“I say this old ship is as heavy as lead itself and not to be trusted either. She rides the sea badly and will not answer her helm. Why, she is as lopsided and crippled as I am! If you try to put her to port off she goes to starboard.”
In point of fact the Rayo was considered by all as bad a ship as ever sailed. But in spite of that, in spite of her advanced age—for she had been afloat nearly fifty-six years—as she was still sound she did not seem to be in any danger though the gale increased in fury every minute, for we were almost close to port. At any rate, did it not stand to reason that the Santa Ana was in greater jeopardy, dismasted and rudderless, in tow of a frigate?
Marcial was carried to the cockpit and Malespina to the captain’s cabin. When we had settled him there, with the rest of the wounded officers, I suddenly heard a voice that was familiar to me though for the moment I could not identify it with anyone I knew. However, on going up to the group whence the stentorian accents proceeded, drowning every other voice, what was my surprise at recognizing Don José María Malespina! I ran to tell him that his son was on board, and the worthy parent at once broke off the string of rodomontade that he was pouring forth and flew to the wounded man. His delight was great at finding him alive; he had come out of Cádiz because he could no longer endure the suspense and he must know what had become of his boy at any cost.
“Why your wound is a mere trifle,” he said, embracing his son. “A mere scratch! But you are not used to wounds; you are quite a mollycoddle, Rafael. Oh, if only you had been old enough to go with me to fight in Rousillon! You would have learned there what wounds are—something like wounds! Do you know a ball hit me in the fleshy part of the arm, ran up to my shoulder and then right round the shoulder blade and out by the belt. A most extraordinary case, that was. But in three days I was all right again and commanding the artillery at Bellegarde.” He went on to give the following account of his presence on board the Rayo.
“We knew the issue of the battle at Cádiz, by the evening of the 21st. I tell you, gentlemen—no one would listen to me when I talked of reforming our artillery and you see the consequences. Well, as soon as I knew the worst and had learned that Gravina had come in with a few ships I went to see if the San Juan Nepomuceno, on board which you were, was one of them; but they told me she had been captured. You cannot imagine my anxiety; I could hardly doubt that you were dead, particularly when I heard how many had been killed on board your ship. However, I am one of those men who must follow a matter up to the end, and knowing that some of the ships in port were preparing to put out to sea in hope of picking up derelicts and rescuing captured vessels, I determined to set out without a moment’s delay and sail in one of them. I explained my wishes to Solano and then to the Admiral in command, my old friend Escaño, and after some hesitation they allowed me on board. I embarked this morning, and enquired of everyone in the Rayo for some news of you and of the San Juan, but I could get no comfort; nay, quite the contrary, for I heard that Churruca was killed and that his ship, after a glorious defence, had struck to the enemy. You may fancy my anxiety. How far was I from supposing this morning, when we rescued the Santa Ana, that you were on board! If I had but known it for certain I would have redoubled my efforts in the orders I issued—by the kind permission of these gentlemen; Álava’s ship should have been free in two minutes.”
The officers who were standing round us looked at each other with a shrug as they heard Don José’s last audacious falsehood. I could gather from their smiles and winks that he had afforded them much diversion all day with his vainglorious fictions, for the worthy gentleman could put no bridle on his indefatigable tongue, even under the most critical and painful circumstances.
The surgeon now said that his patients ought to be left to rest and that there must be no conversation in their presence, particularly no reference to the recent disaster. Don José María, however, contradicted him flatly, saying that it was good to keep their spirits up by talking to them.
“In the war in Rousillon,” he added, “those who were badly wounded—and I was several times—sent for the soldiers to dance and play the guitar in the infirmary; and I am very certain that this treatment did more to cure us than all your plasters and dosing.”
“Yes, and in the wars with the French Republic,” said an Andalusian officer who wanted to trump Don José’s trick, “it was a regular thing that a corps de ballet should be attached to the ambulance corps, and an opera company as well. It left the surgeons and apothecaries nothing to do, for a few songs, and a short course of pirouettes and capers set them to rights again, as good as new.”
“Come, come!” cried Malespina, “this is too much. You do not mean to say that music and dancing can heal a wound?”
“You said so.”
“Yes, but that was only once and it is not likely to occur again. Perhaps you think it not unlikely that we may have such another war as that in Rousillon? The most bloody, the best conducted, the
