and set light to the quarterdeck. Fire raced towards us, and men frantically poured water onto the raging flames. The lower parts of our heeled decks were awash, the gun crews wading waist deep in water as the ship rose and fell with the waves, a doomed wreck of flood and fire.
The French now turned to attack the body of La Princesa rather than its rigging, bombarding us with fierce broadsides. Whole pieces of plank flew off the ship and the French, having gained the higher water, rained so much fire down upon us that our starboard side was pierced likea colander. The captain and some nine other sailors were killed, and although the fighting continued until darkness fell, it was clear that we could not possibly survive this great blaze and wash of battle.
The storm and conflict subsided with the oncoming night but our ship was a shattered wreck. Dismasted and disheartened, we had no choice but to surrender. As a pale grey dawn broke slowly across the sky, a boarding party arrived from the enemy, not so much to claim our ship as to rescue survivors.
The French captain informed us that this was ‘ fortune de guerre ’. We were his prisoners, and we were to return with him to France by the powers invested in him by his King Louis XVI.
I was taken aboard their ship, with Pedro clinging to me for dear life. The French sailors laughed at us uproariously, pointing at my fashionable garments with great mirth, jeering at our humiliation.
Fear struck at my heart.
On inquiring as to the year of the Lord in which we now found ourselves, I was informed, to my great amazement, that it was seventeen hundred and eighty-eight.
I stopped as if in a stupor. I could not believe that both Pedro and I had slipped out of time once more. How could we be nearly three hundred years old?
Perhaps this, too, was a dream from which I could not wake? Or perhaps I was persistently involved in one dream, with other dreams within it, like a succession of wooden dolls, each tightly encased, one within another? For there seemed to be no escape from the nightmare that was my existence, no anchor to steady the ship of my being, andthe memories of my former life seemed as fragile as the fragments of our wrecked galleon.
The winter journey across the Atlantic was long and arduous, and did nothing to aid my sanity.
On arrival at the frozen port of Honfleur I was taken to Paris. The sailors who held me captive did not know what to do with me, arguing amongst themselves that they would never achieve a good price, for who would want to take, even as a prisoner or slave, such a deranged Spaniard and such an unappealing dog?
I could do nothing to convince them otherwise and, indeed, it often seemed that the more I tried to explain myself the worse the resulting situation became. There was certainly no persuading them that I was sane, and I only regretted that they could not change their mind about Pedro who had proved himself to be the most noble, the most reliable, and the most loving of companions.
At last it was resolved that until clear orders were received from the Admiralty there was little choice but to keep me in an institution until my fate was decided.
And that is how I found myself in the Bastille.
IV
E ight round towers, some seventy feet high, with walls as much as five feet thick, now loomed above me. The portcullis was raised and guards searched me from head to foot. I was made to change into an ill-fitting pair of trousers, a long shirt and a large hooded dressing gown with a ludicrous cap. Although I knew for certain that I was not insane, I certainly looked so now.
The Governor, Bernard-René de Launay, a kindly man, allowed me to keep Pedro in my cell, and entered both our names into the Bastille register. A small, red-faced turnkey called Lossinote then led us to a room high in the Corner Tower.
The prison was, in truth, a dark and terrifying dungeon, filled with all manner of weapons of destruction. Climbing the narrow stairway, we
The French now turned to attack the body of La Princesa rather than its rigging, bombarding us with fierce broadsides. Whole pieces of plank flew off the ship and the French, having gained the higher water, rained so much fire down upon us that our starboard side was pierced likea colander. The captain and some nine other sailors were killed, and although the fighting continued until darkness fell, it was clear that we could not possibly survive this great blaze and wash of battle.
The storm and conflict subsided with the oncoming night but our ship was a shattered wreck. Dismasted and disheartened, we had no choice but to surrender. As a pale grey dawn broke slowly across the sky, a boarding party arrived from the enemy, not so much to claim our ship as to rescue survivors.
The French captain informed us that this was ‘ fortune de guerre ’. We were his prisoners, and we were to return with him to France by the powers invested in him by his King Louis XVI.
I was taken aboard their ship, with Pedro clinging to me for dear life. The French sailors laughed at us uproariously, pointing at my fashionable garments with great mirth, jeering at our humiliation.
Fear struck at my heart.
On inquiring as to the year of the Lord in which we now found ourselves, I was informed, to my great amazement, that it was seventeen hundred and eighty-eight.
I stopped as if in a stupor. I could not believe that both Pedro and I had slipped out of time once more. How could we be nearly three hundred years old?
Perhaps this, too, was a dream from which I could not wake? Or perhaps I was persistently involved in one dream, with other dreams within it, like a succession of wooden dolls, each tightly encased, one within another? For there seemed to be no escape from the nightmare that was my existence, no anchor to steady the ship of my being, andthe memories of my former life seemed as fragile as the fragments of our wrecked galleon.
The winter journey across the Atlantic was long and arduous, and did nothing to aid my sanity.
On arrival at the frozen port of Honfleur I was taken to Paris. The sailors who held me captive did not know what to do with me, arguing amongst themselves that they would never achieve a good price, for who would want to take, even as a prisoner or slave, such a deranged Spaniard and such an unappealing dog?
I could do nothing to convince them otherwise and, indeed, it often seemed that the more I tried to explain myself the worse the resulting situation became. There was certainly no persuading them that I was sane, and I only regretted that they could not change their mind about Pedro who had proved himself to be the most noble, the most reliable, and the most loving of companions.
At last it was resolved that until clear orders were received from the Admiralty there was little choice but to keep me in an institution until my fate was decided.
And that is how I found myself in the Bastille.
IV
E ight round towers, some seventy feet high, with walls as much as five feet thick, now loomed above me. The portcullis was raised and guards searched me from head to foot. I was made to change into an ill-fitting pair of trousers, a long shirt and a large hooded dressing gown with a ludicrous cap. Although I knew for certain that I was not insane, I certainly looked so now.
The Governor, Bernard-René de Launay, a kindly man, allowed me to keep Pedro in my cell, and entered both our names into the Bastille register. A small, red-faced turnkey called Lossinote then led us to a room high in the Corner Tower.
The prison was, in truth, a dark and terrifying dungeon, filled with all manner of weapons of destruction. Climbing the narrow stairway, we
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