The Man had declared his fixed intention of taking ship for Palma that night, no matter what weather conditions should prevail. So it was with unfeigned relief I learned at breakfast that, owing to the violence of the tempest, the mail steamer we expected to travel in had been unable to leave Barcelona.

The wind still continuing high, there was some doubt as to how long we would be held prisoners. But even if the steamer direct to Palma was not able to run, we might return by the shorter sea route by which we had come, landing at the Port of Alcudia, and, after a night pa.s.sed at our comfortable _fonda_ there, taking diligence and train back to Palma.

A return trip in the steady little _Monte Toro_ would have been a pleasure, but when we made inquiry at the shipping-office in the harbour we learned that the _Monte Toro_ had already been laid aside for cleaning and that the _Vicente Sanz_ had been deputed to take up her running.

The young clerk of the shipping company, who was m.u.f.fled over the ears by the upturned collar of his astrakhan-trimmed top-coat and had his cap's chin-string in active service, shook a dubious head over the prospect of the _Isla de Menorca_ being able to cross from Spain, not only on that night but for many nights to come. The prevalent wind, according to him, often raged for considerable periods. Once for two months, he solemnly declared, no mails had been able to reach Minorca.

We devoutly hoped he lied. Still, in case a grain of truth might lurk at the bottom of his gloomy prognostications, we decided to have a look at the cabin accommodation of the _Vicente Sanz_, which was lying a few yards away.

The black and grimy _Vicente Sanz_ looked what she was--a cargo-boat that had been hastily adapted to the pa.s.senger service. One glance at her build was enough to convince even a tyro that as a roller she would be unequalled. Right aft over the screw a few cramped four-berth cabins formed the first-cla.s.s accommodation, while the sailors' bunks in the forecastle head had been fitted up as second-cla.s.s.

We fled the _Vicente Sanz_, convinced that only dire necessity would compel us to voyage in her.

The few people we encountered in the streets were huddled in cloaks and shawls, and the custom of m.u.f.fling the lower part of the face gave the women something of an Eastern appearance. Perhaps it was due to the chilling effect of the weather, but to us foreigners the Minorcans appeared to lack the gracious charm of the Majorcans.

Though we saw plenty of pretty faces, the girls of Mahon did not appear so universally attractive as those of Palma. The conditions of life are harder, the climate more severe, and the hard water used may have a bad effect on the complexions. There was no distinctive native dress either, and we missed it.

The blood of many nations mingles in Minorcan veins--Vandal, Carthaginian, Moorish, Spanish, British and French. Port Mahon was originally called after Mago, the youngest son of Hamilcar, brother of Hannibal. The pa.s.sage of time is responsible for the corruption of _Portus Magonis_ into Port Mahon.

The island, which is about the size of the Isle of Wight, has known many rulers. For several hundred years the Romans held it. About the ninth century it lapsed into the hands of the Moors, who possessed it until in the thirteenth century King Jaime, the Conquistador of Majorca, demanded and received its capitulation. Two hundred years later, Barbarossa, the pirate chief, having entered the harbour by stratagem, besieged Mahon and captured it. Early in the eighteenth century the British took Minorca and held it for fifty years, until Admiral Byng allowed the French to capture it--a "misconduct" for which, after eight months of close arrest, he was shot.

To her social and commercial advantage Minorca was restored to Britain at the peace of 1763, only to be seized by France and Spain while Britain was engrossed by the American War. Watching the opportunity, Britain retaliated at the time of the French Revolution by retaking Minorca, which remained hers until, by the conditions of the peace of Amiens, the island was ceded to Spain.

"Well," said the Man, as a fierce gust blew us into the portal of the Fonda Central, "when I saw this place I felt grieved that the British had ever given it up to Spain, but I must confess that at this moment I'd gladly hand it over to any nation that would take a gift of it!"

In the afternoon the wind, though still turbulent, had moderated a little. We let it blow us out to San Luis, along a fine level and absolutely straight road that in summer, when the trees are in leaf, must be charming.

San Luis has all the outward semblance of a French village. Even the church looked French, and was light and airy, in striking contrast to the sombre church interiors of Majorca. The streets of the village were broad, and the roads leading to it were planted on either side with trees.

The whole atmosphere was so reminiscent of Northern France that it was no surprise on entering the general shop to be greeted in French by the young man in charge. He, as he confessed, had secretly been studying the language for some months, and he was evidently spoiling to try his new acquirement upon foreigners of any nationality. The French, which he spoke very fairly, but which speedily lapsed into Spanish, naturally recalled our first impression of the place, and we remarked upon it.

A bright small boy, who with his father was in the shop, explained matters. San Luis _was_ a French village, he said. It was named after the French king and had been built during the French occupation of the island. The site had been laid out and the church designed by French architects.

For the moment we had forgotten that the French flag had flown over Minorca, but the boy's words brought back something we had read of the fete Madame de Pompadour gave at the Hermitage of Compiegne, where the Court happened to be when the news arrived of the taking of Port Mahon. A royal fete, when fountains flowed wine, and ribbons and sword-knots _a la Mahon_ were distributed to the guests.

While buying sweets in the shop, we noticed a gla.s.s jar of the black sticks of Spanish liquorice beloved of our childhood. And on a shelf was a row of genuine English cottage-loaves.

The wind had obligingly blown us on our feet out the three miles to San Luis, but we wisely drove back. Sitting snugly inside the closed carriage, watching the storm-harried crops and shrubs bend before the wind, while the sun beat warmly upon us, we agreed that, if one could only travel about in a gla.s.s-sided box during gales, life in Minorca would be fine. We fully realized the necessity for the houses being built of slabs of stone nearly twice as thick as those used in the sister island.

In Minorca, somehow, we did not feel quite so much aliens as we did at first in Majorca. The greatest prosperity the island had known had been under British government, and the native mind seemed to cherish a kindly feeling towards our nation. It was curious that while in Palma we were always supposed to be French, in Mahon we were at once recognized as English.

A few English words have been absorbed into the Minorcan language, as people seemed proud to tell us. But the only examples we gathered were "stop," "please," and "nuncle."

In the harbour, over the door of a small tavern that bore no other sign, we saw suspended a bit of a shrub. Remembering the white wand at the door of the change-house in the clachan of Aberfoyle, we wondered if that symbol also had drifted across the seas.

It was with something of the sensation of marooned sailors that on Friday night we fell asleep, to awake to changed conditions. The sun shone from a clear blue sky. The sting had disappeared from the wind, and the air was comparatively mild and calm.

When we descended to breakfast, the young man upon whose fragmentary accomplishment the Hotel Central founded its claim to put "English Spoken" on its cards hastened to greet us with the welcome news: "The sheep 'as arrive."

Going down to the harbour, we found ocular evidence that the report was true. The _Isla de Menorca_ had arrived and would sail for Palma at 7 o'clock that evening. Our friend of the shipping office was silent and despondent. The weather had disappointed him by declining to act up to his gloomy antic.i.p.ations.

Going, under his escort, to look over the ship, we found her a great, broad, tubby boat. At small tables placed on trestles on deck the crew were seated at breakfast, tall bottles of wine before them.

The first saloon accommodation was gay in red plush. That was its only recommendation, for it was woefully cramped in point of s.p.a.ce, and the cabins were placed directly over the screw. The second saloon, which was amidships, occupied far more room. The steward suggested the probability of my having the large and cheerful ladies' cabin to myself. On the previous night's journey from Barcelona there had been only one lady pa.s.senger. Greatly daring, we hinted that in the event of no other senora arriving, we three might share it.

When we had parted from our escort, leaving him, we felt a.s.sured, inwardly deploring the comparative calm, and ghoulishly hoping for a sudden change of weather, the Man went off to finish his much interrupted sketch; while the Boy and I walked up to the market-square, from which--Minorca having no railways--a constant succession of more or less ramshackle vehicles acting as diligences left for the towns and villages round about.

Accosting the driver of the nearest, we asked its destination.

"Villa Carlos."

"And the charge?"

"Fifteen centimos each."

"When will the carriage start?"

The driver made the motion of the hands that takes the place of the Frenchman's shrug of the shoulders.

"When it is full," he replied, and we got in. A polite Spaniard joined us. A little delay, and he was followed by a girl with a market basket. The driver, after gazing to east and west, and north and south, without discovering sign of any additional pa.s.sengers, mounted the box-seat, which he shared with two big sacks of potatoes, and at last we started.

Having jolted up a long long street of white houses, several of whose owners were busy with brush and whitewash pail effacing any traces of the storm, we rattled out over two miles of glaringly white road. Villa Carlos is a white town of small houses grouped about a big square of barracks on the top of a cliff, near the mouth of the harbour.

The situation is exposed, and as the wind, though childlike and bland compared to the icy blasts of the preceding days, was by no means asleep, we found our way down to sea-level, and rested on a stone bench in the shelter of a great wall close by where the water curves into the little bay of Cala Fonts.

The sea was purring at our feet. Between the fortress above us and that on the opposite sh.o.r.e, sail-boats, like winged things, skimmed past. Producing an unexpected box of pastels, the Boy began to make a rapid sketch of the pigmy harbour with its blue water and the half circle of houses that outlined its rocky coast.

It was amusing to sit there and try to picture the appearance of the various fleets that must have sailed by on victory bent. When Barbarossa, the pirate chief, flying Christian banners to deceive the guardians of the forts, steered his eleven galleys up the harbour, he must have pa.s.sed the very spot where we sat.

Although the scene was tranquil, there was a constant movement of life. Two women carrying sacks and small picks came and foraged among the rocks for tufts of gra.s.s or other green stuff. A military water-cart drawn by a white mule, whose harness was resplendent with scarlet ta.s.sels, moved by, attended by a party of soldiers in white fatigue uniforms, their bare feet thrust into sandals.

During a temporary stillness I caught the sound of a soft little crooning voice that harmonized sweetly with the murmur of the sea.

It seemed to come from quite near, but there was no one in sight.

Advancing to the edge of the bank, I looked down. On a ledge of the rock a few feet beneath, a little boy attired in sketchy garments sat fishing, and as he fished he crooned softly to himself, after the habit of contented children all the world over.

His piscatorial implements were even more rudimentary than was his clothing. They consisted of a few inches of rod and a shred of string. His bait was a skinny hermit crab that he had sc.r.a.ped out of some crevice of the rock. A poor bait doubtless, but I can a.s.sure you the catch was even poorer. Still, perched on his ledge in the warm sunshine, Enrique fished hopefully and was happy.

It was so delightful to be out of the wind that we would gladly have lingered. But the hour when the Man and luncheon would be awaiting us was near. Returning to the barrack square, which was melodious with the strains of a waltz played by an unseen military band, we got into a conveyance that was on the point of starting.

A young corporal of Engineers quickly followed us, saluting as he entered. He was a good-looking, reddish-fair man, a native of the island, and an admirable example of the educated conscript. Hearing that we were British, he called to another corporal of the corps who was playing with a dog near, and who, on being introduced by his friend, spoke to us in surprisingly good English. Not only so, but he understood perfectly when spoken to, a much rarer accomplishment in a foreign language. He said he had been learning our language for ten months only, and without leaving Minorca.

I don't know who his instructor had been; there are said to be no English residents in Mahon, yet the soldier certainly spoke good colloquial English. As we parted he amused us by saluting and saying "Well, so-long!"

Another corporal having got into the conveyance--whose only flooring seemed to be a sagging mat--we started for Mahon. He, like the first, was a specialist in signalling and telegraphy. Both of these men struck us as taking their soldiering really seriously. They had each served two years in Madrid to learn their business thoroughly, and now had charge of telegraph stations on opposite sides of the harbour from each other.

On one happy possession Minorca must be most heartily congratulated.

She has a most excellent British Vice-Consul. When we called on him at his house in the Calle Rosario (just off the picturesque Calle de San Roque), which was not until the last afternoon of our stay at Mahon, his reception of us was so cordial that we sincerely regretted not having called sooner.

Senor Bartolome Escudero has many qualifications for the post he holds, and not least among them is a perfect knowledge of the language of the country he represents. Not only does the senor speak English, but it is his hobby to teach it to others who show a desire to learn.