About Sancho Panza’s ordeal during his visit to the galleys, and the daring adventure of the beautiful Moorish woman.
DON QUIXOTE meditated on the response of the enchanted head. None of these meditations led him to figure out the trick, but all of them centered around the promise—which he held as true—of the disenchantment of Dulcinea. He paced about and inwardly rejoiced that he would soon see it accomplished. And Sancho, although he abhorred being a governor, as has been said, still wanted to command and be obeyed—this is the curse that being in authority carries with it, even though it’s just mock authority.
So, that afternoon, don Antonio—his host—and his two friends went with don Quixote and Sancho to the galleys. The commodore, who already knew they were coming, was eager to see the famous don Quixote and Sancho. As they got to the shore, all the galleys drew their awnings back and chirimías began to play. They lowered a skiff into the water, which was adorned with ornate rugs and cushions, covered with crimson velvet, and as soon as don Quixote put his foot into the skiff, the flagship discharged its midship cannon, and the other galleys did the same, and when don Quixote began to mount the starboard ladder, the crew greeted him, as they always do when an important person arrives on deck, saying HU, HU, HU three times.
The general—for that’s what we’ll call him—who was an important Valencian knight, offered his hand, saying: “I’ll mark this day with a white stone because it’s one of the best days I think I’ll ever have in my life, having met señor don Quixote de La Mancha, in whom is invested and epitomized all the valor of knight errantry.”
With no less courteous words don Quixote responded, overjoyed beyond measure at seeing himself treated in such a lordly way. They all climbed to the poop deck at the stern that was well decorated, and sat on the guest benches. The bo’sun went amidships, and with his whistle gave the rowers the signal to remove their shirts, which they did in an instant. Sancho, when he saw so many people naked from the waist up, was dismayed, and more so when he saw them roll up the awning so quickly, because it seemed to him that all the devils were at work. But all this was nothing compared to what I’ll now relate.
Sancho was seated on a beam next to the principal rower on the starboard side, who, having been told what he was to do, grabbed Sancho and raised him in his arms. The whole crew was now on foot and ready, and starting with the starboard side, they passed him from hand to hand, twirling him as they went with such speed that the poor Sancho couldn’t see, and doubtless thought the devils themselves were carrying him off. They didn’t stop until they had finished on the port side and placed him on the poop deck. The poor fellow was beaten up, panting, and sweating, not able to fathom what had happened to him.
Don Quixote, who saw Sancho’s wingless flight, asked the general if that was a ceremony that was done with all newcomers aboard, because if it was, he had no intention of participating in it and refused to engage in such an activity, and he swore to God that if someone came to grab him to make him do the same rounds, he would kick his soul out. And having said this, he stood up and brandished his sword.
At that instant they removed the awning, and with a huge din the lateen yard crashed down. Sancho thought that the sky was becoming unhinged and was going to fall on his head. He ducked his head between his legs in fear. Don Quixote was a bit afraid himself since he, too, hunched up his back a bit and lost the color in his face. The crew hoisted the yard with the same speed and noise they had used in lowering it, and all this in perfect silence, as if they neither had voices nor the ability to breathe. The bo’sun signaled them to weigh anchor, and swiftly moving amidships, began to sting the crew’s shoulders with a whip, and little by little the galley put out to sea.
When Sancho saw so many red feet moving about—because that’s what he thought the oars were—he said to himself: “These must truly be enchanted things, and not of the kind my master talks about. What did these unfortunates do to deserve being whipped, and how does that man who goes around whistling dare to whip so many people? This has got to be hell, or at least purgatory.”
Don Quixote saw how closely Sancho was observing what was going on and said to him: “Ah, Sancho, my friend, how quickly and with so little cost you could, if you wished, take off your shirt and sit among these men, and finish off the disenchantment of Dulcinea! Because if you share the misery and grief of so many, you wouldn’t feel yours so much. And it may be that Merlin would consider each of these lashes, since they’d be given by another’s hand, as ten of those that you have to give yourself.”
The general wanted to ask what lashes and what disenchantment he was talking about when a sailor said: “Montjuich is warning us there’s a galley on the western coast.”
When he heard this, the general went amidships and said: “Don’t let him get away, boys! The ship the watch tower has warned us about must be some brigantine of Algerian pirates.
The other three galleys caught up with the flagship to get their orders. The general commanded two of them to go out to sea and that he, together with the other one would go along the coast so that the ship couldn’t escape. The crews worked the oars hard, propelling the galleys with such fury that it seemed like they were flying. The ones that went out to sea, at about two miles out, saw a ship that appeared to have fourteen or fifteen ranks of rowers on each side, and it was the truth. That ship, when it saw the galleys, started to flee, with the intention and hope of outrunning them because of its speed.
But the ship was unlucky because the flagship was one of the fleetest vessels that sailed the seas, and gained on it with such speed that those in the brigantine realized they couldn’t escape, and so the arráez—the Arabic captain—had them lift their oars and give up so as not to antagonize the captain who was directing our galleys.
But Fortune ruled otherwise, and ordained that as the flagship approached so near the other that they could hear the shouts that admonished them to give up, two drunken Toraquíes, which is the same as saying two drunken Turks, who were among the rowers, fired two muskets that killed two soldiers who were on the prow of one of our ships. When the general saw this, he swore he wouldn’t leave anyone on that ship alive, and he started to ram the ship with the greatest fury, but the enemy managed to slip away, and our ship kept moving ahead. Those on the other ship realized their bad predicament, so while ours was turning around, they put up their sails and fled using both sails and oars. But their effort helped them less than their daring harmed them, because the flagship caught them in a bit less than half a mile, and the rowers went aboard and took them all alive.
At this point the two other galleys arrived, and all four of them with the prize returned to the beach, where a large crowd was waiting for them, eager to see what they were bringing. The general dropped anchor near land, and found out that the viceroy of the city was present. He had the skiff sent out to bring him back, and had the yard lowered so he could hang his prisoners on the spot, and the rest of the Turks that he caught as well. There were about thirty-six persons, all of them stouthearted, and most of them Turkish riflemen.
The general asked who the captain of the brigantine was, and was answered by one of the captives in the Castilian language, who later appeared to be a Spanish renegade: “This young man, señor, that you see here, is our arráez.”
And he showed him one of the handsomest and most gallant young men that human imagination could describe. His age, seemingly, not yet twenty years old. The general asked him: “Tell me, you ill-advised dog, what motivated you to kill my soldiers? Didn’t you see it was impossible to escape? Don’t you know that rashness is not the same as bravery? Faint hope should make men resolute, not rash.”
The arráez tried to respond, but the general couldn’t stay to listen because he had to go to receive the viceroy who was just then entering the galley, and with him were some of his servants and some townsfolk.
“The hunting has been good, señor general!” said the viceroy.
“So good,” responded the general, “that you’ll soon see it hanging from this yard-arm.”
“Because they’ve killed,” responded the general, “contrary to all reason and against all rules of war, two of my best soldiers who were on these galleys, and I’ve sworn to hang all those I’ve captured, and particularly this young fellow, who is the arráez of the brigantine.”
And he pointed out to him the young man with his hands already tied together and a rope around his neck, awaiting his death.
The viceroy looked at him, and seeing that he was so handsome, so gallant, and so humble, his good looks gave him at that instant a letter of recommendation, and made him feel like commuting his execution, and so he asked the lad: “Tell me, arráez, were you born a Turk, a Moor, or are you a renegade?”
To which the lad responded in Castilian: “I’m neither a Turk, nor a Moor, nor a renegade.”
“Well, then, what are you?” replied the viceroy.
“A Christian woman,” responded the young person.
“A woman, and Christian, in such an outfit and in such straits? That’s more perplexing than believable.”
“Señores, put off the execution,” said the youth. “You won’t lose too much time if you delay your vengeance until you hear the story of my life.”
Who could be so hard-hearted that he wouldn’t soften at least until he heard what the sad and doleful young person wanted to say? The general told her she could say whatever she wanted, but she should not expect to be pardoned for her clear guilt.
With this permission, the youth began to speak in this way: “Of that nation that was more unfortunate than prudent, on whom a sea of misfortune has rained in recent times, I was born of Moorish parents. In the course of their misfortunes, I was taken by two uncles of mine to the Barbary Coast, without my being able to explain that I was a Christian, as, in effect, I am—and not of those feigned or make-believe ones, but of the true Catholics. Stating this truth did me no good with those who were in charge of our wretched banishment, and my uncles refused to believe it. They rather took the truth for a lie, just so that I could stay in the country where I was born, and more by force than of my free will they took me with them.
“I had a Christian mother and a wise father who was no more or no less Christian. I took in the Catholic faith with my mother’s milk and I was raised with good customs. Neither in my language nor in my customs did I ever, in my opinion, give signs of being Moorish. Along with these virtues—that’s what I think they are—my beauty grew, if it is that I have any at all. And although my modesty and seclusion were great, they must not have been sufficient to prevent a young man from seeing me whose name was Gaspar Gregorio, the heir of a gentleman who had a village next to our own. How he happened to see me, how we spoke with each other, and how he fell head over heels for me, and I quite the same for him, would be too long to tell here, much longer than I fear I have time left before the cruel rope will cut me off between my tongue and neck.
“And so I’ll only say that don Gregorio wanted to come with me in our banishment. He fit in with the Moors who were leaving from other villages since he knew the language well, and during the voyage he came to be friends with my two uncles who were escorting me, because my father, who was prudent and cautious, had left our village as soon as he heard the first proclamation of our banishment, and went to look for a new place to live in foreign kingdoms. He left buried in a place that only I know where, many pearls and precious stones of great value, with some Portuguese gold coins and doubloons of gold. He commanded me not to touch the treasure that he was leaving, in case we were banished before he came back. I obeyed him, and with my uncles, as I’ve said, and some other relatives and close friends, we went to the Barbary Coast. We settled in Algiers, and it was as if we were in hell itself.
“The king got wind of my beauty, and he also heard a rumor about my wealth, which in part was good luck for me. He called me before him and asked me where in Spain I was from and what money and jewels I had brought with me. I told him the name of the village, and that the jewels and money were buried there, and how easily they could be recovered if I myself went for them. I said all this so that he might be more blinded by his greed than my beauty. While we were talking, someone came and told him that one of the most gallant and handsome young men that could be imagined had come with me. I understood right away that they were talking about don Gaspar Gregorio, whose beauty is far greater than can be described. I was distressed, considering the risk that don Gregorio was running, because among those barbarian Turks, a lad or a young man is more prized than a woman, no matter how really beautiful she might be.
“The king commanded that he be brought so he could see him, and he asked if it was true what they were saying about him. Then, I—as if forewarned by heaven—said that it was, but I wanted him to know that he wasn’t a man, but rather a woman like me, and I begged him to allow me to dress her in her usual dress, so that her beauty could be seen and so she might appear before him with less reluctance. He told me that I could go and said that we’d speak the next day about how we could arrange for me to return to Spain to retrieve the hidden treasure.
“I spoke with don Gaspar and told him the danger he would be in if he showed that he was a man. I dressed him as a Moorish woman and that same afternoon brought him before the king, who, when he saw «her», he was dazzled and made a plan to make a present of «her» to the Grand Vizier. To escape the dangers that might befall her in the harem with his other women, and not even trusting himself, he had her placed in the house of one of the most important Moorish ladies who would protect and serve her, and she was taken there right away. What we both felt—for I can’t deny that I love him—can be left to the imagination of those who are separated and who love each other.
“The king then made a plan so I could return to Spain in this brigantine, and that I should be accompanied by two native Turks, who were those who killed your soldiers. This Spanish renegade also came with me,” pointing out the man who had spoken initially, “and I know he’s a secret Christian and who comes more desiring to stay in Spain than to return to the Barbary Coast. The rest of the crew are Moors and Turks, who serve only to man the oars. The two greedy and insolent Turks ignored the orders we had to land me and this renegade as soon as we got to the Spanish coast, dressed as Christians, using the clothing we had brought with us, and wanted first to sweep the coast for booty, fearing that if we got off first and something happened to us, we might reveal where the brigantine was; and if there were any galleys on the coast, it would be taken.
“Last night we discovered this beach, and since we didn’t notice the four galleys, we were seen, and you’ve witnessed what happened to us. So, don Gregorio remains dressed in the outfit of a woman among women, in grave danger of losing his life, and I find myself with my hands tied, expecting, or rather, fearing I’ll lose this life, which is making me weary.
“This is, señores, the end of my lamentable story, as true as it is unfortunate. What I beg of you is that you allow me to die as a Christian, since, as I’ve said, I’ve not been guilty of the error into which those of my nation have fallen.”
And then she stopped talking, her eyes brimming with tears, and many of those present joined her weeping. The viceroy, who was tender and compassionate, without saying a word, went over to her and untied the cord that was binding her beautiful hands.
As the Christian Moorish woman was relating her story, an old pilgrim who had gotten onto the galley when the viceroy went aboard, was staring at her, and hardly had the Moorish woman finished her narrative when the old man threw himself at her feet and clasped them in his arms, and with words interrupted by a thousand sobs and sighs, said: “Oh, Ana Félix, my unfortunate daughter! I’m your father Ricote, who has returned to look for you since I couldn’t live without you, for you’re my heart and soul.”
At these words, Sancho opened his eyes and raised his head—which he’d bowed while considering the humiliation of his recent flight—and looking at the pilgrim, he realized that it was the same Ricote he’d come across the day he’d left his government. When Ricote saw clearly that it was his daughter, who, now with her hands untied, embraced her father, mixing her tears with his, he said to the general and viceroy: “This woman, señores, is my daughter, who is more unfortunate in the things that happened to her than in her name. She’s named Ana Félix, her last name is Ricote, and she’s famous as much for her beauty as for my wealth. I left my home to look in foreign kingdoms for a country that would give us shelter and welcome us, and having found such a place in Germany, I returned in pilgrim’s clothing, in the company of three Germans, to look for my daughter and dig up the wealth I had left hidden. I didn’t find my daughter, but I found the treasure, which I have with me, and now, by a strange twist of fate that you’ve witnessed, I’ve located the treasure that makes me richest, that is my beloved daughter. I hope that our minimal guilt and our tears, through the integrity of your justice, might open the doors of forgiveness. Please forgive us, for we never had any intention of offending you, nor have we gone along with the intention of our people, who have been justly banished.”
Sancho interrupted with: “I know Ricote well, and I know that what he says about Ana Félix, his daughter, is true. Insofar as the other trifles dealing with coming and going, having good or bad intentions, I won’t get involved.”
All those present were astonished at this unusual case, and the general said: “Your tears will not allow me to impose my sentence. Live out, beautiful Ana Félix, the years that heaven has allotted you, and may the insolent and daring persons suffer the punishment for what they did.”
And he commanded that the two Turks who had killed his two soldiers, be hanged immediately from the yard-arm. But the viceroy asked him as earnestly as he could not to hang them, since it was more madness than arrogance that had caused their crime. The general did what the viceroy asked, because vengeance is not well done in cold blood.
They then sought to make a plan to remove don Gaspar Gregorio from the danger he was in. Ricote volunteered to give more than two-thousand ducados he had with him in pearls and jewels. Many ways were suggested, but none was as good as the one the Spanish renegade, already mentioned. He volunteered to go back to Algiers in a small boat with up to six banks of Christian rowers, because he knew where, how, and when, he could and should disembark. And he knew the house where don Gaspar was staying.
The general and the viceroy were reticent to trust the renegade, or to give him the Christian rowers he wanted to man the oars. Ana Félix said she would vouch for him, and Ricote, her father, said he promised to pay the ransom for the Christians, if they should be caught. With this resolve, the viceroy and don Antonio Moreno left the ship and took the Moorish woman and her father with them. The viceroy directed him to entertain them and treat them as well as he could, and that he would offer anything of his own for their comfort—such was the goodwill and charity that the beauty of Ana Félix stirred in his heart.