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The VeteranThe Veteran
The Veteran
Among the curious acquaintances I made in my rambles about the fortress,
was a brave and battered old colonel of Invalids, who was nestled like a hawk
in one of the Moorish towers. His history, which he was fond of telling, was
a tissue of those adventures, mishaps, and vicissitudes that render the life
of almost every Spaniard of note as varied and whimsical as the pages of Gil
Blas.
He was in America at twelve years of age, and reckoned among the most
signal and fortunate events of his life, his having seen General Washington.
Since then he had taken a part in all the wars of his country; he could speak
experimentally of most of the prisons and dungeons of the Peninsula; had been
lamed of one leg, crippled in his hands, and so cut up and carbonadoed that he
was a kind of walking monument of the troubles of Spain, on which there was a
scar for every battle and broil, as every year of captivity was notched upon
the tree of Robinson Crusoe. The greatest misfortune of the brave old
cavalier, however, appeared to have been his having commanded at Malaga during
a time of peril and confusion, and been made a general by the inhabitants,
to protect them from the invasion of the French. This had entailed upon him a
number of just claims upon government, that I feared would employ him until
his dying day in writing and printing petitions and memorials, to the great
disquiet of his mind, exhaustion of his purse, and penance of his friends; not
one of whom could visit him without having to listen to a mortal document of
half an hour in length, and to carry away half a dozen pamphlets in his
pocket. This, however, is the case throughout Spain; every where you meet with
some worthy wight brooding in a corner, and nursing up some pet grievance and
cherished wrong. Besides, a Spaniard who has a lawsuit, or a claim upon
government, may be considered as furnished with employment for the remainder
of his life.
I visited the veteran in his quarters in the upper part of the Torre del
Vino, or Wine Tower. His room was small but snug, and commanded a beautiful
view of the Vega. It was arranged with a soldier`s precision. Three muskets
and a brace of pistols, all bright and shining, were suspended against the
wall, with a sabre and a cane hanging side by side, and above them, two cocked
hats, one for parade, and one for ordinary use. A small shelf, containing some
half dozen books, formed his library, one of which, a little old mouldy volume
of philosophical maxims, was his favorite reading. This he thumbed and
pondered over day by day; applying every maxim to his own particular case,
provided it had a little tinge of wholesome bitterness, and treated of the
injustice of the world.
Yet he was social and kind-hearted, and provided he could be diverted
from his wrongs and his philosophy, was an entertaining companion. I like
these old weather-beaten sons of fortune, and enjoy their rough campaigning
anecdotes. In the course of my visits to the one in question, I learnt some
curious facts about an old military commander of the fortress, who seems to
have resembled him in some respects, and to have had similar fortunes in the
wars. These particulars have been augmented by inquiries among some of the old
inhabitants of the place, particularly the father of Mateo Ximenes, of whose
traditional stories the worthy I am about to introduce to the reader, was a
favorite hero.
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