[Illustration: A GROUP OF SPOKAN INDIANS
(Drawn from a Photograph).]
THE NATURALIST
IN
VANCOUVER ISLAND AND
BRITISH COLUMBIA.
BY
JOHN KEAST LORD, F.Z.S.
NATURALIST TO THE BRITISH NORTH AMERICAN BOUNDARY COMMISSION.
[Illustration: THE ‘KETTLE’ FALLS: A SALMON LEAP ON THE UPPER COLUMBIA.]
IN TWO VOLUMES—VOL. I.
LONDON:
RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET,
PUBLISHER IN ORDINARY TO HER MAJESTY.
1866.
PREFACE.
Many interesting and useful works have been already published relating
to the Colonies of Vancouver Island and British Columbia, which,
however, contain little if any information on the subject of their
Natural History.
This missing link I venture in some measure to supply. But ‘The
Naturalist in Vancouver Island and British Columbia’ is not intended
to be a book on Natural History merely; neither does the Author desire
to weary his reader with tedious descriptions of genera and species.
Comparative anatomy and physiology can be acquired at home, but
_habits_ are only discoverable by those who devote themselves to the
rough though pleasant life of a wanderer, or by the actual observation
of a careful investigator.
In the following pages, the Author has purposely avoided any definite
system of arrangement, preferring a pleasant gossip, chatting, as it
were, by the fireside about North-Western Wilds.
A detailed list of the Zoological collection made whilst Naturalist to
the Government Commission will be found in the Appendix.
JOHN KEAST LORD.
LONDON: _May 28, 1866_.
INTRODUCTION.
Before setting sail from Southampton, it may perhaps be as well to
devote a few pages explanatory of the early history and discovery
of Vancouver Island; why we are going there; and the object of the
Commission to which I belong.
In the year 1587, we learn, that a Captain Cavendish, in order to
repair his shattered fortunes, fitted out three ships for the purpose
of plundering on the high seas. After many unsuccessful raids, we next
hear of him lurking in his ship behind a spit of land, Cape St. Lucas,
on the Californian coast (a prominent rocky bluff, not unlike ‘the
Needles,’), waiting for the ‘St. Anna,’ a galleon freighted with rich
merchandise and a hundred and twenty-two thousand Spanish dollars.
She heaves in sight, little dreaming of her danger; is pounced upon,
boarded, and taken, her treasure transferred to the hold of the
buccaneer; the crew rowed ashore, and their ship set on fire. Death
seemed inevitable, when a breeze, which soon increased to a gale,
drifting the burning hull on the rocks providentially proved a means of
escape, for a raft was made, and launched. Upon this the men stood out
to sea.
After enduring frightful privations, a friendly ship picked them up,
and they eventually reached Europe in safety. Amongst the sailors
rescued from the raft was a Greek, Apostolos Valerianos, who for some
reason was nick-named by his shipmates Juan de Fuca. Nine years after
his escape from the raft we hear of him in Venice.
In 1596 Mr. Locke, a merchant, and his friend John Douglas, a
sea-captain, were residing in Venice, and nightly smoked their pipes
at a snug wine-shop, the resort of sea-faring men. A constant visitor
at this house of entertainment was a pilot on the Greek seas, who had
attracted Douglas’s attention by the wonderful stories he related; so
much so that he induced his friend, Mr. Locke, to listen to the old
man’s adventures.[1]
The story of the raft we already know. The remainder was to the effect
that he entered into the service of the Viceroy of Mexico, by whom he
was sent, in a small _caraval_, to explore the Californian coast. He
managed to reach lat. 47° N., and finding the coast inclined towards
the N. & NE., and that a wide expanse of sea opened out between 47°
lat., his position, and 48°, he entered the Strait, and sailed through
it for twenty days. Finding the land still tended to NE. & NW. and also
E. & SE., he proceeded, passing through groups of beautiful islands,
and so sailed on until he came into the North Sea; but being quite
unarmed, and finding the natives very hostile, he made his way back,
and reported his discovery of the entrance to what he believed the
North-West Passage.
But the Viceroy was not impressed with the value of the old man’s
report, and paid him nothing for it. Disgusted with the government and
all belonging to it, he worked his way back to the Mediterranean, and
we next meet with him as a pilot on the Adriatic.
Master Locke at once wrote to Sir Walter Raleigh, Master Hakluyt,
and to Lord Cecil, asking for 100_l._ to bring over the mariner who
possessed such a knowledge of the north-west coast. All thought the
information invaluable, but no one felt disposed to pay the money.
Time wore on; the old storm-worn pilot, growing feeble, left for his
native island. Locke again and again urged his request. At last the
long-coveted means came, but too late, the old sailor was no more.
This strange story was current in England long after he who told it
was dead and forgotten. A few believed it, but the many thought it an
entire fabrication.
In 1776, Captain Cook missed the entrance to the Straits, and,
mistaking the west side of Vancouver Island for the mainland, reported
the story to be a fiction as told by the old sailor. It will suffice
for explanation to skip a crowd of events, and take up the narrative
of the discovery of the island in 1792, when Captain Vancouver was
sent to Nootka Sound, for what purpose does not matter now. Coasting
southwards, he entered the Straits, and eventually came out at Queen
Charlotte Sound: which settled the question. The Island bears the name
of its discoverer (Vancouver Island), the Straits that of the old
sailor (Juan de Fuca).
By the treaty of Washington, the 49th pl. of lat. N. was to be the
recognised _Boundary Line_, the course through the sea to be the centre
of the Gulf of Georgia, and thence southward through the _Channel_
which separates the continent from Vancouver Island, to the Straits of
Juan de Fuca.
The duties of our Commission were to mark the Boundary line from the
coast to the eastern slope of the Rocky Mountains.
_May 1866._
CONTENTS
OF
THE FIRST VOLUME.
CHAPTER I.
PAGE
The Voyage 1
CHAPTER II.
Victoria—The Salmon: its haunts and habits 36
CHAPTER III.
Fish Harvesting 62
CHAPTER IV.
The Round-fish, Herrings, and Viviparous Fish 97
CHAPTER V.
Sticklebacks and their Nests—The Bullhead—The Rock-cod—The
Chirus—Flatfish 121
CHAPTER VI.
Halibut Fishing—Dogfish—A Trip to Fort Rupert—Ransoming
a Slave—A Promenade with a Redskin—Bagging a
Chief’s Head—Queen Charlotte’s Islanders at Nanaimo 142
CHAPTER VII.
Sturgeon-spearing—Mansucker—Clams 175
CHAPTER VIII.
Mule-hunting Expedition from Vancouver Island to San
Francisco—The Almaden Quicksilver Mines—Poison-oak
and its Antidote 199
CHAPTER IX.
Sacramento—Stockton—Californian Ground-squirrels—
Grass-valley—Stage Travelling—Hydraulic Washings—
Nevada—Marysville—Up the Sacramento River to Red
Bluffs—A dangerous Bath 221
CHAPTER X.
The Start from Red Bluffs—Mishaps by the Way—Devil’s
Pocket—Adventure at Yreka—Field-crickets—The Californian
Quail—Singular Nesting of Bullock’s Oriole 245
CHAPTER XI.
Crossing the Klamath River—How to Swim Mules—Sis-kyoue
Indians—Emigrant Ford—Trout Baling—A Beaver
Town—Breeding-grounds of the Pelicans and various
Water-birds—Pursued by Klamath Indians—Interview
with Chief—The Desert—Prong-horned Antelopes—Acorns
and Woodpeckers—Yellow-headed Blackbirds—Snake
Scout—Arrival at Camp of Commission—End of Journal 268
CHAPTER XII.
Sharp-tailed Grouse—Bald-headed Eagle—Mosquitos—Lagomys
Minimus (Nov. Sp.)—Hummingbirds—Urotrichus 300
CHAPTER XIII.
The Aplodontia Leporina. (Rich.) 346
ILLUSTRATIONS
FOR
THE FIRST VOLUME.
The Kettle Falls: a Salmon Leap on the Upper
Columbia _vignette_
A group of Spokan Indians _frontispiece_
Viviparous Fish _to face page_ 106
Sturgeon-spearing 〃 〃 185
Sharp-tailed Grouse 〃 〃 300
North-Western Hummingbirds 〃 〃 328
Urotrichus 〃 〃 338
Aplodontia, or Ou-ka-la 〃 〃 346
ERRATA IN VOL. I.
Page 88, line 19, _for_ blubbering _read_ blubbery
〃 105, 〃 20, _for_ within _read_ in
〃 157, 〃 2, _for_ scenery on my left. The _read_ scenery. On my
left the
〃 158, 〃 23, _for_ Nimkis _read_ Nimkish
〃 164, 〃 9, _for_ this cannon _read_ these cannons
〃 177, 〃 13, _for_ cauiare _read_ caviare
〃 179, 〃 9, _for_ are _read_ is; and line 16, _for_ fourteen
_read_ seven
〃 195, 〃 9, _for_ three _read_ one
〃 232, 〃 8, _for_ pack and equipment _read_ pack equipment
〃 268, 〃 5, heading to chapter, _for_ The Desert Prong-horned
_read_ The Desert—Prong-horned
〃 296, 〃 8, _for_ Reiney _read_ Reiner
〃 349, 〃 12, _for_ Actomys _read_ Arctomys
VANCOUVER ISLAND
AND
BRITISH COLUMBIA.
CHAPTER I.
THE VOYAGE.
Whether Good Friday was more unlucky than Fridays usually are, in
the estimation of sea-going men, I know not, but from England to St.
Thomas we encountered a succession of headwinds and terrific seas.
Of course it was the regular typical storm: ‘waves running mountains
high, threatening instantaneously to engulph the struggling ship in a
watery abyss; rent sails, creaking timbers, men lashed to the wheel
(real tarry Ixions); screaming mothers, and remarkably sick papas
and passengers,’—that ended in our case, as it usually does in all
sensation sea-voyages. St. Thomas was arrived at in perfect safety,
some few days after time.
Amongst the passengers was a lady, fat beyond anything I have ever seen
(of the human kind) outside a show. From the time of her appearance
in the morning until her bedtime, she invariably sat in one place—her
throne a small sofa, behind the cabin-door. Flying-fish were constantly
driven on the deck of the steamer, or flung up into the sponsons by
the paddlewheels; and being most anxious to preserve some of these
curious tenants of the ocean, I tried every means to procure them;
but the ‘stout party,’ by resorting to most unjustifiable bribing, so
enslaved the sordid mind of the steward, that he got hold of the fish
in spite of me, and actually had the delicate beauties cooked, and
ignominiously fried at the galley-fire, for that terrible old lady to
eat. With regret and indignation I have watched her munching them up,
and wickedly longed to see her prostrated by that terrible leveller
seasickness, or the victim of dyspepsia—evil wishes of no avail: she
ate on, in healthful hungry defiance of wind and waves, and the wrath
of an injured naturalist.
The first peep one gets of the little Danish town of St. Thomas, too
well known to need more than a casual notice, is picturesque and
pretty. Built on the scarp of a steep hill, its houses arranged in
terraces, and all painted with bright and gaudy colours; its feathery
groves of tamarind-trees; gay gardens decked with flowers, possessing
a brilliancy and magnitude seen only in a hot climate; together with
the showy dresses of the natives, it becomes the more impressive as
contrasted with the sombre island so recently left behind.
Scarcely had the ‘Parana’ steamed into the harbour—much more, by the
way, like a stagnant cesspool than a rocky inlet, filled with pure
sea-water—when boats of all sizes, and far too numerous to count,
crowded round us. Everyone, seeming at once to forget seasickness and
rough weather, scrambled into this medley fleet, and with all speed
were rowed ashore—there to remain, during the transference of the
mails and baggage from the English steamer to the other vessels waiting
to take their departure.
It has often puzzled me to imagine, why travellers in steamboats and
sailing-ships invariably do the same thing. Take this very case as an
instance of what I mean. Though yellow-fever was raging like a plague,
still the greater number of the passengers made straight for the hotel,
and there and then devoured a heavy breakfast composed of bad fish,
raw vegetables (libellously called salad), unripe fruits, followed by
a brown substance, in size, shape, and texture, vastly like to the
heel of a boot floating in hot oil, which we are informed by the polite
waiter is ‘bef steek à la Anglais’—the whole washed down with copious
libations of intensely sour claret iced to the freezing-point.
The next thing in the programme is the exploration of the town, during
which all sorts of things are purchased at fabulous prices, that can
never, by any possibility, be required. Such unusual exercise in a
hilly place, exposed to the scorching heat of the sun, soon begets
a feverish thirst, necessitating copious draughts of iced-water
dashed with cognac, unlimited cobblers, or more cold sour poison.
Raw vegetables, acid wine, cobblers, cognac, cocoanut, and other
‘comestibles’ soon produce disagreeable admonitory twinges: dread of
yellow-fever immediately suggests itself—bang goes the signal-gun!
A hasty scamper for the boats dispelling further alarm, all rush on
board, there to compare notes, groan over their pains and stupidity,
and go through precisely the same performance at the next place of
landing.
At St. Thomas we exchanged the commodious steamer ‘Parana’ for the
‘Trent,’ much more famous for getting into trouble than for getting
out of it. The run from the island across the Caribbean Sea to Santa
Marta, after the tumblings and buffetings that would have been good
training for an acrobat, endured betwixt England and St. Thomas, seemed
to me the very perfection of sea-travelling. Although a most enjoyable
passage, still it became monotonous: one tires of old threadbare jokes
and yarns, and wearies even of gazing day after day into the clear blue
sea, each day appearing the very counterpart of the other.
Sluggish lump-fish, with their uncouth heads and misshapen bodies,
continually wriggle slowly and idly along with us; sun-fish, in their
parti-coloured armour, float by, ever performing eccentric undulations.
Now a stiff black fin cleaves the water suspiciously, leaving a wake
behind, as would a miniature ship—the danger-signal of a greedy shark;
huge leaves of kelp, wrack, and sea-tangle drift by, rafts to myriads
of crustaceans and minute zoophytes; the rudder creaks and groans to
the music of its iron chains, clanking over the friction-rollers, as
the helmsman turns the wheel; sea-birds peep at us, then wheel away
to be seen no more; whilst ever following are the ‘Chickens of Mother
Carey,’ dipping, but never resting, on the ripple at the stern.
I had both heard and read of a formidable fortress that once guarded
the entrance to the snug harbour, on one side of which stands the neat
little town of Santa Marta, embowered amidst the trees. We sighted the
land before it was dark, but the captain deemed it expedient to lay-off
and await the daylight, ere venturing through the narrow entrance
between the rock on which stands the remains of the fortress and the
mainland. Issuing strict orders, coupled with a silver refresher, to
my cabin-boy to call me before daylight, I turned in, and was soon in
dreamland; my dreams were dispelled by a sudden shake, and the voice of
the faithful darkie boy screaming into my ear, ‘Hi, massa, him no see
fort if him no tumble out and tumble up pretty quick.’ Lightly clad and
hardly awake, I rush, glass in hand, on deck, and quietly seat myself
in the bow of the steamer. It was just in the grey of the morning; not
a sound disturbed the deathlike silence, save the ‘splash-splash’ of
the slowly-revolving paddlewheels. I could discern on my right a dim
line of trees, that looked as if they grew from out the water; on my
left the dark rock, crowned with its ruined fort, that, as the light
increased and the rays of the rising sun slanted down upon it, looked
like a mass of frosted silver—so brilliant was the contrast to the
dark water and darker woods, still in shadow, behind and around it.
Delighted with the singular beauty of the scene, and wandering, in
imagination, far away into the vistas of the past, recalling scenes
of frightful atrocity once enacted within the dreaded gates of the
buccaneers’ stronghold—wondering too if gems and gold, plunder
wrenched from many a rich argosy, still lay hidden amidst the dust of
its crumbling walls—a sudden flash, and a jerk that sent me sprawling
on the deck, at once recalled my thoughts from the past to the present.
Utterly oblivious of what had happened, as I scrambled on my legs, a
stifled laugh induced me to look round. ‘Wish I may never taste rum
again, Cap’en, if I ever see you a-sittin on the signal-gun,’ said
a sly-looking rascal in sailor’s dress. There was a roguish leer
in his eye that revealed the whole secret. Seeing me seated on the
signal-carronade, loaded to announce our arrival, was too tempting a
chance to indulge in a practical joke for Jack to resist; so he quietly
touched off the gun, without giving me any notice. No doubt he has had
many a hearty laugh at my expense since then, when telling the ‘yarn’
in far-away latitudes. Our stay in the harbour was very brief; the
mails and a passenger or two landed, away we steamed again.
At Carthagena we only lay-off a short time, to land the mails, and take
on board the strangest assemblage of natives I ever saw. They were
bound for Colon, to sell the various products of their farms, gardens,
and native forests. We were about half a mile from the beach; a good
rolling swell broke, in small waves, against the ship’s sides, and
spread its foam far up the shingle inshore. Up to their waists might
be seen the dusky forms of the natives, launching long, ugly, shallow
canoes, dug from out the solid wood. Soon a perfect fleet of them
neared us, each striving to be first alongside; as they converged, and
steadily packed together, into a confused mass, the yelling, screaming,
and swearing in bad Spanish, mixed with some unknown tongue, baffled
all description. Bad as the hubbub was when some distance from the
steamer, it was ten times worse as they literally fought and struggled
to get on board. Those who were to be passengers, in dread of being
left behind, dashed from canoe to canoe, reckless of the rage of those
intent only on selling their wares. Here one held up a poor little
drenched and shivering monkey, another a screaming parroquet, a third
a squirrel; others fruits, strings of beads, vegetables, bunches of
bananas, and cocoanuts—all shrieking at the very top of their voices,
but what they said no living soul could tell. Soon the deck forward
was filled with its live and dead freight. The first turn of the
paddlewheel sent the queer-looking assemblage scudding out of the way,
to ply back again, with their unsold wares, to dingy old Carthagena.
As we steamed quietly along, I had time to examine the new arrivals.
Squatted in little groups or families, each group had all its property,
piled or stowed in some fashion, amidst them, consisting of bundles of
all shapes and sizes, crockery, parrots and parroquets, quantities of
eggs and live poultry, fruits such as are usually consumed in tropical
countries; bananas, mangoes, cocoanuts, water-melons, bad oranges,
and vegetables; but what was most valued and cared for, clearly the
grand object of the visit, were numbers of gamecocks, all _trimmed_,
according to the most approved fashion, and tied by the leg, either
to the bedding or, failing anything else, to the person of the owner.
These Carthagenian blacks are evidently of mixed descent; most likely
a sprinkling of Spanish blood flows through their veins. The men, of
small stature, are lithe, sinewy, and extremely active; the women have
a decided tendency to become fat; one or two of them had attained to
such a state of obesity, that walking was next to an impossibility. The
children are the most singular little frights imaginable; guiltless of
garments, they seemed all eyes and stomach, arms and legs being merely
trifling unessential appendages; a singularity of form that may, I
presume, be traced to the habit of consuming such vast quantities of
innutritious vegetable food.
We reached Colon (or Aspinwall, as the Americans have named it) in
due course, and landed about midday. The outfit being enormously
heavy, some time had necessarily to be occupied in landing; and as the
afternoon train was about to start, it was deemed the wiser course to
send the men and officers at once to Panama, where Her Majesty’s ship
‘Havannah’ was waiting to take us to Vancouver Island—the Commissioner
and myself remaining at Colon, with a sergeant and small working-party,
to bring on the baggage. All the attendant miseries of unshipping such
a heterogeneous medley of packages as we had on board was finished at
last, and our equipment safely stowed away in the goods-vans of the
Panama Railway Company.
An invitation from the manager of the railway to the Commissioner to
sleep at their messhouse was by him gladly accepted; a favour not
extended to myself, so I had to take up my quarters at the ‘Howard
House.’ Now the ‘Howard House’ was managed precisely on the same
plan as a travelling wild-beast show; the entire attraction was on
the outside. The bar-room, brilliantly lighted, and glittering with
gilt, glass, and gaudy ornaments, was open to the street; an array of
rocking-chairs, before the pillars supporting the verandah, enabled
the luxurious lounger to sit with his heels higher than his head,
and in smoky abstraction contemplate his toes. The barman, all studs
and shirt-front, hardly deigned to answer my request for a bed, but,
pointing to the entry-book, said, ‘Waal, you’d better sign.’ My name
duly inscribed on the page of a huge and particularly soiled book, a
key was handed me, adorned with a brass label, attached to a chain
of like material, with No. 10 on it. ‘Guess, stranger, I want a
dollar—and you jist look here: there are two beds, so if anyone comes
along, he’ll jist have to room with you.’ This I decidedly objected to.
‘Waal, can’t help it nohow; thar ain’t no other room.’ ‘If I pay for
both beds,’ I replied, ‘surely I can have it all to myself?’ This was
at length agreed to, the money paid, and at an early hour I turned in,
to enjoy a good sound sleep ashore.
Excepting two miserable, hard, curtainless beds, an old rickety
chest of drawers, and a couple of chairs, the room was destitute of
furniture; but spite of all discomfort, mosquitos, and other pests,
_felt_ if not seen or heard, I fell fast asleep, soon to be roused
again by a loud knocking at my door, the sound of numerous feet
scuffling hurriedly up and down the passage, and a very Babel of
voices. Hardly awake, my ideas were in a jumbled sort of chaos as to
the cause. Fire, burglars, riots, a house-fight, were all mixed in
strange confusion, until an angry voice, that appeared to come through
the speaker’s nose, yelled, rather than spoke, ‘Say, ar you agwine to
open this door? Our women want them beds for a lay-out, and jist mean
to havin em, anyhow.’ ‘Ah!’ thought I, ‘they want the spare bed I have
paid for.’ Of course I refused—who would not?—and, dragging the old
chest of drawers against the door, defied them to do their worst.
In the angry parley that ensued, I discovered that a steamer had just
arrived from New York, en route to the new gold-diggings in British
Columbia, with 1,500 passengers, who, rowdy-like, demanded everything.
Threats of administering the summary law of Judge Lynch—of firing
their six-shooters through the door, and riddling me like a rat in a
hole—together with sundry hard names (it is better to imagine than
mention), were heaped profusely on my devoted head. As it appeared
to me quite as unsafe to surrender as to remain in my fortress, I
determined on holding out to the last.
Fortunately, daylight soon came, and with it the shrill whistle and
clanging bell, announcing the departure of a railway-train. Peeping
cautiously through the window, I saw, to my intense delight, a long
train specially put on, and the rowdies just ready to start. I watched
them scrambling in, and as the engine with its freight dashed into the
tropical jungle, I emerged from my room and the ‘Howard House’ with all
possible speed, completed my toilet at the barber’s shop, breakfasted
with the Commissioner at the Company’s messroom, and thus ended my
night in Colon.
The agency and mess establishment of the Panama Railway Company
are really delightful residences, overshadowed by cocoanut trees,
and surrounded by perfect bijous of gardens entirely reclaimed from
the swamps: the papaw, the banana, blossoming creeping plants,
fruit-bearing vines, and curious orchids, all growing together,
a wild tangle of loveliness, yielding beauty, fruits, and shade.
The cool verandah, and cane-chairs from China, together with the
comfortably-furnished interior, gave ample proof that the products of
a tropical country may be used to good account, as additions to our
northern ideas of a substantial home.
One of the most singular flowers growing in this pretty garden was an
orchid, called by the natives ‘Flor del Espiritu Santo,’ or the ‘Flower
of the Holy Ghost.’ The blossom, white as Parian-marble, somewhat
resembles the tulip in form; its perfume is not unlike that of the
magnolia, but more intense; neither its beauty nor fragrance begat for
it the high reverence in which it is held, but the image of a dove
placed in its centre. Gathering the freshly-opened flower, and pulling
apart its alabaster petals, there sits the dove; its slender pinions
droop listlessly by its side, the head inclining gently forward, as if
bowed in humble submission, brings the delicate beak, just blushed
with carmine, in contact with the snowy breast. Meekness and innocence
seem embodied in this singular freak of nature; and who can marvel that
crafty priests, ever watchful for any phenomenon convertible into the
miraculous, should have knelt before this wondrous flower, and trained
the minds of the superstitious natives to accept the title the ‘Flower
of the Holy Ghost,’ to gaze upon with awe and reverence, sanctifying
even the rotten wood from which it springs, and the air laden with its
exquisite perfume? But it is the flower alone I fear they worship;
their minds ascend not from ‘nature up to nature’s God;’ the image
only is bowed down to, not He who made it. The stalks of the plant are
jointed, and attain a height of from six to seven feet, and from each
joint spring two lanceolate leaves; the time of flowering is in June
and July.
We were to have a special train (the cost of crossing the isthmus was
something enormous—the actual amount I do not now remember); and as we
were most desirous to see as much of the country as possible, an open
goods-truck was appropriated to our use, in which we could stand, and
have a full peep at everything as we steamed along. Whilst the train
was getting ready, I took a turn over the Company’s wharf and round
the town.
The Wharf, built on piles driven into the coral reef, extends about
a thousand feet in length, and forty in width, with a depth of
water at its landing-end sufficient to float the largest ship. The
piles are from the forests of Maine, and have to be coppered above
high-water-mark, to resist the destroying power of a boring worm
(_Teredo fimbriata_), that would otherwise destroy them in a very few
months. The Freight Department is a handsome stone structure, three
hundred feet long by eighty wide, through the arched entrance to which
is a triple line of rails.
Man, it is said, differs from all other animals, in being ‘a tool and
a road-making animal,’ the truth of which was well exemplified in the
curious assemblage of products collected from all parts of the world,
and stowed in this huge house, brought by man’s ocean highways, and
awaiting removal by his iron roads and horses.
Ceroons of cochineal and indigo from Guatemala and San Salvador, cocoa
from Eçuador, sarsaparilla from Nicaragua, coffee from Costa Rica,
hides from the North and South Pacific coasts, copper-ore from Bolivia,
linen goods from the French and English markets, beef, pork, hard
bread, cheese from the States, and silks from China.
The town of Colon, as everybody perhaps does not know, stands on
a small island called Manzanilla, cut off from the mainland by a
narrow frith; the entire island being about one square mile in
extent, composed of coral reefs, and only raised a few feet above
highwater-level. It has no supply of fresh water but what is obtained
during the heavy rains; this, collected in immense iron tanks, that
hold over four thousand gallons, supplies the inhabitants during the
dry seasons.
The most conspicuous objects one meets with in this dismal place are
flocks of turkey-buzzards (useful inspectors or nuisances, as they
do their own work of removal), pigs, naked dirty little children in
legions, blear-eyed mangy curs that do nothing but growl and sleep;
together with peddling darkies, bummers, and loafers (I know no other
names so expressive of this species of idler as these Transatlantic
ones), that employ their time much in the same fashion as the curs.
A line of shops faces the sea, and at a little distance is the
‘mingillo,’ or native marketplace, a spot no one would be disposed to
linger in or visit a second time, unless the nose could be dispensed
with. ‘Noses have they but they smell not,’ must surely apply to the
dwellers in the marketplace; the air is _literally_ (and not in figure
of speech only) _laden_ with the mingled fragrance of past and present
victims, an odour far more potent than pleasant. Surely ladies never go
to market in Colon!
The train was by this time ready to take us to Panama, and, with a
parting scream, the iron horse rushed into the tropical wilderness. On
leaving Colon, the line winds its way through a deep cutting across
a morass, and along the right bank of the Rio Chagres; glimpses are
caught of the river from amidst the tangled and twisted foliage that
shuts it in on either side like dense walls. From out this leafy chaos
rise the gaunt trunks of the mango, cocoanut, plane, cieba, and stately
palm. Plantains, too, spread their green succulent leaves—sunshades
of nature’s own contriving—to protect the tender growths that love
to live beneath them. Every tree seemed strangling in the coils of
trailing vines and climbers; real ropes, pendents, and streamers of
brilliant blossoms, fit resting-places for the birds and butterflies,
themselves like living flowers. Wondrous orchids, grotesque in form
and colouring, grew everywhere, springing alike from the living and the
dead; for amidst this flood of vegetable life, decay and beauty, like
twin sisters, walk hand-in-hand.
We stopped at Gatun for a short time, the station being close to the
little village of bamboo huts thatched with palmetto-leaves, and only
remarkable as being the place where the ‘bongoes’ (or native boats)
used to stop for the travellers to refresh themselves ere the railroad
was. From here the line skirts the bases of an irregular series of
hills to cross the Rio Gatun, tributary to the Rio Chagres, on a
well-made truss girder-bridge of seventy feet span; passed Frijoli,
where the fields of golden maize were decked with what looked, at a
distance, like immense bouquets of scarlet flowers; and along the banks
of the Rio Chagres, which are here very deep, to cross it at Barbacous
on a wrought-iron bridge, six hundred and twenty-five feet in length,
eighteen in breadth, and forty feet above the surface of the water.
There are six spans, each over a hundred feet; iron floor girders,
three feet apart, support the rails—the entire structure resting on
five piers and two abutments.
After crossing the river, the country becomes open, and large patches
of rich land are seen under a rude kind of cultivation, until the
native town of Gorgona is reached, where, in old days, boats were
exchanged for horses and mules, on the overland route.
Leaving the course of the river, the line passes through deep clay
banks and rocky cuttings, suddenly emerging on the green meadowlands
surrounding Matuchin. I never gazed on a more exquisite panorama.
Dotting the foreground was a pretty native village; to the left the
Chagres, and its tributary the Rio Obispo; on the right a group of
conical hills, so clothed with vegetation that it was impossible to
imagine what the land would look like if the trees were cut away.
During our stay at this station we were regularly beset; numerous
vendors of native merchandise crowded into and round about the open
van; grey-haired old men, and women, pushed trays under our very noses,
covered with filthy pastry, gingerbread, sweetstuff, and other like
abominations; whilst little black urchins sat like imps on the rails
of the truck, each with some live captive for sale—monkey, squirrel,
parrot, or other bright-plumaged bird.
Following the valley of the Obispo, which river is crossed twice
within a mile on iron bridges, we ascend gradually (the gradient being
about sixty feet in the mile) to reach the watershed, over which the
descent commences to the Pacific. About a mile from the summit the
line winds through a huge pile of basaltic columns, that look as if
some Titan force had hurled them into the air, and let them fall again
one over the other, like a mass of driftwood piles itself in a North
American river. Below, the Rio Grande may be seen, a mere brawling
burn; a short distance through thick woods, and we are at Paraiso; as
unlike one’s ideal of paradise as Cremorne Gardens or Ratcliff Highway.
Again we reach the swampy lowlands with their dense growths; ahead,
and looming high in the glowing atmosphere, stands Mount Ancon, whose
southern base is bathed by the blue waters of the Pacific; on the left,
Cerro-de-los-Buccaneros, or the Hill of the Buccaneers, from whose
summit the terrible Morgan first looked on old Panama in the year 1670.
We rattle past San Pedro Miguel and Caimitillo, small tidal tributaries
to the Rio Grande, scream through the Rio Grande Station, sweep round
the base of Mount Ancon; and before us are the tall spires of the
cathedral, the long metal roofing of the terminus, and the quiet
waters of the Pacific.
Captain Harvey, R.N., then in command of Her Majesty’s ship ‘Havannah,’
met us at the terminus; the ship’s boats were in waiting to take both
men and baggage on board, so that I saw but little of Panama. My old
foes (that waged war against me at Colon), the gold-seekers, were
assembled on the wharf, awaiting the small tugboat to take them off to
the larger steamer anchored in the offing. To judge from appearances,
there were amongst them a goodly sprinkling that would have deemed
lynching or riddling a Britisher, a capital joke.
A tropical sun soon makes one thirsty. I wanted ‘a drink,’ and for
the first time tasted iced cocoanut-milk; never in my life have I
ever drunk anything half as delicious. Don’t imagine that, in the
least degree, it resembles the small teacupful of sweet insipid stuff
dribbled out from the cocoanut as we buy it here in England. What we
eat as kernel is liquid in the young nut, and the outer husk soft
enough to push your thumb through. Surely the cocoanut palm must have
been specially designed for the dwellers in the tropical world! It
supplies everything uncivilised man can possibly need, to build his
ships, rig, paddle, and sail them; from its products, too, he can make
his houses, and obtain food, drink, clothing, and culinary utensils.
Strictly littoral in its habits, the cocoa-palm loves to loll over the
sea, and let the frothy ripple wash its rootlets. This also looks like
another link in the chain of Divine intentions. The nuts necessarily
fall into the sea—winds and currents carry them to coral reefs, or
strand them on desert shores, there to grow, and, by a sequence of
wondrously-ordered events, in time make it habitable for man. The
‘Havannah’ dropped down to the beautiful island of Tobago, to take in
water ere she sailed for Vancouver Island.
As we crossed the Bay of Panama (which is, I believe, about 135 miles
wide, running inland 120), pelicans, far too numerous to count, were
floating high in the air, some of them mere specks. The species
_Pelecanus fuscus_ (the brown pelican) is a permanent resident on the
southern coasts of America, frequenting in great numbers the shores of
the Gulf of Mexico, California, the Bay of Panama, and other sheltered
inlets. They frequently build in the trees, although the nest is quite
as often placed on the ground, even when the former are close at hand.
My acquaintance with the pelicans in the Zoological Gardens in the
Regent’s Park had given me an idea of clumsiness, and to see them
_spooning_ the fish from out their pond is certainly no indication of
being adepts at fishing. I know no prettier sight than to watch the
brown pelican fishing in the Bay of Panama; no awkwardness there, every
movement easy and graceful. Soaring high in the lurid atmosphere, to
the eye little more than a tiny dark spot, suddenly down comes the bird
as if hurled from the clouds; plunging in head-first, its sharp beak
cleaves the water like a wedge; a fish seized is at once pouched; and,
rising without any apparent effort from the sea, it soars off again, to
look out for another chance. Should the fish be missed, an event that
does not often happen, the bird sits quietly on the water, and stares
round in stupid astonishment.
We remained several days at Tobago; and as we rode at anchor in the
deep roadstead, I could have easily pitched a penny into the groves
of tamarind and orange-trees, that grew on the very beach. From the
sea-line to the summit of the island, which is quite a thousand feet
in altitude, the hills rise in terraces, but so densely clothed with
cocoanut, banana, tamarind, orange, and other tropical trees, that one
hardly credits the existence of terraces, or that hill and valley are
hid beneath the unbroken surface of green. A little village lies hid
in a palm-grove at the base of the hill, and in the ravine behind it
bubbles up the spring of pure fresh water, that never fails, and from
which all vessels touching at Panama obtain their supply.
Mr. Baurman, a geologist, accompanied me on a ramble through its woods
and along the seacoast. We did nothing to distinguish ourselves save
getting frightfully hot, being well-nigh famished with thirst (for we
were far away from the water), and although I fired at the cocoanuts in
the hope of bringing one down, only succeeded in making holes in them
and letting out the much-coveted milk, that fell on us like a shower of
rain; shooting a few doves amongst the pineapples, and a turkey-buzzard
on the summit—a frightful crime in Tobago, of which, at the time, I
was in happy ignorance; but, fortunately for me, Baurman carried the
bird, and was deemed, for his good nature, the greater culprit. The
most singular sight we stumbled on was a bull, saddled and bridled in
equine fashion, with a black man riding on his back. Tauro might have
been a good hack, but he certainly did not look so as he waddled lazily
along with his sable rider.
The inhabitants, with few exceptions, are blacks. There was one girl
(the property of as repulsive an old demon as one could well see)
perfectly blonde, fair even to paleness, with soft blue eyes and long
golden hair, that hung in wavy ripples down to her waist—her feet and
hands delicately small, and a figure Venus might have envied. Where
she came from no one knew: one might have supposed her the descendant
of some Viking, if Vikings had ever cruised in the Pacific. Perhaps
her owner was a ‘Black Pirate,’ who stole the damsel, and knifed her
friends; not bad material for a _sensation_ story—‘The Fair Captive of
Tobago.’
The view from the summit was exceedingly lovely. Behind, and to the
right and left, the dark-green slope looked as if one could have slid
into the vessels at their anchorage; before, a vertical wall of rock a
thousand feet from the sea. It looked to me as if the island had been
broken in two in the centre, and that one-half had sunk into the water
and disappeared; the air quivered even at this height, as it does over
a limekiln; not a leaf stirred— the intensely blue sea was unrippled
far as eye could reach; the very birds and insects, too hot to fly, sat
panting under the shadow of the leaves. We gathered a pineapple, but it
tasted hot, as if half-roasted.
I am not favourably impressed with the honesty of the islanders that
do the washing, or rather that do not do it. Following the example of
the officers of the ‘Havannah,’ I delivered my bag of clothes, the
accumulation since leaving England, to the washer, who promised, as
only a black washerman will promise, to have it on board before we
sailed: he kept his word, for he came when the ship was under weigh,
had his money, and with bows, and prayers for my welfare in this world,
vanished over the side. We were well out to sea when I looked at my
bag; imagine my wrath at finding everything just as I had given it. It
was lucky for the rascal he was out of reach, and perhaps quite as well
for me; a dollar (4_s._) a dozen to carry one’s clothes ashore, most
likely to wear, and bring back again dirtier than it went, would enrage
the meekest saint!
The voyage in the ‘Havannah’ from Panama to Vancouver Island was a long
and wearisome one. We left Tobago on June 4, and entered the Straits
of Juan de Fuca on July 12. Reference to the track-chart shows how
we idled and idled along on the sea, sauntering, rather than sailing;
with a blazing sun right over the masthead, the heat was intolerable,
and attended with a depressing languor, that forbade all energy, and
fairly melted one in body and mind. The only land sighted was a very
distant view of the Gallopagos Islands, a mere black looking spot on
an interminable surface of blue. This group of volcanic islands, so
strangely isolated, might have been a monster fish, a phantom ship, or
even the great sea-serpent, for anything that could be definitely made
out, even aided by a ship’s telescope.
We caught great numbers of dolphins (_Coryphæna hippuris_), which
are far more lovely to the eye than agreeable to the palate, in my
estimation. This fish, usually from four to five feet in length, is
built for rapid passage through the water: the tail, forked like horns,
together with the long dorsal fin, reaching from head to tail, enables
it to turn with an ease and celerity during even its swiftest transit
through the sea. All who have written (in prose or poetry) about the
dolphin have attempted a description of its marvellous colouring:
to convey, by word-painting, the slightest idea of the changing,
flashing, glowing radiance that plays around and upon this fish, when
fresh from the ocean, is as impossible as to describe the colours of
the Aurora, or the phosphorescence of the tropical seas; it must be
witnessed to be realised in all its magnificence. Flying-fish are its
favourite food, and these the dolphins course as greyhounds course
hares; what is called ‘flying’ being merely an extended leap, aided by
the immensely-elongated pectoral fins, made in sheer desperation to
escape the voracious sea-hounds so hotly pursuing them.
In reference to these same flying-fish, the species washed on board the
‘Parana’ by the waves of the turbulent Atlantic, and that found their
way into the stomach of a dolphin of terrestrial habits, was _Exocetus
exiliens_. I could see nothing of its movements, as the sea simply
washed it into the sponsons, or left it floundering on the deck. Its
general appearance was exactly like a newly-caught herring: the scales,
thin and rounded, easily detached, and adhered to the hand; the back
a light steel-blue, with greenish reflections, shading into silvery
whiteness on the sides; the pectoral fins reached quite to the tail,
and were shaped like the wings of a swift; the dorsal and anal fins
are opposite each other, and placed near the tail, which is deeply but
unevenly forked—the lower limb being much the longer; the ventral
fins, which are posterior to the middle of the body, are unusually long
and strongly rayed.
But in the uncomfortably calm Pacific, where I watched the flying-fish
every day, and often all day long, I had ample opportunity to observe
its so-called ‘flying.’ The species that tenant the two oceans are
very nearly allied, _Exocetus volitans_ being the one common to the
Pacific; but it is of habits I wish to treat, not of minute specific
distinctions—that can be settled in the studio. It seems to me that
the distance traversed when the fish leaps from the sea, and the length
of time it remains out of the water, are much overestimated in books
on Natural History. Ten or twelve seconds may be taken as the average
time of its flight, and eighty yards the maximum distance traversed
when the water is perfectly tranquil; if aided by a breeze of wind, or
propelled from the crest of a breaker, the distance accomplished would
necessarily be greater; but the fins have no power to raise the fish a
single inch above the level of its leap, and simply aid in its support,
as the extended skin of the flying-squirrel bears it up in its spring
from bough to bough. I have never seen the fins vibrated or flapped, as
all wings invariably are, but, stiff and rigid, are extended and still,
until the fish plunges into the sea. Numbers, beyond all computation,
were constantly seen by us in the air together, when chased by
predatory fish. The flying-fish, as a rule, is about twelve inches in
length.
We caught several sharks, and an immense hammerhead (_Zygaena
vulgaris_), that we could not catch, followed us for a very long time.
As I looked at him sailing along under the stern of the ship, I was at
a loss to imagine for what purpose such a head was given to it; exactly
like an immense caulking-hammer, with an eye in each end; in every
other detail of shape, and in habits of voracity too, as far as I know,
it resembles the ordinary sharks. That it is so constructed to serve
some special purpose in its economy there can be no doubt, but what
that may be, remains to be discovered. We fished for albatross with
marked success, to be devoured by both men and officers, stuffed as a
goose; the rag from off the bung of a cask of whale-oil, rubbed with an
onion and chewed, would be mildly flavoured as compared to the flesh
of this sea-bird. Petrels were ever with us, like flights of martins
round the habitations of man; always on the wing, never resting, or
roosting either, as far as I could see; watch them in their easy
graceful flight, till the last lingering ray of light sank away beneath
the watery horizon; and, as night wrapped them in her sable mantle,
they were still on the wing. Be on deck as the first blush of early
dawn crept drowsily over the sleeping sea, and with the rosy light
came the petrels, still flying, as they had vanished in the darkness.
We tried to catch them by loosing long threads over the stern, and
tangling them, like human spiders; we did trap one, but the sailors
were mutinous at such unheard-of barbarity; injuring the chickens of
‘Mother Carey’ was an offence not to be tolerated, even in a zealous
naturalist; so, at the captain’s request, the cotton webs were
abandoned. The one taken was the black stormy petrel, _Thalassidroma
melania_ (C. Buonaparte): upper plumage entirely black (as are the
wing-coverts), below ferruginous; tail deeply forked, and very short.
It is a well-marked species, and readily distinguished from all its
kindred by the absence of white on the rump and wing-coverts. We caught
a huge turtle with a hook and line: a number of lines were hanging
from the bow, the ship almost still, when there was a tremendous
hue-and-cry that a turtle was hooked. To hold him with the line would
have been an utter impossibility—he could have smashed it like
pack-thread. The barbed trident called ‘a grains’ was brought into
immediate requisition, and from the ‘dolphin-striker’ an experienced
hand sent it crashing through the turtle’s armour-plates; a boat was
lowered, tackle rigged, and the ponderous reptile safely deposited on
the deck. The species I was unable to determine, for I had barely time
to seize the sucking-fish (_Remora_) that were clinging to its shell in
clusters, and observe the curious beings, parasitic and others, that
evidently used the turtle as a living raft, on which to cruise about,
ere the remorseless cook, armed with knife, axe, and saw, hewed and
hacked the monster, I could have devoted days to examine, into junks
for the pot. The harvest gleaned from his shell I shall speak of in the
chapter on Fishes.
All our fresh provisions had long been expended, and water reduced to
a very small supply per diem, when on the 11th of July, the seventieth
day at sea, ‘land on the starboard bow’ was an announcement welcome
to all. Being near dark, it was deemed advisable to stand off until
morning, and enter the Straits of Juan de Fuca with a good light. It
appeared a longer night than I ever remember, so impatient was I once
more to see and tread on _terra firma_; what in the mist and distance
seemed but a dark undefined shadow, was in reality the lighthouse,
standing grey and lonely on the wild wave-lashed rocks of Cape
Flattery. The wind was dead aft, and blowing freshly, as we dashed up
the straits, faster far than we had ever gone during the long tedious
voyage.
Nowhere is this curious inlet more than twelve miles in width: on the
right, seen over an ocean of dark-green forest, sloping to the shore,
were the snowy summits of the Olympian range of mountains; on the
left the more rounded and lower metamorphic hills, quite as densely
timbered, but broken along the coast-line into open glades and grassy
slopes, like well-kept lawns, reaching to the water-line. About sixty
miles from the entrance we round the dreaded ‘race rocks,’ and with
scarce time for even a hasty look at the new land, glide round a
rocky point, on which is a house, and people anxiously watching our
movements. The sails are clewed up; orders are rapidly given, and as
quickly executed. A heavy plunging splash and the rattle of the massive
cable, as it crashes through the hawse-holes, proclaim our anchorage in
Esquimalt Harbour, and safe arrival at Vancouver Island.