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Dunlop of that Ilk
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Viva Espagna!
or the Martyrdom of Robert Boyd and General Torrijos
On the 6th December 1831 my
great, great uncle Robert Boyd (of Ballymacool, N. Ireland) was shot by
firing squad on the beach at Malaga. His "crime" was that he had financed
General Torrijos, a man passionately determined to lead a revolt against the
cruel regime in Spain headed by the unpleasant King Ferdinand VII. Boyd &
Torrijos accompanied by sixty-four (64) other revolutionaries sailed from
Gibraltar for Malaga in a brigantine. Torrijos was under the illusion that
the Governor of Malaga, Moreno would welcome him and together they would
initiate a revolution that would free Spain from the tyrant. It was not to
be. The ship was driven onto the rocks near Funguerola by a Spanish Customs
Cutter so the revolutionaries were forced to abandon ship and make a run for
it. They traipsed over the mountains to Alhaurin de la Torre where they
spent the night at a farmhouse after a brief encounter with the militia
where shots were exchanged. The following day Moreno arrived taking Torrijos
for a walk up the hill beside the farmhouse. He told Torrijos that he was
reneging on any deal that might have been made and that he and his band
would either have to surrender or be shot where they were. The rebels gave
themselves up, and marched, roped together to the Carmelite Convent in
Malaga under the guard of Colonel, later General Monasteria. Messages were
sent to Madrid and the answer was "execute them all forthwith".
The night in the Convent was spent with the Catholics confessing, whilst
Boyd wrote two letters one to his brother, the other to his friend Harry in
Gibraltar. The following morning, a Sunday, the group was marched down to
the beach and shot. The locals were horrified at the desecration of the
Sabbath although it did not stop them from looting the bodies!
The British Consul, William Mark, a long term resident of Malaga made
efforts to see Boyd, despite being unwell, and intervene on his behalf, but
to no avail. All he could do was to send his son to claim Boyd's body " in
the name of the Queen" and bring it to his home where it lay that night. The
following morning the coffin was carried through the streets to the English
Cemetery. Mark read the funeral service "heavy in heart". Previous to 1831
non Catholics were not buried but taken out to low water mark on the beach
and dumped. Mark abhorred this barbarity. He managed to acquire a plot of
land for use as a burial ground. Boyd was the first to be buried within the
walls of the Inner Cemetery
Torrijos, Boyd and the other would be revolutionaries have become martyrs in
the eyes of the Spaniards. A foundation stone in the Spanish constitution.
Monuments abound, a film has been made, a play and several songs have been
written. The" Association Historico Cultural TORRIJOS 1831" has been going
for some 25 years. They meet regularly for research, to do homage to the
memory of the rebels and to ensure that the liberty the rebels sought and
was achieved by others later is kept alive. The Associacon and similar
organizations were banned in the time of Franco.
My Great Grandfather, William Boyd Carpenter, a former Bishop of Ripon,
included in his autobiography a chapter on Robert Boyd, which interested me
from an early age.
In 1950 when a Cadet in H.M.S Vanguard, I visited Malaga whilst the ship was
alongside in Gibraltar. I only found the monument in the main square. In
1998 Jennifer and I visited the Cemetery finding Boyd's grave and the
monument erected in his honour.
In St.George' Chapel in the Cemetery we bought the book written by Baroness
Schlippenbach nee Marjorie Grice Hutchison on the history of the Cemetery.
She contacted us and on our next visit we were shown all the places where
the tragedy happened by a member of the Associacon. Since then there has
been an ongoing correspondence between members of the Association and
myself, culminating this year in an invitation to the celebrations and
homage to Torrijos, Boyd and their companions which takes place over ten
days at the end of November and the beginning of December each year. The
invitation was extended to all the descendants of the rebels. This year Boyd
was to feature strongly with a street being named after him in Malaga &
homage being paid to him in the English Cemetery. Thirteen members of the
family attended. Daughter Hester Hammond with her sons, Mark & Jamie,
daughter Alexandra Devon with husband Alan and their two boys Charles &
Toby, Son Patrick with his wife Helen and daughter Alexia and second cousin
Sarah Lock. Roland Scott Jackson a Spanish-speaking friend came as well.
Jennifer, Roland and I decided to drive the 1400 or so kilometers from
Creyssac to Alhaurin de la Torre where Alex had booked a villa. Evening on
the first day found us at Burgos in the Tourist Office checking out hotels.
None near, except the expensive one by the cathedral, the man said,
suggesting the out of town Parador. Really! Twenty yards from his office,
guess what? A mid town old-fashioned hotel, enormous bath etc all for €70 a
night. The Cathedral was just up the road. What a Cathedral! White
limestone, started building in 1221 finished in 1567. fifteen chapels, El
Cid is buried there. He was pretty sharp; he filled a chest with sand and
pawned it for a large amount of money to a Jewish gentleman. They say he did
redeem it and it now lies in the chapel of Corpus Christi within the
Cathedral. We paid a token € or so for entrance. Worth it as it is so well
maintained. Canterbury takes note!
The trouble with the Spanish is the odd hours they keep. A proper breakfast,
a very late Lunch and Dinner at 2100 at the earliest. After the Cathedral I
was persuaded to go into a Tapas bar in order to assuage our hunger. Eugh!
Awful looking things in dishes, which my companions eat with relish whilst I
moaned about the litter on the floor. Fag ends and sugar lump wrappings are
the norm in these places. Dinner was good, when we managed to find a
restaurant. Partridges! A rare treat. No fear of having the car stolen
overnight. Boxed in by a double parker. "Toujours la meme chose" in
overcrowded towns.
It had been payage motorways to Burgos but to our surprise, not any more.
Good dual carriageways for free. We were skirting Madrid by mid morning.
They say that it expands a mile each way every year. Red brick rookeries
with the more unlucky living in shanties by the municipal tips. Worse than
Mexico. Not good. This is the Common Market; they should spend some of the
money that they are lucky to get on cleaning the place up. Last time we
visited, I remember the Centro being carpeted with Dog Do's. Roland's
stomach keeps Central European Time so it was into a Roadside Cafe' at 12.30
and out again at 12.31! What a tip. We then found that if you explore these
places there are proper dining rooms at the back. Steak & Chips washed down
with Rioja was our reward.
Next stop the Alhambra at Granada, a city we circumnavigated twice by
mistake. They say that you have to book one year ahead if you wish to stay
at the famous Parador. Really? No problem for us. Straight in. Nice rooms,
balcony, etc. Dinner so, breakfast was excellent except that the Dining room
was full of Motor Car Dealers being lectured on how to drive their wretched
"off road" Mercedes. Imagine that happening at the Savoy. The object of
staying at the Alhambra Parador is that you are meant to be allowed to
wander at will in the Palace Grounds. Not so, as a very irritated early
rising Roland discovered. It was pouring with rain anyway, the rain in Spain
falls not only in the plain, we discovered as we skirted the Sierra Nevada
en route for Malaga.
The fun now began. Local roads on the Costa are full of potholes, which are
cleverly disguised when it rains, the warning cones having floated away. I
managed the equivalent of a "left & right" i.e. the puncture of two tyres
simultaneously whilst searching for the elusive "Villa Roma". Roland was out
of the car like a rat up a drainpipe, flagging down a passing van and
disappearing down the road. The traffic was constant, but we put on our
smart reflective waistcoats as per Spanish Law and managed to change the
wheel, which was severely distorted. The other had a little air in it so we
were now able to move, albeit slowly. An hour and a half passed until the
cavalry arrived in the form of Roland sitting up front beside a cheerful
looking chap driving a breakdown truck. We followed them to the garage,
expecting to have to buy a wheel or two and the accompanying tyres. Not a
bit of it. A few brilliantly aimed hits with a 14 pound hammer on the bent
wheels, an air test on the tyres, "fifty euros please" and we were ready to
roll. A fortuitous delay waiting whilst Roland continued chatting up the
aged lady proprietor of the garage allowed us to find a man who lived near
the Villa and was going home to lunch. We followed him, negotiating the
tortuous unmade rock strewn lanes that eventually brought us to our
temporary home.
Our arrival alerted two ugly and aggressive dogs that ran up and down behind
the adjoining rickety perimeter fence barking constantly. They did not stop
for the entire time we were there, neither did another three hounds in the
garden opposite. We were on the direct flight path of the many planes
landing at the airport some four miles away; oddly enough the noise was not
intrusive. The villa itself would have been a joy in summer, but the owners,
had not catered for bad weather and winter conditions. A leaking roof made
the beds soaking in the "Master Suite". A minute gas water heater struggled
to produce tepid water at the rate of about a litre a minute. Washing up
machine and washing machine provided. Of course. Just go round the back in
the garden and there they are in the open loggia. Corksrews? Yes, four. All
broken! Drying up cloths? None. Just put the wet plates in the rack and they
will drip dry on to the work surface. Easy when you know how. We managed.
By Saturday afternoon all the family had arrived ready for the fun. Tea time
saw the arrival at the villa of the Secretary of the Association with some
friends who explained that we were due to be at Alhaurin that evening for a
lecture and to see the film that had been made of the sad affair.
”Navigational problems made us late, so we slipped into the back row of the
stalls keeping as quiet as possible. The lecture continued for about thirty
seconds then stopped. "Ahi' estan" (there they are) a voice came out of the
darkness. We were then whisked to the front row and placed in seats labeled
"honoured guests" and treated to a long round of applause. We recovered our
composure and bowed politely to the large audience. Fame at last! The film
had been made by the Associacion and all the actors were members. Jesus
Riviera Ruiz, Presidente of the Associacion played Torrijos vigourously in
the film and throughout the week-end in the other productions. Robert Boyd,
the Martyr was played by a chubby and charming man, who had little to say
and bore little likeness to the pictures that we have of him. Never mind. My
email friend Alejandro Power Aliberti gave a lecture on "Les Companeros de
Torrijos" most of which I understood as his delivery was perfect. Chatting
afterwards we were made to realize that the family opinion of our ancestor
being somewhat of a prat would not cut any ice here. The Associacion is full
of intelligent educated people who regard freedom as worth dying for and
they are determined to honour those of a previous generation who had the
guts to stand up against the bullies. They keep a close watch on their civil
liberties. The opinion expressed several times by people we met was that
they feared Britain was in danger of becoming an over-governed dictatorship.
Witnessed by the hundreds of thousands of U.K. emigrants settling in the
Costas, France etc.
Sunday morning found us all in Alhaurin again to witness the arrest of the
rebels at the farm. Cannons banging away, the crackle of rifle fire & a
procession led by the Town Band with beautiful horses prancing arrogantly
behind.
The Bandmaster was about two metres tall with the lead bugler directly
behind him, a little tot about half a metre high. Turned out to be a girl.
Delightful! They marched taking tiny steps. The ceremony went on for an hour
or more then it was down to an enormous marquee, (special armchairs at the
front for "Familla Boyd") to see the re-enactment of the story interspersed
with some truly marvelous dancing & singing. The performers were all
professionals. The sensuous looks given by one lady flamenco dancer was
rather exciting. "Come to bed eyes" Jennifer informed me. Too late for me,
alas!
Meanwhile outside in the kid's playground an enormous metal dish, the size
of a Jacuzzi made for six, was being heated up over a fire. It contained
Paella being constantly stirred by ladies wielding fencing posts. This was
lunch for everyone. Familla Boyd this way please! Up to the Cafe in the
Square for special attention. The wine flowed freely. Then back to the
marquee. The show must go on! We were late. They held the curtain for us.
Front row again, no slinking in. Polite clapping greeted us. What it must be
like to be Royal! Light entertainment this time. Pretty girls dancing.
Taking their time from their instructor who controlled them with movements
of her eyebrows. Patrick liked the glimpses of underwear. A jolly local
choir singing happy songs. Brilliant flamencos. A slinky young lady, Sandra
Garcia, sang folk songs whilst carrying out winding exercises with her arms.
She presented us with her C.D.
What next ? You are all due at el Jardin del Guadalhorce for dinner at
9.0.p.m. in the centre of Alhaurin de la Torre. The Mayor and the
Associacion wish to honour all the descendants of Torrijos' companions that
are attending this year's events.
This superb house had been owned by an Englishman who presented it to the
town. Beautiful floodlit garden as well. The dinner consisted of different
dishes prepared by the members. We tried them all. "Brilliant" my grandson
remarked. One lady descendant arrived, but the speechmaking was left to me.
You address a Spanish Mayor as Excellentisimo. This I did, after he had
presented us with an engraved souvenir of the house and town. I also
suggested that he might have the potholes in the road mended. This was done
two days later! We are not sure whether he gave us the freedom of the town,
but we are assuming he did.
Monday was "Homage to Robert Boyd" day. First to the English Cemetery set at
the bottom of the hillside crowned by the Gibralfaro on the Velez road in
Malaga. It is a place of tranquility and beauty, almost a botanical garden.
The Inner cemetery is walled in and thanks to Baroness Schlippenbach well
maintained. We are not sure which of two graves is actually Boyd's so I had
the plaque carved by Edmund Ashby, the American sculptor, strategically
placed between the two nearest the Eastern wall. The family had been asked
if we were prepared to have Boyd's "ashes" dug up and placed with his
comrades in the communal grave. We resisted the idea, hence the separate
ceremony on this day. They did him proud, first a speech by Bruce McIntyre
MBE, the British Consul who quoted from Addington's letter to the Spanish
Secretary of State prior to Boyd's death (* page 29 Cemetery Book) then it
was my turn. Jennifer wrote me a short speech, which was translated into
"proper" Spanish by Alejandro Power Aliberti. I struggled through saying
"that the heroes of all nations are often romantic and misguided, but our
histories would be a great deal duller without them". They liked, it but
sadly the newspapers attributed the words to one Kevin Boyd the following
day! We realized later that this was probably because we had discussed the
fate of the fourteen- year-old cabin boy who was murdered with the rest of
the rebels. He had been driven insane with fear during the last night in the
convent. Kevin Boyd = Cabin Boy. The Firing party then fired a volley above
the grave and the Secretary of the Associacion laid a "Crown of Laurels"
under the memorial plaque. It takes pride of place in the middle of a
roundabout at the junction of the coast road and a road leading into town.
It looks really good there. The traffic was stopped and a short ceremony was
carried out with the actors who played the leading parts standing in front
whilst the Bugler played the "Last post".
A man and a well-dressed old lady came up to us and introduced themselves as
descendants of General Monasteria. The lady asked me to forgive her
ancestor. I did.
We boarded a coach after this going in search of the "Calle Robert Boyd".
Malaga is large, side streets abound. As it had yet to be named, no one had
heard of it, so it took some time to find. I was hoping it would be one of
the smart streets in the town centre, but Picasso & Torrijos lay claim to
those. Never mind "our street" is just inland, has a multi storey car park
down one side, a block of flats at the end (it is a cul de sac), dressed
overall for this auspicious occasion with the residents washing hanging out
to dry. A virtually windowless building stretched the length of the street
on the other side. The veiled name plate was some four metres up the wall of
the latter with two strings hanging down head high. Noon was the appointed
hour for the official unveiling by yours truly & the Mayor of Malaga.There
was a hitch. I was taken aside to be informed that the Mayor had a little
problem and would be with us ASAP. So be it. He was not that late &
apologized profusely. Very smooth character, put me at my ease at once. He
made a good speech which my interpreter Paolo de la Sota relayed into my
right ear as he spoke. Then it was my turn. I thanked everyone and made some
stupid remark about them having provided a space for my wheelchair on my
next visit. As they had insisted that Patrick stood with the Mayor and
myself, it could be that they were reckoning that very soon it would be his
turn! We pulled the cords & "Calle Robert Boyd" was revealed. The Mayor
presented me with a duplicate of the street sign, shook my hand & said he
had to leave immediately to sort out a little problem. ETA had let off a
bomb in the town just before he was due to come to the ceremony. Cool
customer. A very pretty lady thrust a microphone at me asking my reactions
to everything. I made the right noises I think. She asked me whether Malaga
was my favourite town in Spain . "No way" I said "the Governor betrayed my
great-great uncle, it is Alhaurin where the Mayor said "mia casa etc." The
crowd cheered, they all come from around there. Patrick said to me "You were
chuffed, Dad" Dead right. A nice reward for a bit of digging & delving into
family history, a bonus having so many of the family with us for the weekend
and most of all the friendly and charming welcome we received from these
wonderful people.
The last engagement was the closing lunch for the Associacion members. It
was the annual award ceremony for those who had written articles and given
service in some manner. They received plaques . We got the last one,
engraved with a dedication to the Descendants of Robert Boyd, 5th December
2004. No speech needed. That was it. Three days that none of us will ever
forget. ©Michael Boyd-Carpenter, La Barde 24350, Creyssac, France.
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