azure blue ocean. Are these trees avocado, olive, cork, or citrus? The leaves are unrecognizable. The path leads me down between two seemingly high rocky cliffs. The sun spreads shadows on these two huge outcroppings. I frantically look around for some refuge from the all too quickly advancing night. Finally, my eyes are able to discern a cleft in the formation on the right. With a heart filled with both apprehension combined with relief, I crawl through the small opening. My eyes need a few minutes to become accustomed to the even dimmer interior. Hastily looking around, I am able to see some dried wood strewn in the corner. Several vain attempts are needed before the wood finally starts a roaring fire, whose warmth spreads into the farthest reaches of the small space. I find some meat and something to drink, and silently thank my foresight. I let the warmth of the fire engulf me and soon fall into a deep restful sleep, feeling sure I will not be discovered by soldiers or thieves.

What is that? I ask myself, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. It is the creaking of a cart. I must hurry; perhaps I can get a lift to the next village. I hear the soft voice of the driver urging his beast of burden onward. It is amazing how the sound carries across a quiet landscape. With all the hallmarks of haste, slipping and sliding, I flail my way upward through the loose sand. I am fortunate; they are going in the same direction as I am. The driver and I are silent, as the one-axle cart makes its way westward. I am fortunate that the driver is on his way to Vila do Bispo, several days walk from Sagres. Once again, the anticipation of an end to this unending journey wells up inside me. I can hardly keep it subdued. I know that when I walk through the portals of the maritime school, I will have surmounted the second obstacle towards my becoming an officer and navigator. The driver pauses at the small crossing leading into Vila do Bispo. In a wavering tone befitting his age, he inquires if I would take some refreshment with him, before I set forth on my journey. The thirst in the back of my throat cries out like a small boy. I thank him for his kind gesture and let him prod his animal down the rocky trail into Vila do Bispo.

The hours of walking and riding on this rickety two-wheeled form of transportation are visible as we come to rest before the small cantina in the centre of the village. We enter the cool large room scantily filled with tables and chairs. I can hear the pores of my skin close as I become used to the cool temperature. There are only a few elderly men enjoying a mug of cool wine as we walk into the farthest reaches of the room. Here we wait for the pretty señorita to bring us a jug of cool wine.

The cool wine loosens our tongues as we commence to converse with one another. This elderly gentleman seems to be about the same age as my father would be, were he still alive. It is hours since we entered this cool cantina; the wine has succeeded in bringing the exhaustion of the trip into the foreground. As I totter to my feet, it becomes apparent how foolish it would be to leave this place and head westward. Señor Figueroa notices my plight and suggests that I recover in the shade of his small stable. Although I am feeling driven from deep within, I reluctantly accept his generous offer. Barely have I laid my head on the scantily hay-covered floor before drowsiness walks lightly across my eyelids. Soon I am no longer here in Vila do Bispo. My fantasy is working overtime, picturing what Sagres must look like, how well situated the maritime school must be on Land’s End. The desolate landscape is, in my mind, covered with luscious deep greens; the fishing boats in the harbour are painted in striking colours. The impact of such a landscape is too good to believe. I awaken with a strong desire to set my eyes and feet westward, on the last long leg to Sagres.

Rising out of the hay and straw, I shake myself and go outside looking for Señor Figueroa to once again thank him for his generosity. I find him in the cantina conversing with Consuela, our waitress of the night before. Their conversation is lively, broken with peals of laughter. I have a hard time understanding what they are saying; Portuguese is not my language. After a short while, I conclude that they are amusing themselves over the fact that a young Spaniard has undertaken this long trip to attend the maritime school in Sagres. I can understand their amusement, for as I look back on the weeks of travel, I would have never given me the remotest chance of getting this far unscathed. However, here I am; it is time now to bid Consuela and Señor Figueroa farewell. They wish me well and wave as I leave the cool haven of the cantina and walk west. The road seems more travelled than those I have tread upon up to now. The signs are clearly visible along the side of the road. However, there are no distances scratched into the stones, only the names of the next town or city. The message is unmistakably clear, all signs point west.

The landscape has taken on a certain rolling character, although the vegetation is kept low by the prevailing wind. The grass is unruly and wild for this part of the country. The wind blows now and then in gusts across my path, sending sand and whatever else it can into motion, biting into my face. It feels like a thousand finely honed needles as it incessantly pommels my face. The wind and sand take their toll, as my skin dries out and flakes of it break off and fly away with the wind. Walking under these conditions is exhausting; the rest in Vila do Bispo is only a faint memory. If I could just find some obstacle large enough to offer me some respite from this howling banshee of a wind, perhaps then I could recover enough to last the six to seven hours to the next village. The constant wind gives me little time to think of anything other than shelter. In Malaga, we never experienced anything like this. The climate is mild, the winds light, nothing like this incessant howling.

Can I believe my eyes? A large tree looms up in front of me. It is so large that I cannot spread my arms around the trunk, the perfect place for a siesta, out of reach of the wind. This goat’s cheese, some dry bread, and wine have the same effect as if my whole body were immersed under a cold shower of rain. It tastes so good. The sombrero has fallen over my nose and now offers protection from the wind and sun, for my sensitive eyes.

I hear the wind fading into the distance as I drift off into the stuporous state demanded by my exhaustion. A small, gentle, but firm hand on my shoulder calls me back from my slumber. My eyes, becoming accustomed once again to the glaring sun, focus on the face of a young woman. She has climbed down from her wagon, bending over me; her voice shows concern over my physical condition. I answer all her questions with Si, si. Before I realize what has happened, I find myself seated next to her; we are off towards the ocean in the west.

Chapter 3

Conchita

We are certainly a forlorn, dust-covered pair, as we slowly plod along in the direction of Sagres. The pretty Conchita and I have been travelling now for several days. I have forgotten how it feels to be clean, without dust penetrating our clothes through to the very skin.

Topping the next rise, our eyelids heavy with sweat and dust, we look towards the afternoon sun. We are able to catch a glimpse of Sagres in the distance. Conchita confides in me as she relates that every time she tops this hill, it feels as though a stone falls from her heart. Now, as in all the other times on her travels, she sighs and I hear a low murmur as she says, Nothing can happen now, I am almost home. I can fully understand how she feels, for I experience something similar as I strain to get a better view of the city. I shake the gourd with which we have been carrying our water, in the hopes of finding just one more swallow for the pretty señorita and me. Our throats are parched and dusty; this penetrating west wind has blown dust into every crevice of our clothing, as well as into practically every pore of our skin, eyes, nose, and nostrils. I feel as though I have been baked and dried in an oven for weeks now. Unfortunately, all the shaking of the gourd produces no water. Our strength is failing, and although we are light of heart, our bodies need refreshment and, most urgently, something wet. It makes no difference, water or wine, just something wet. From out of the deep recesses of my mind emerges something which I have almost forgotten. A small round stone placed in the mouth will allay the parched feeling in the mouth.

It is not easy to find a small round stone here, for it almost appears as though a giant has walked this path and his weight has driven all the stones deeper into the packed soil. I separate from Conchita, to search away from the path. I am so deeply immersed in finding such a stone, I hardly take notice of the shadow crossing my feet and moving upward till my head is in the shade. I slowly raise my eyes, wondering from where such a shadow can come. My eyes come face to face with a giant cork tree. Frantically, I flail my arms about to catch Conchita’s attention.

Ah! The cool of the lush green grass and the moisture on the ground penetrating our clothing as we lie here feels so refreshing. I adjust my sombrero to keep the sun out of my eyes and am almost asleep, when I feel a cool hand nudging me with an element of urgency. Shaking myself, I follow Conchita’s finger as it points to a dust cloud in the direction from which we have just come. I feel the panic rising in both of us. Quietly thinking the situation over, I realize that the only thing that could give us away is the beast of burden, for he stands on all fours. This animal is Conchita’s pride and joy. In a shaky voice betraying my own inner fears, I ask if she could get Pedro to lie down, thereby reducing his silhouette.

With a Si, si, she crawls over to Pedro and whispers something in his ear. That is unbelievable; I never thought that a donkey could do that! Pedro gets down, rolling over on his side. In a frenzy, I look around for a possibility to climb the large cork tree, in order to see what is creating this large dust cloud getting nearer with every passing moment. Conchita gives me a sign then backs up against the tree, giving me a boost so that I can reach the large branch overhead. I remove my shoes, and in no time, I am high in the crown, hidden among the leaves. Cautiously, I part the leaves, thankful for my dust-covered face. Through the cloud of dust now and then, I see the sun reflecting off the helmets of five Spanish soldiers. I hastily make my way down, report what I have seen, then gently but urgently push Conchita to the ground. The soldiers are not that far away now, as we pray silently that we have not been seen. In a low, scared voice she tells me that this is the second time she has encountered the King’s soldiers. From the tone in her voice, I sense that there is no compassion for such creatures. I can empathize with her. I find myself making a commitment to protect us both. My words have the desired effect; soon I feel her warmth as she lays her head on my shoulder. It doesn’t take long before we are both asleep; the anxiety created by the presence of the military has melted into thin air. As I am slowly awakening, I find my heart reaching out to this beautiful young woman. I do so want to take her in my arms; however, her experience with soldiers, and strangers, is a constant reminder to proceed with caution and understanding. It is late now, the sun practically on the horizon. It has cooled off.

I cannot think of anything more welcome than to be riding in a wagon, hoping that the dirt road will be somewhat smoother than that into Vila do Bispo; a very pretty señorita is sitting in front of me. She is dressed in a very colourful long dress, and is wearing shoes that come up over her ankles. Over her shoulder lies a small but very finely woven shawl. Our conversation is lively, light, and the time passes with spread-out wings. Conchita is in the phase of becoming a young woman, and it shows in every aspect of her dress and her manners. She is returning to Sagres, from a long trip delivering merchandise from her father’s establishment.

The shadows are getting long now; I express some concern as to where we possibly could spend the night. With a reassuring smile on her lips, in a reassuring tone, she answers, Do you really think my father would plan such a venture without being sure that I would have a place among friends and trusted customers to spend the night? The territory is totally strange to me; there is only one thing that I know, and that is where west is, for the sun has just now dipped below the horizon. In a half-loud tone, I mumble under my breath, I hope not, to which she responds with a light happy coquettish laugh. It goes right to my innermost depths; I find myself warming up to her as I have not warmed up to anyone in a very long time. I suddenly perceive a very subtle change in myself. I have become more sensitive, and appreciative of the world around me, as well as those I am with.

The donkey, Pedro, keeps plodding along in spite of the gathering darkness. It is as though he knows just where he will spend the night.

The wind has picked up; its nervous fingers find their way into every opening in our clothing that is not somehow able to be secured. Now and then, a heavier gust blows up along my back, making its way forward and finding a loose piece of Conchita’s long colourful dress, blowing it forward like the matador’s cape. I am somehow spellbound by the playful activity of the wind, in her long black satin hair as it blows into my face. It is an incessant battle to find a place where I can hold my head, still being able to look forward to see the path. I finally nudge her, pointing to a small heap of brush a few yards from the path. The pile of brush is high enough to provide some shelter from the wind. I dismount first; as my foot reaches the ground, I am aware that something is not in order. The ground seems too soft, and it is quite uneven. Taking a few steps, I notice that we are seemingly in the middle of a swamp-like clearing. I reach up to help Conchita down, carrying her in spite of her protests, the few paces to higher dry ground. She is looking at me with all manner of questions in her eyes, the most urgent being Why are we stopping? We should get on with the journey; otherwise, we may not be able to find Señor Ramirez’s hacienda before total darkness. I indicate to her that my seat is sore and that it feels like pulverized flesh. I tell her that I need a slight pause, and then take a short walk behind the brush pile. I notice on my return that she too has done the same thing. I feel much better now as we climb up into the cart and resume our journey. Conchita has sojourned this way many times, seemingly knows her way, even in the decreasing light of day. I am inwardly happy that my companion is so self-assured, and apparently afraid of nothing.

It is increasingly difficult to ignore my sitting ability on this hard seat. I whisper to Conchita that I would like to get down and walk a stretch. Darkness is closing in quite rapidly, as I slide down from the cart. Taking the halter in hand, we proceed onward. I let Pedro find his way. The scenery has by now become monotone, the sun having dipped below the horizon. Topping a small rise, Conchita makes an expression of joy that comes rushing out and penetrates my ear. In the distance, we see a rather spread-out farm. It is the hacienda of Señor Ramirez. I feel a sigh of relief escaping from my lips. However, it not only emerges from my lips; it also comes from my painfully sore bottom. As we come closer to the hacienda, the barking of the dogs becomes louder and more constant. They know someone is coming nearer, and they are the perfect guards. My ears have a hard time taking in this cacophony; after all, I have been used to the wind and the beautiful tone of Conchita’s lilting voice for days now. We descend at the gate as a gentleman in his early fifties comes slowly towards us. The darkness hides our features, and I sense the hesitation in his steps as he approaches, carrying a lantern. Immediately, as the beam of light from the lantern captures the face of Conchita, his face takes on a transformation. The smile spreading across his face from one side to the other shows his enthusiasm at seeing us. We are ushered into a large low-ceilinged room. Señor Ramirez is beside himself with happiness at seeing Conchita again. It has been a month or so since she left to complete her deliveries for her father. He is, like almost all people who live somewhat isolated from the rest of the world, lacking any news, so he is bubbling with anticipation to hear the latest from Conchita. I am very uncomfortable as I sit on the low chair before the fireplace. My uneasiness is hard to hide.

I confide to Señor Ramirez that I am not accustomed to riding in an unstable two-wheeled cart, I am very sore. He asks, Why didn’t you walk from Vila do Bispo? Gratitude is to be heard in my voice as I reply, Had I walked all that way, I would still be somewhere on the road, unable to enjoy his hospitality now! With joviality in his voice, he calls and introduces his wife Carmelita. Both women now enter into a rapid conversation. It is almost too fast for me to fully comprehend. Soon I recognize that the entire conversation revolves around women’s talk. Carmelita sets an earthenware bowl on the table, bidding us to come and eat. The beans, with their thick syrupy sauce and the finely cut piece of chicken, fill the emptiness of my stomach with warmth, which I have not experienced in days. It is difficult not to take more than two portions. The good wine along with the good host give me the feeling of being among friends. I am being bombarded with questions why a young man from Malaga should be travelling west all alone. I disclose to him my life’s ambition, the fact that I have been accepted at the navigators’ school outside of Sagres. The warmth of the fire, warding off the cool of the evening, the good wine and cosiness of the room, the excellent host in the form of Señor Ramirez, cause time to fly. He calls his son, Pepito, sending him outside to attend to Pedro and our wagon. The wine, my sore bottom, good company, and an excellent meal are taking their toll. I cannot hold back yawning several times. Our host gets up, shows me where I can lay my weary head and body. It is not a large room, but thoroughly adequate. He returns to the large room to continue his conversation with Conchita. I fall asleep listening to the two of them as they talk about the news she has brought.

Although I am exhausted, my sleep is anything but peaceful. I awaken several times with a start, wondering if I am in a safe place. I return to a fitful sleep, only this time my preoccupation is connected with the beautiful Conchita. She has somehow found her way into my heart. I am unable to understand my feelings, my affection for her, and my longing to hold her in my arms. I have never felt this way. The night seems incredibly long; the ever-present restlessness makes it that much longer. At long last the sun sends its fiery fingers into the sky. I cannot stay bedded down any longer. Slipping into my loose-fitting shirt, I walk through the door to the big room; the smell of fresh tortillas and eggs assaults my nose, awakening a hunger I have rarely experienced. Carmelita is busy at the fireplace, does not see me as I leave to go outside. I am curious about this hacienda, its construction, and everything connected with it. The building itself does not strike a large silhouette; it is low, approximately eight yards high. Its walls are made of clay and stone and are a half yard thick; making it warm in the winter, cool in the hot summer months. The roof is covered with large flat stones. I walk around the grounds; the chickens are walking aimlessly about, pecking here and there for some unseen morsel of food. The sun in my face is welcome, chasing the last vestiges of cold from my body as its warmth radiates through me. I wander around the yard and house, taking in all the details. Coming around the corner, I catch sight of something, a cloud of dust coming towards the hacienda. It is still early in the morning; people hardly awake are tending to their daily chores. A bright reflection off one of the lances sends shivers through me just as it had when I hurled myself into the thicket at the side of the road, to avoid encountering soldiers. I run to the house, relating what I have seen. Caramba! Pepito, get those chickens well hidden, otherwise we shall not be eating for a long time!

Si! He is off, vaulting through the door, with me close behind. After all, in such a situation, four hands are better than two. We have driven the chickens and other small animals into the thicket behind the house. I can only hope that soldiers will not hunt around the grounds for any livestock. Making our way towards the front yard, we stop dead in our tracks, as loud and harsh voices penetrate the still morning air. I tell Pepito that it would be best if we remain out of sight until the soldiers have left. The soldiers leave; we enter the front yard to find Señor Ramirez shaking like a leaf. Pepito tells me it is always the same after the soldiers leave. Pepito takes his father’s arm on one side and I assist on the other. We half carry him into the refuge of the house. During breakfast, there is much discussion about the unannounced swooping down of the Kings birds of prey. I say, Pepito, I think that we should make a more adequate place of seclusion for the animals! As Pepito’s father gets up to come with us, I motion him to remain seated. Pepito and I can finish the job. It takes almost the entire day to complete the task adequately, so that nothing remains suspect. The clouds have gathered, dark and black, as the increased wind drives them over the land. We are in for a bad storm, Pepito informs me. Hardly are the words out of his mouth, when it hits with all its might. The clouds dump their burden on all that lies below, land and people. Shaking the water off as we come into the large room, the warmth of the roaring fire makes it easy to forget that we have just had an unwelcome shower.

Time flies like the circling seagull. I am the centre of attention as I explain why I am going to such a desolate place like Land’s End. A good glass of wine helps to loosen my tongue and warm my innards. The storm continues through the late afternoon into the evening. It is late; the storm has continued on its way eastward. I am exhausted; I have not worked so hard physically in such a long time. I excuse myself, saying I have a long trip facing me in the morning. I retire to my small room, falling heavily on the bed. Although the situation is known, I feel extremely uncomfortable within these walls; sleep is very elusive.

It