Chapter LXIII. Of how badly Sancho Panza fared on the visit to the galleys, and the new adventure of the beautiful Morisca

Great were the reflections Don Quixote made on the enchanted head’s answer, without any of them hitting upon the trick, and all of them came to rest on the promise, which he took for certain, of Dulcinea’s disenchantment. He went over it and over it, rejoicing within himself, believing that he would soon see it fulfilled; and Sancho, though he loathed being a governor, as has been said, still wished to give orders again and be obeyed; for this is the bad luck that command brings with it, even command in jest.

In short, that afternoon Don Antonio Moreno, his host, and his two friends went with Don Quixote and Sancho to the galleys. The commander, who had been told of their happy coming, was eager to see the two so famous Quixote and Sancho, and they had scarcely reached the shore when all the galleys struck their awnings and the shawms sounded; then they put the skiff into the water, covered with rich carpets and cushions of crimson velvet, and the moment Don Quixote set his feet in it the flagship fired her gangway cannon, and the other galleys did the same; and as Don Quixote climbed up the starboard ladder, the whole crew of rowers saluted him as is the custom when a person of rank comes aboard a galley, crying “Hoo, hoo, hoo!” three times. The general, for so we shall call him, who was a Valencian gentleman of rank, gave him his hand; he embraced Don Quixote, saying to him:

“This day I shall mark with a white stone, for it is one of the best I expect to spend in my life, now that I have seen Señor Don Quixote of La Mancha: a time and a sign that shows us that all the worth of knight-errantry is contained and summed up in him.”

Don Quixote answered him with other words no less courteous, overjoyed to see himself treated so like a lord. They all went into the poop, which was very well fitted out, and sat down on the side benches; the boatswain went along the gangway and gave the signal with his whistle for the rowers to strip, which was done in an instant. Sancho, seeing so many people stark naked, was stunned, and more so when he saw them spread the awning with such speed that it seemed to him all the devils were at work there; but all this was cakes and fancy bread next to what I shall now tell. Sancho was sitting on the stern post, beside the stroke oarsman on the right-hand side, who, already told what he was to do, seized hold of Sancho, and, lifting him up in his arms, the whole crew standing up and on the alert, beginning on the right-hand side, sent him passing and spinning over the rowers’ arms from bench to bench, so fast that poor Sancho lost the sight of his eyes, and no doubt thought the very demons were carrying him off; and they did not stop with him until they had brought him back by the left-hand side and set him down in the poop. The poor fellow was left battered and panting and in a sweat, unable to imagine what it was that had happened to him.

Don Quixote, who had seen Sancho’s wingless flight, asked the general whether those were ceremonies used with people coming aboard galleys for the first time; because, if by chance they were, he, who had no intention of taking vows in them, did not wish to go through such exercises, and he swore to God that if anyone came to lay hold of him to spin him about, he would kick the soul out of him; and, saying this, he rose to his feet and gripped his sword.

At that instant they struck the awning and with a tremendous noise let the yard fall from on high. Sancho thought the sky was coming off its hinges and falling on his head; and, ducking it, full of fear, he put it between his legs. Don Quixote was not altogether easy either; for he too shuddered and hunched his shoulders and lost the color in his face. The crew hoisted the yard with the same speed and noise with which they had lowered it, and all of this in silence, as though voice and breath had been taken from them. The boatswain signaled them to weigh anchor, and, leaping into the middle of the gangway with his bullwhip, or lash, he began to flick at the rowers’ backs, and little by little they put out to sea. When Sancho saw so many red feet moving all at once, for that is what he took the oars to be, he said to himself:

“These really are enchanted things, and not the ones my master talks about. What have these poor wretches done that they whip them like this, and how does this one man who goes about whistling here have the nerve to whip so many people? Now I say this is hell, or at the very least purgatory.”

Don Quixote, who saw how closely Sancho was watching what went on, said to him:

“Ah, Sancho, my friend, how quickly and at how little cost you might, if you would, strip yourself from the waist up and put yourself among these gentlemen and finish off Dulcinea’s disenchantment! For amid the misery and pain of so many, you would not feel your own much; and, what is more, it might be that the sage Merlin would count each one of these lashes, being laid on by a good hand, for ten of the ones you must give yourself in the end.”

The general wanted to ask what lashes those were, or what disenchantment of Dulcinea, when the sailor said:

“Monjuí signals that there is an oared vessel off the coast on the western side.”

Hearing this, the general leaped onto the gangway and said:

“Come on, lads, don’t let her get away! This must be some brigantine of Algerian corsairs that the watchtower is signaling to us.”

Then the other three galleys came up to the flagship to learn what their orders were. The general ordered two of them to put out to sea while he with the other would keep close inshore, because in that way the vessel would not escape them. The crews pulled at the oars, driving the galleys forward with such fury that they seemed to fly. Those that put out to sea sighted a vessel about two miles off, which by eye they judged to be of some fourteen or fifteen benches, and so it was in truth; and this vessel, when it sighted the galleys, ran for it, with the intention and hope of escaping by its lightness; but it fared badly, because the flagship was one of the lightest vessels sailing the sea, and so she gained on it until those on the brigantine saw plainly that they could not escape; and so their captain would have had them leave the oars and surrender, so as not to provoke to anger the captain who commanded our galleys. But fortune, which was steering things otherwise, ordained that, just as the flagship came so close that those on the vessel could hear the voices calling on them from her to surrender, two toraquís, which is as much as to say two drunken Turks, who were coming in the brigantine with these twelve, fired two muskets, with which they killed two soldiers who were standing on our forecastle. Seeing which, the general swore not to leave alive a single one of all those he took on the vessel, and when he came on to ram it with full fury, the vessel slipped away from him under the oars. The galley ran on past a good distance; those on the vessel saw they were lost, made sail while the galley was turning, and once more, under sail and oar, ran for it; but their diligence did not help them so much as their boldness harmed them, because the flagship, overtaking them a little more than half a mile on, threw her oars over them and took them all alive.

At this point the other two galleys came up, and all four returned with the prize to the beach, where countless people were waiting for them, eager to see what they were bringing. The general dropped anchor near land and saw that the city’s viceroy was down on the shore. He had the skiff lowered to bring him, and ordered the yard lowered so as to hang at once, without delay, the captain and the rest of the Turks he had taken in the vessel, who must have been some thirty-six persons, all of them fine-looking, and most of them Turkish musketeers. The general asked who was the captain of the brigantine, and he was answered in the Castilian tongue by one of the captives, who afterward turned out to be a Spanish renegade:

“This youth, sir, whom you see here is our captain.”

And he pointed out to him one of the most beautiful and gallant young men that human imagination could paint. His age, by the look of him, did not reach twenty years. The general asked him:

“Tell me, you ill-advised dog, who moved you to kill my soldiers, when you saw it was impossible to escape? Is that the respect paid to flagships? Don’t you know that rashness is not valor? Doubtful hopes should make men bold, but not rash.”

The captain wanted to answer; but the general could not hear the answer just then, because he went to receive the viceroy, who was already coming aboard the galley, and with him came some of his servants and some people of the town.

“The hunt has gone well, lord general!” said the viceroy.

“So well,” answered the general, “that Your Excellency shall see it now hanging from this yard.”

“How so?” replied the viceroy.

“Because, against all law and against all reason and the usage of war,” answered the general, “they have killed me two of the best soldiers aboard these galleys, and I have sworn to hang every one I have taken captive, chiefly this youth, who is the captain of the brigantine.”

And he showed him the one who already had his hands tied and the rope thrown about his neck, waiting for death.

The viceroy looked at him, and, seeing him so handsome, and so gallant, and so humble, his beauty serving him in that instant as a letter of recommendation, he felt a desire to spare him from death; and so he asked him:

“Tell me, captain, are you a Turk by birth, or a Moor, or a renegade?”

To which the youth answered, likewise in the Castilian tongue:

“I am neither a Turk by birth, nor a Moor, nor a renegade.”

“Then what are you?” replied the viceroy.

“A Christian woman,” answered the youth.

“A woman and a Christian, and in such dress and in such straits? It is a thing more to marvel at than to believe.”

“Suspend, O my lords,” said the youth, “the carrying out of my death, for little will be lost if your vengeance is put off while I tell you my life.”

Who could have so hard a heart that he would not have softened at these words, or at least until he had heard those the sad and pitiful youth wished to speak? The general told the youth to say what he wished, but not to expect to obtain pardon for a fault that was plain to all. With this leave, the youth began to speak in this manner:

“Of that nation more unfortunate than prudent, upon which a sea of misfortunes has rained down in these days, I was born, begotten of Morisco parents. In the current of their misfortune I was carried off to Barbary by two uncles of mine, and it was no use my saying that I was a Christian, as in fact I am, and not one of the feigned or seeming ones, but of the true and Catholic. It did me no good to tell this truth to those who had charge of our wretched banishment, nor would my uncles believe it; rather, they took it for a lie and a scheme to stay behind in the land where I had been born, and so, more by force than by my will, they brought me with them. I had a Christian mother, and a father who was sensible and a Christian, neither more nor less; I drank in the Catholic faith with my milk; I was brought up in good ways; neither in my speech nor in them did I ever, as far as I know, give signs of being a Morisca. Side by side and step by step with these virtues, for I believe they are such, my beauty grew, if I have any; and though my modesty and seclusion were great, they cannot have been so great that a young gentleman named Don Gaspar Gregorio, eldest son and heir of a gentleman who has another village next to ours, did not find a chance to see me. How he saw me, how we spoke, how he found himself lost for me and how I was not so very much won by him, would take long to tell, and the more so at a time when I fear that the harsh rope that threatens me will come between my tongue and my throat; and so I will only tell how Don Gregorio chose to go with me in our banishment. He mingled with the Moriscos who came out of other villages, for he knew the language very well, and on the journey he made friends with my two uncles who were bringing me with them; because my father, prudent and forewarned, as soon as he heard the first edict of our banishment, left the village and went to seek one in foreign kingdoms that would take us in. He left shut up and buried, in a place of which I alone know, many pearls and stones of great value, with some money in cruzados and gold doubloons. He ordered me on no account to touch the treasure he was leaving, if by chance they banished us before he came back. I did so, and with my uncles, as I have said, and other relatives and connections, we crossed over to Barbary; and the place where we settled was Algiers, as if we had settled in hell itself. The king had word of my beauty, and rumor gave him word of my riches, which in part was my good fortune. He called me before him, asked me what part of Spain I was from and what money and what jewels I had brought. I told him the village, and that the jewels and money were left buried there, but that, were I to go back for them myself, they could easily be recovered. I told him all this, fearing that it might not be my beauty that blinded him but his greed. While he was in these talks with me, they came to tell him that with me had come one of the most gallant and handsome youths that could be imagined. I understood at once that they meant Don Gaspar Gregorio, whose beauty leaves behind the greatest that can be praised. I was alarmed, considering the danger Don Gregorio was in, because among those barbarous Turks a boy or a handsome youth is more prized and esteemed than a woman, however lovely she may be. The king ordered at once that he be brought there before him so that he could see him, and asked me whether what they said of that youth was true. Then I, almost as though forewarned by heaven, told him that it was; but that I wished him to know that it was not a man but a woman like myself, and I begged him to let me go and dress her in her natural dress, so that she might show her beauty fully and appear before him with less embarrassment. He told me to go, and welcome, and that the next day we would talk of the way it might be managed for me to go back to Spain to bring out the hidden treasure. I spoke with Don Gaspar and told him of the danger he ran in showing himself to be a man; I put him in a Moorish woman’s clothes, and that very afternoon I brought him into the presence of the king, who on seeing him was amazed, and formed the design of keeping her to make a present of her to the Grand Lord; and, to avoid the danger she might run in the seraglio of his wives, and the danger he might fear from himself, he ordered her to be put in the house of some Moorish ladies of rank who would guard and serve her, and there he was taken at once. What the two of us felt (for I cannot deny that I love him) I leave to the consideration of those who must part though they love each other well. The king then arranged for me to go back to Spain in this brigantine, and for two Turks by birth to go with me, and they were the ones who killed your soldiers. This Spanish renegade came with me too”—pointing to the one who had spoken first—“of whom I know well that he is a hidden Christian and that he comes with more desire of staying in Spain than of going back to Barbary; the brigantine’s other rowers are Moors and Turks, who serve for nothing more than to pull at the oar. The two Turks, greedy and insolent, without keeping to the orders we had, that they were to put me and this renegade ashore at the first point of Spain, in Christian dress, with which we came provided, chose first to sweep this coast and take some prize if they could, fearing that if they put us ashore first, through some mishap that might befall the two of us, we might reveal that the brigantine was left at sea, and that, if by chance there were galleys along this coast, they would take them. Last night we sighted this beach, and, knowing nothing of these four galleys, we were sighted, and there has befallen us what you have seen. In short: Don Gregorio is left in woman’s dress among women, in plain danger of being lost, and I see myself with my hands tied, waiting, or, better said, fearing, to lose my life, which already wearies me. This, my lords, is the end of my lamentable story, as true as it is unhappy; what I beg of you is that you let me die as a Christian, since, as I have said, I have had no share at all in the guilt into which those of my nation have fallen.”

And then she fell silent, her eyes big with tender tears, which were joined by many from those who were present. The viceroy, tender and compassionate, without speaking a word to her, went up to her and with his own hands took off the rope that bound the Moorish girl’s lovely hands.

Now, while the Christian Morisca was telling her strange story, an aged pilgrim, who had come aboard the galley when the viceroy did, kept his eyes fixed on her; and the Morisca had scarcely ended her account when he threw himself at her feet, and, clasping them, in words broken by a thousand sobs and sighs, he said to her:

“O Ana Félix, my unhappy daughter! I am your father Ricote, who was coming back to look for you because I cannot live without you, for you are my soul.”

At these words Sancho opened his eyes and lifted his head (he had kept it bowed, thinking about the misfortune of his outing), and, looking at the pilgrim, he recognized him as the same Ricote he had met the day he left his government, and he made sure that this was his daughter, who, now untied, embraced her father, mingling her tears with his; and he said to the general and the viceroy:

“This, my lords, is my daughter, more unfortunate in her fortunes than in her name. Ana Félix she is called, with the surname of Ricote, as famous for her beauty as for my riches. I left my homeland to seek in foreign kingdoms someone who would shelter and take us in, and, having found it in Germany, I came back in this pilgrim’s dress, in the company of other Germans, to look for my daughter and to dig up a great deal of wealth I left hidden. I did not find my daughter; I found the treasure, which I bring with me, and now, by the strange roundabout way you have seen, I have found the treasure that enriches me most, which is my dear daughter. If our small fault and her tears and mine can, through the integrity of your justice, open doors to mercy, use it with us, for we never had a thought of offending you, nor did we in any way agree with the intention of our people, who have justly been banished.”

Then Sancho said:

“I know Ricote well, and I know what he says is true as far as Ana Félix being his daughter goes; as for those other odds and ends about coming and going and having good or bad intentions, I don’t meddle in them.”

All those present being amazed at the strange case, the general said:

“Be that as it may, your tears will not let me fulfill my oath: live, fair Ana Félix, the years of life that heaven has allotted you, and let the insolent and bold who committed the fault bear the penalty for it.”

And he ordered at once that the two Turks who had killed his two soldiers be hanged from the yard; but the viceroy earnestly asked him not to hang them, since theirs had been more madness than valor. The general did what the viceroy asked of him, because vengeance is not well carried out in cold blood. Then they tried to work out a plan for getting Don Gaspar Gregorio out of the danger in which he had been left. Ricote offered more than two thousand ducats he had in pearls and jewels for the purpose. Many means were proposed, but none was as good as the one put forward by the Spanish renegade already mentioned, who offered to go back to Algiers in some small boat of about six benches, manned by Christian oarsmen, because he knew where, how, and when he could and should land, and he was not ignorant either of the house where Don Gaspar had been left. The general and the viceroy hesitated to trust the renegade, or to rely on the Christians who were to pull the oars; Ana Félix vouched for him, and Ricote, her father, said he would stand surety for the Christians’ ransom, if by chance they were lost.

Agreed, then, on this course, the viceroy went ashore, and Don Antonio Moreno took the Morisca and her father with him, the viceroy charging him to make much of them and treat them as kindly as he possibly could; for his part he offered whatever there was in his house for their comfort. Such was the benevolence and charity that Ana Félix’s beauty had instilled in his breast.