It was owing to the rapid decrease in their numbers, and in order to save them from extinction, that the Condesa had these enclosures, known as Matas Gordas, prepared. They contain excellent pasturage, besides some extent of brushwood; yet the enclosed camels do not flourish, nor have they ever bred. Big as the enclosures are, yet the area may be too restricted for them; or it may be the disturbance due to the presence of cattle and herdsmen (since the cerrados are let for grazing) that explains this failure; or possibly the camels resent being enclosed at all. At any rate the spectacle of troops of camels rushing wildly forward in all directions is pa.s.sing away all too quickly, and soon nothing but the legend will remain.

Truly it is melancholy that the wild camels should be allowed utterly to disappear, representing, as they do, so extraordinary a fact in zoological science.

Our friend Mr. William Garvey tells us that in the summer of 1907, while returning from Villamanrique, crossing the dry marisma in his automobile, he saw three camels. He drove towards them, and when at 500 or 600 yards, they turned and fled, he put on full speed (sixty miles an hour), and within some ten minutes had all three camels completely beaten, tongues hanging out, unable to go another yard!

This will be the first occasion when wild camels have been run down, in an open desert, by a motor-car!

_February 9, 1903._--This morning, shortly after daybreak, a big single bull camel pa.s.sed my "hide" in the Lucio de las Nuevas within easy ball-shot. He was splashing through water about two feet deep overgrown with samphire bushes, and "roared" at intervals--a curious sort of ventriloquial "gurgle," followed by a bellow which I could still distinguish when he had pa.s.sed quite two miles away. With the binoculars I distinguished at vast distance five other camels in the direction the single bull was taking.

Here we insert a note received from the co-author's brother, J. Crawhall Chapman:--

Oh, yes! I remember that camel-day--it's never likely to die out of my memory, for never did I endure a worse experience nor a harder in all my sporting life. It promised to be a great duck-shoot on the famous "Laguna Grande"; but for me, at any rate, it began, continued, and ended in misery! At 3.30 A.M., on opening my eyes, I saw Bertie already silently astir--probably seeking quinine or other febrifuge, for we were "housed" (save the mark) in Clarita's _choza_, a lethal mud-and reed-thatched hut many a mile out in the marisma. Nothing whatever lies within sight--nothing bar desolation of mud and stagnant waters, reeds, samphire, and BIRDS, relieved at intervals by the occasional and far-away view of a steamer's funnel, navigating the Guadalquivir Sevillewards.

Well, we arose, looked at what was intended for breakfast, and groped for our steeds. I was to ride an old polo-pony named _Bufalo_, an evil-tempered veteran with a long-spoilt "mouth" that ever resented the Spanish curb. Cold and empty we rode for two long hours in the dark, always following the leader since otherwise inevitable loss must ensue--splosh, splosh, through deep mud and deeper water, never stopping, always stumbling, slipping, slithering onwards. I feared it would never end; and, in fact, it never did--that is, the bog. For when I was finally told "Abajo"

(which I understood to mean "get down"), and to squat in a miry place so much like the rest of the swamp that it didn't seem to matter much where it really was--well, it was then only 6 A.M. and horribly cold and desolate.

[Ill.u.s.tration: WILD CAMELS OF THE MARISMA.

PHOTOS BY H.R.H. PHILIPPE, DUKE OF ORLEANS.

CAPTURING A WILD CAMEL.

THE CAPTIVE.]

An hour later the sun began to rise. I had not fired a shot--nor had any of us. As a duck-shoot it was a dismal failure. By eight o'clock the sun was quite hot, so I tried to find a stomach--for breakfast. Failed again; but drank some sherry, and then lay down till noon in decomposing and malodorous reed-mush and mud. Never a duck came near, so shifted my stye to an old dry ridge--apparently an antediluvian division between two equally noisome swamps. Here I tried to sleep, but that was no good, for a headache had set in--possibly the effects of sun and sherry combined! I felt the sweeping wind of a marsh-harrier who had found me too suddenly and was half a mile away ere I could get up to shoot.

At four o'clock I signalled for _Bufalo_ to take me back to our hut, distant eight miles, the only guide being that morning's outward tracks.

It was on this ride that there occurred the incident of the day--thrilling indeed had it not been for the headache that left me cheaper than cheap. Having traversed some three miles of mud and water, suddenly I saw ahead the "camels a-coming!"--eleven of them in line, the last a calf, and what a splash they made! Knowing how horses hate the smell and sight of camels, and _Bufalo_ being a rearing and uncomfortable beast at best, I felt perhaps unduly nervous. The camels were marching directly across my line of route and up-wind thereof. If only I could pa.s.s that intersecting point well before them, _Bufalo_, I hoped, might not catch the unwholesome scent. I tried all I could, but the mud was too sticky.

The camel-corps came on, splashing, snorting, and striding at high speed. _Bufalo_ saw them quick enough, I can tell you--he stopped dead, gazed and snorted in terror, spun round pirouetting half-a-dozen times, reared, and would certainly have bolted but that he stood well over his fetlocks in mud and nigh up to the girths in water. I could not induce him to face them anyhow; but remember, please, that I was handicapped by the ma.s.s of accoutrements and luggage slung around both me and my mount, to wit:--Several empty bottles and bags, remains of lunch, some 500 cartridges, three dozen ducks, a Paradox gun, waders, and brogues!

[Ill.u.s.tration]

Meantime the camels pa.s.sed my front within 100 yards and then "rounded up." Having loaded both barrels with ball, I felt safer, and pushed _Bufalo_ forwards--to fifty yards. Then the thought occurred to me, "Do camels charge?" _Bufalo_ reared, twisted, and splashed about in sheer horror, and then--thank goodness--the corps, with a parting roar, or rather a chorus of vicious gurgling grunts, in clear resentment at my presence on the face of the water at all, turned and bolted out west at full speed. I was left alone, and much relieved.

The adult camels were of the most disreputable, not to say dissolute appearance, great ugly tangled mats of loose hair hanging from their shoulders, ribs, and flanks, their small ears laid viciously aback, and with utterly disagreeable countenances. I half wish now that I had shot that leading bull--he would never have been missed! I don't suppose that any one has been nearer to these strange beasts than I was that day; certainly I trust never to see them so near again--never in this world!

While preparing these pages for press we are grieved to hear of the death of our friend Mr. William Garvey, whose adventure with the camels is narrated above (p. 279). Mr. Garvey, who was in his eightieth year, was a _Gentil Hombre de la Camara_ to King Alfonso and had on various occasions, with his nephew, Mr. Patrick Garvey, entertained the monarch on his splendid domain.

CHAPTER XXVIII

AFTER CHAMOIS IN THE ASTURIAS

PICOS DE EUROPA

At the chateau of Nuevos, hidden away amidst Cantabrian hills, hard by where the "Picos de Europa" form the most prominent feature of that 100-mile range, we were welcomed by the Conde de la Vega de Sella, whom we had met the previous year in Norway, and his friend Bernaldo de Quiros. Our host was a bachelor and the menage curiously mixed; there was a wild Mexican-Indian servant, but more alarming still, a tame wolf prowled free about the house--none too tame either, as testified by a half-healed wound on his master's arm. The bedrooms in the corridor which we occupied had no doors, merely curtains hanging across the doorway, and all night long that wolf pattered up and down the pa.s.sage outside. My own feelings will not be described--there was an ominous mien in that wolf's eye and in those immense jaws.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

Beyond patches of maize and other minute crops grown in infinitesimal fields divided by stone walls and surrounded by woods of chestnut and hazel, the whole landscape surrounding the chateau was composed of towering grey mountains. It was from this point that with our kind host we had projected an expedition to form acquaintance with chamois, and to see the system of a _monteria_ as practised in the Biscayan mountains.

The month was September.

The first stage--on wheels--brought us to the village of Arenas de Cabrales, where a gipsy fair or _Romeria_ was raging, affording striking display of local customs and fashion. The girls, handsome though somewhat stalwart, wearing on their heads bright-coloured kerchiefs (instead of, as in Andalucia, flowers in the hair), danced strange steps to the music of a drum and a sort of bagpipe called the _Gaita_. Cider here replaced wine as a beverage, and wooden sabots are worn instead of the hempen sandals of the south.

Maize is the chief crop, and women work hard, doing, except the ploughing, most of the field labour.

The hill-country around belonged chiefly to our host, who was received with a sort of feudal respect. Ancient rights included (this we were told, but did not see enforced) the privilege of kissing all pretty daughters of the estate. The region is primitive enough even for the survival of so agreeable a custom. Such detail in a serious work must appear frivolous by comparison, yet it reflects the _genius loci_.

This was the point at which we had to take the hill.

Our outfit was packed on ponies, and being joined by three of the chamois-hunters, we set out, following the course of the river Cares.

This gorge of the Cares, along with its sister-valley the Desfiladero de la Deva, form two of the most magnificent canyons in all the Asturias, and perhaps have few equals in the wider world outside. The bridle-track led along rock-shelves on the hanging mountain-side, presently falling again till we rode close by the torrent of the Cares, here swirling in foaming rapids with alternations of deep pools of such crystalline water that trout could be discerned swimming twenty feet below the surface.

The water varied between a diamond-white and an emerald-green, according as the stream flowed over the white limestone or rocks of darker shade.

Approaching Bulnes, the track became absolutely appalling, zigzagging to right and left up an almost perpendicular mountain. Riding was here out of the question. It was giddy work enough on foot, rounding corners where the outer rim overhung a sheer drop of hundreds of feet to the torrent below, and with no protection to save horse or man in the event of a slip or false step. Not without mental tremors we surmounted it and reached Bulnes, a dozen stone, windowless houses cl.u.s.tered on an escarpment. This is facetiously called the "Upper Town," and we presumed that another group of hovels hidden somewhere beneath our sight formed Lower Bulnes.

We entered the best looking of these stone-age abodes, and discovered that it formed the presbytery of the Cura of Bulnes, a strange mixture of alpine hut with Gothic hermitage. Slabs of rough stone projecting from unhewn walls served as tables, while rudely carved oak-chests did double duty as seats or wardrobes in turn. The Cura's bed occupied one corner, and from the walls hung gun and rifle, together with accoutrements of the chase--satchels, belts, and pouches, all made of chamois-skin. At first sight indeed the whole presbytery reeked rather of hunting than of holiness--it is scarce too strong to say it smelt of game. An inner apartment, windowless and lit by the feeble flicker of a _mariposa_, that recalled the reed-lights of mediaeval history (and to which, by the way, access was only gained past other cells which appeared to be the abode of cows and of the cook respectively), was a.s.signed to us.

The Padre himself was away on the cliffs above cutting hay, for he combines agriculture with the care of souls, owns many cows, and makes the celebrated cheese known as "Cabrales." Presently he joined us in his stone chamber, and at once showed himself to be, by his frank and genuine manner, what later experience proved him, a true sportsman and a most unselfish companion. His Reverence at once set about the details of organising our hunt, sent his nephew to round-up the mountain lads, some being sent off at once to spend that night, how, we know not, in crags of the Pena Vieja, while others were instructed to join us there in the morning.

While we dined on smoked chamois and rough red wine he busied himself arranging weapons, ammunition, and moca.s.sins for a few days' work on the crags. Our arrival having been prearranged, we were soon on our upward way, by sinous tracks which lead to the summits of the Picos de Europa, some alt.i.tudes of which are as follows: Pena Vieja, 10,046 feet; Picos de Hierro, 9610 feet; Pico de San Benigno, 9329 feet. All heavy baggage was left below; there only remained the tent, rugs, guns, and cartridges, and these were got up, heaven knows how, to about half the required height on the backs of two donkeys. For provisions we relied on the milk and bread of the cheese-makers who live up there, much in the style of the Norwegian peasants at their _saeters_, or summer sheilings on the fjeld. Hard by the _cabana_, or cabin, of these honest folks, our tent was pitched--alt.i.tude, 5800 feet.

With the first of the daylight, after a drink of milk, we started upwards, our host, the Cura, Bertie, and ourselves.

With us were ten goat-herds who had to flank the drive; the others would already be occupying allotted positions, we knew not where. Three hours'

climbing--the usual struggle, only worse--took us to the first line of "pa.s.ses," far above the last signs of vegetation and amidst what little snow remains here in summer. This "drive" had been reckoned a certainty, and four animals were reported seen in the mist, but no chamois came in to the guns, and yet another two-hours' climb had to be faced ere the second set of posts was reached.

This bit, however, definitely stopped for the moment my career as a chamois-hunter, such was the slippery, perpendicular, and utterly dangerous nature of the rocks. A fortnight before I had climbed the Plaza de Almanzor in the Sierra de Gredos, but these pinnacles of the Picos proved beyond my powers. The admission, beyond any words of mine, bespeaks the character of these Cantabrian peaks. Here on a dizzy ledge at 8000 feet I remained behind, while the rest of the party, filing up a rock-stair, were lost to sight within fifteen yards.

Before me stretched away peak beyond peak in emulating alt.i.tudes the whole vast cordillera of Cantabria--a glory of mountain-forms.

...the things which tower, which shine, Whose smile makes glad, whose frown is terrible.

In majestic array, pinnacles and crannied summits, flecked and streaked with glistening snows, enthral and subdue. The giants Pena Vieja, Urriales, Garnizo, lift their heads above the rest, piercing the blue ether--fancied spires in some celestial shrine.

This smiling noontide an all-pervading spirit of peace reigns; the sublimity of solitude generates reverence and awe, the voice of the Creator seems audible amidst encompa.s.sing silence.

Far away below, as in another world, lie outspread champaigns; sunlit stubbles, newly stripped of autumnal crops, form chequers of contrasted colour that set off with golden background the dark Asturian woods, while fresh green pastures blend in harmony with the riant foliage of the vine.

Presently, following my companion, a goat-herd, who had been left with me, by slow degrees we reached the spot appointed to await our party's return.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE HOME OF THE CHAMOIS.