COUNTRY LIFE AT A SUGAR ESTATE.
An Artist's Tent--Early Sport--An 'Ingenio'--Sugar and
Rum--Afternoon Sport--A Ride through the Country--Negro Dancing--An
Evening in the Country--'La Loteria.'
With my companion Nicasio Rodriguez y Boldu, behold me passing the
sultry months of August and September at the plantation of our worthy
friend Don Benigno, who, with his wife and family, have encamped for the
summer season at a farm-house on his sugar estate.
Our host's party is somewhat larger than usual, consisting of, besides
his wife and family, his eldest daughter's intended, Don Manuel, and
_his_ family. After our arrival, it is found that Don Benigno's premises
cannot accommodate us; we therefore obligingly seek a lodging elsewhere,
and as in the tropics any place of shelter serves for a habitation, we
do not greatly sacrifice our comfort.
Assisted by a stalwart negro, Nicasio and I improvise a lodging on the
banks of the river which flows near Don Benigno's country house. Our
rustic bower consists of a framework of roughly cut branches, and has an
outer covering formed of the dried papyrus-like bark of palms. The
interior is not spacious, but it meets all our requirements. In it we
can swing our hammocks at night, and assume a sitting posture without
inconvenience during the day. Our implements for sketching, together
with a couple of double-barrelled guns and some fishing-tackle,
distributed about the apartment, form agreeable objects for our gaze,
while, at the same time, they are within our easiest grasp. Plenty of
good fishing may be obtained in the deep, wide river which flows at our
feet, and our guns may be equally well employed with sport in the
opposite direction. As for our more peaceful instruments of art, there
is abundant scope for them on every side; and thus we can shoot, angle,
or sketch, as we may feel inclined, without moving from our shady
retreat, which, during the sunnier hours of the day, we dare not desert.
We rise at a very early hour; indeed, it is not yet daylight when our
dark domestic brings us our early cup of cafe noir and cigarettes. After
refreshing our bodies in the natural gigantic bath which flows before
our domicile, we dress: an operation which does not occupy much time, as
our wardrobe consists simply of coloured flannel shirts, brown holland
trousers, Panama hats, and buff-coloured shoes. Thus attired, with
ammunition affixed to our girdles, and guns shouldered, we plunge into
an adjacent thicket in quest of game; the objects of our sport being
chiefly wild guinea-fowl, quails, partridges, and wild pigeons. No game
license is required of us in these parts, and the sporting competition
is very small, if indeed it exists at all, within earshot of us; at
least, at this hour of the morning we have the field to ourselves. We
hear nothing as yet but the rustling of gigantic ferns, bamboos, and
plantain leaves, together with the occasional song of the winged tribe,
whose united harmony it is our purpose soon to interrupt. The silence
of the grey dawn is eminently favourable to our sport, and the low
bushes which intercept our path screen us from the penetrating gaze of
our prey. The guinea-fowl, or 'gallos de Guinea' as they are styled,
occupy our first attention. At this hour they emerge from their
hiding-places by the score to feed among the dewy heather. We have to
move with extreme caution, for the colour of their soft feathers is
scarcely distinguishable from the ground which they have selected as a
table for their morning meal. Nicasio is in advance of me, tracking a
company of guinea-fowls, whose melodious chirp has caught his accustomed
ear. They are not yet visible, but my sporting friend has halted behind
a bush, and thrown away his white tell-tale panama. This means mischief.
The dark-grey clothes and sun-burnt face of my companion blend naturally
with the surroundings, and, as he crouches motionless on the ground, he,
like the birds just described, is barely discernible. I watch him with
interest and some impatience, for a covey of large pigeons challenge my
weapon close at hand. Their cooing seems to proceed from a great
distance, but, conscious of the enemy's ventriloquial power, his muffled
music does not deceive me. My companion has now levelled his gun, and,
taking steady aim, presently fires. At the sound of fire-arms my pigeons
take flight, and as they rise I fire into their midst. My companion now
discharges his second barrel into a covey of quails, which had been
feeding unobserved within a few paces of him. I take a shot at one of
these birds as it flutters incautiously over my head, and it falls with
a heavy thud at my feet. The firing has reached the quick ears of Don
Benigno's watch-dogs, and anon our favourite animals, Arrempuja and
No-se-puede, come bounding towards us. The sagacious brutes help to
bring in our wounded, which we are gratified to find are more numerous
than we contemplated. Gathering together our spoil, we remove to another
spot, where our performances are repeated, though scarcely with the same
success. The sun has already begun to cast broad shadows along the soil,
and warns us that the hour for our 'tienta pie,' or early meal,
approaches; so we return to our hut, change our damp linen for dry, and
join the company, who are already seated on the broad balcony of Don
Benigno's house, watching the interesting process of milking cows. Bowls
of warm milk are presently handed round by negroes, who bring also new
milk rolls which have just arrived from the village ten miles distant.
'What luck have you had?' inquires our host of his sporting friends.
We exhibit the result of our morning's sport, which gains us much
applause and approving cries of 'Ay! que bonito. Ay! que bueno.' The
black cook to whom we consign our game, promises to do culinary justice
to them at breakfast.
We employ the interval which precedes that late meal in a saunter
through Don Benigno's sugar works, where some of us are initiated into
the mysteries of sugar making and rum distilling. The operations are
conducted under a spacious shed in the piazza which faces the Don's
dwelling-house, and here the whole process, from the crushing of the
newly-gathered cane to the distilling of the aguardiente, or white
brandy, is explained to us by our host, who apologises because he cannot
show everything in working condition at this time of the year. He,
however, enlightens us as to the uses of all we behold, and leaves the
rest to our imagination.
Here is the store-house where the freshly-gathered cane is kept ready
for the crushing process. Under that spacious shed is the engine-room in
connexion with the rollers that crush the cane. Near us are the tanks or
boilers for the reception of the 'jugo' or cane-juice. We are shown the
clarifying pans and the coolers in which the boiled liquid, after being
skimmed, is transformed into sugar grains or crystals. One of the most
interesting sights is the process of separating the molasses, or
treacle, from the crystalline portion of the sugar, which is done by the
action of centrifugal force. The sugar, still in a liquid condition, is
poured into a deep circular pan, which contains a movable drum-shaped
cylinder of wire gauze. The latter is whirled rapidly round by means of
machinery, and in doing so drives the liquid against the sides of the
gauze drum, through the meshes of which the molasses escapes, leaving
the dry white sugar clinging in hard cakes to the sides. Don Benigno
gives us interesting statistics on his favourite subject, informing us
how twelve or fourteen tons of ripe cane may be converted into one
thousand five hundred hogsheads of sugar.
The machinery and engine are at present taking their periodical doze
like a great boa constrictor. The engineer--a native of
Philadelphia--has gone home for the holidays, and will not return till
October or November, when the cane harvest begins and his indispensable
services will be required. He has unscrewed all the brass fittings,
taken out the slender and highly polished steel work, and stowed them
away with fatherly care, while he has greased whatever is immovable,
and then wrapped it up tenderly in machinery swaddling clothes.
Being an Englishman, I am looked upon by the company as an authority in
matters mechanical, and my opinion touching the merits of the
engineering works is consulted. I accordingly peer into everything with
the air of a connoisseur, and happening to catch a glimpse of the
maker's name and address on one of the shafts, observe grandly:--
'Ah, Fletcher and Company, I have heard of the firm.'
We have yet to visit Don Benigno's distillery, where the molasses or
refuse of the sugar is converted into white brandy or rum. This is a
simple process. The raw liquid is first boiled, and the steam which
generates passes through a complication of sinuous tubing until it
reaches a single tap, where it spirts out in fits and starts into the
cold colourless spirit called 'aguardiente.' A glass valve is connected
with the tap, and by means of this the degrees of strength formed by the
spirit are gauged. The distillers are already at work, as the operations
in this department are best accomplished out of harvest time. One of
them invites us to test the strength of the precious spirit, which the
gentlemen of our party do with their mouths, while the ladies are
content to bathe their hands and temples in the icy-cold liquid.
Everybody takes a deep interest in all that is shown by our amicable
cicerone, save, perhaps, Don Manuel and his inamorata, who occasionally
loiter behind congenial cogwheels, huge coolers, clarifying pans, and
other objects used in the process of sugar-making. The attachment which
the lovers conceive for this particular portion of Don Benigno's
possessions is so great, that it is with difficulty that they are
induced to abandon it. Their repeated visits to the same secluded spot
upon subsequent occasions, only confirms our host's theory, that
machinery has a strange fascination for persons of all ages and sexes!
Our morning's perambulations terminate with a visit to the infirmary
where the sick people, employed on the estate, are tended, and a stroll
through the black barracks, which consists of rows of neatly built
cottages, occupied by the Don's slaves and their families.
After a substantial breakfast, which resembles dinner in the variety of
dishes provided, some of our party betake themselves to their
dormitories with a siesta in view, being incapable of any more active
service till the hot hours have passed. Nicasio and I, however, prefer
to improve the sunny moments under the grateful shade of our improvised
wigwam, in which position we may sketch, fish, or shoot without much
exertion: but despite our laudable efforts to do something useful, our
pencils drop from our hands, our angling is neglected, and we surrender
to the overpowering heat.
I am awakened by my companion, who enjoins me, perhaps because I am
indulging too loudly in somnolence, to be silent.
'What is it? Fish or feather?' I ask.
'Both,' he replies, under his breath. 'Hush! it's a river bird.'
'What is its shape?'
'I haven't seen it yet; but it has been chirping among the reeds and
long grasses there, for the last half-hour.'
My friend's gun is half cocked in readiness, and presented through an
aperture in our hut. After a long pause the bird emerges from its
hiding-place, and with astonishing velocity half flies, half skims
across the river, and vanishes between the reeds on the opposite bank.
Bang! bang! go both barrels of Nicasio's 'escopeta,' and both have
missed their mark. My sporting friend is, however, determined to secure
his game, which is an odd-looking creature, with a long neck and longer
legs, similar to a crane. He accordingly fords the river at a shallow
point, and in spite of my remonstrances (for a river bird is not easy to
bag) goes in quest of his prey. At the expiration of a couple of hours,
Nicasio, who has followed the bird two or three miles up and down the
river, returns with it triumphantly, but he is himself very wet,
footsore, and exhausted.
Our fishing is not so successful as our shooting to-day, and we have
soon to abandon both amusements, together with our sketching, for the
day is on the wane, and the ladies have come down to the river to take
their afternoon's bath before dinner. So we modestly withdraw, and
betake ourselves to a neighbouring 'cocoral,' where we refresh ourselves
with the cool drink furnished by the cocoa-nut.
Towards nightfall, when dinner, with its indispensable accompaniments of
cafe and cigars, is over, our host invites the gentlemen to accompany
him to the plantations of a few friendly neighbours. Horses are
accordingly saddled, spurs are affixed to our boots, and away we gallop.
Our first halt is made at a grazing-farm belonging to Don Benigno, and
kept by his mayoral, or overseer, a stout, bronze-faced man, who, we are
told, rarely moves during the day from a leather-bottomed chair, which
he places slopingly against a post of the verandah. After inspecting
Don Benigno's cattle, which consist chiefly of oxen, cows, and goats, we
ride over to some coffee estates and tobacco farms, whose owners, or
representatives, give us a hearty welcome, and are lavish of their
hospitality, offering for our acceptance everything they possess except
their wives and families, whom they, however, present to us as our
'servants.'
Our time being limited, we cannot partake of their bounty to-night, but
promise to return another day. On the road homewards, we dismount at a
coffee estate belonging to Don Benigno's kinsman, Don Felipe, where we
remain for an hour or so, and watch the performances of a crowd of black
labourers, who are keeping holiday in honour of some favoured saint.
Dancing, with 'tumba' or drum accompaniments, forms the leading feature
in the entertainments. The negroes, in turn, take part in the drumming,
which is performed by bestriding barrel-shaped tambours, and beating the
parchment side rapidly with their hands. The strange measure of the
dance is so varied and well sustained, that the outline of an air may be
easily distinguished. This primitive music is accompanied by a
performance on rattles, by singing, and by scraping the gueiro. This
instrument is, in the country, roughly made from a dry calabash, notched
in such a manner that a hollow grating sound is produced by scraping the
rough surface with a fragment of bone. The dancers warm to their work in
every sense. Only two couples volunteer at one time, and when they are
utterly exhausted, others take their place. The partners dance
independently of one another, and only join hands occasionally. The
women, attired in long cotton gowns and coloured turbans, assume a
short, shuffling kind of step, which gives them the appearance of
gliding on wheels, while the upper parts of their persons oscillate, or
sway to and fro in a manner peculiar to their tribe. The men, whose
evening costume consists of buttonless shirts and short canvas trousers,
are more demonstrative than their partners. Sometimes they throw up
their arms in wild ecstacy, or leap madly into the air; varying these
gymnastic performances by squatting, frog-fashion, near the ground, or
turning pirouettes. They get so excited and warm over their gyrations,
that their Panama hats, which have been doffed and donned fifty times,
are thrown away, their buff-coloured shoes are kicked off, and finally
their shirts are disposed of in a similar manner.
Nicasio and I contemplate the animated scene with painters' eyes, and
during the pauses of the dance, we mix and fraternise with the swarthy
company.
Having expressed a wish to immortalise on canvas a couple of brown
divinities, picturesquely attired, our hospitable host, Don Felipe, who
has already offered us his country residence, together with the
surroundings, including horses, cattle, tobacco, coffee, and all that is
his, does not hesitate to add to his list of gifts, the model-ladies
that have attracted our observation; so, after his accustomed
declaration, 'They are at your disposal,' he promises to have them
'forwarded' to Don Benigno's hacienda without much delay.
The lateness of the hour warns us that we must be moving, so after a
parting cup with our host and his family, we remount our steeds, and
turn homewards.
During our absence, the ladies and children have been playing the
old-fashioned round game of loto, over which they are intently occupied
when we join them.
Dona Mercedes is calling the numbers from a bag, but not in the orthodox
way. In order to increase the excitement and confusion of the game, the
playful lady invents noms de guerre for some of the numbers. Number one
is by her transformed into 'el unico' (the only one); number two, when
drawn, is termed 'el par dichoso' (the happy pair); and number three,
'las Gracias' (the Graces). Similarly, number fifteen becomes 'la nina
bonita' (the pretty girl); number thirty-two, 'la edad de Cristo,' and
so on up to number sixty-nine, which she describes as 'el arriba para
abajo' (the upside down number). All the tens she gives in their
numerical form, coupled with the creolised adjective 'pelao,' or shaven,
because the ciphers in these numbers are thought to resemble a bald
head.
When 'Loteria!' has been at last shouted by a successful winner, loto is
abandoned, and cards, in which the gentlemen take the lead, are
substituted. Don Benigno proposes the exciting and speculative game of
monte, and all the ready cash of the company is forthwith exhibited on
the table. Long after the children and ladies have retired, the males of
our party continue to gamble over this fascinating game.
While we are finishing our last round but six, a slave enters the broad
airy balcony where we are assembled, and approaching our host, whispers
mysteriously in his ear. Don Benigno directs a look at my companion and
me, and observes, with a smile, 'Senores artistas, your models have
arrived.'
True to his word, Don Felipe has dispatched our swarthy models that same
evening, so as to be in readiness for to-morrow's pictorial operations,
and the good-natured coffee-planter begs as a personal favour to
himself, that we will return his property not later than the day after
to-morrow.