That afternoon after luncheon Mr. Dalken proposed a trip to Spanish
Town. He suggested the yacht for the conveyance and an anchorage at the
quay over night in order to allow themselves a full day at that
beautiful settlement. As nothing more exciting had been heard of, the
younger members of the party agreed to the plan.
Late in the afternoon, therefore, the White Crest dropped anchor at that
part of the Rio Cobra River where Spanish Town is located. The tourists
remained on board the yacht that night, but in the early morning they
started to go ashore in the two small launches belonging to the yacht.
As the boats neared the quay, the eager, waiting urchins on the wharf
stood ready to dive in the waters for the coin they expected from the
white visitors. Nor were they disappointed.
The passengers in both small boats tossed coins out for the gamins to go
after, and there, without fear or thought of the ever-present shark, the
diving boys would go down in the waters to the bottom, but more often
they would catch the coin even before it had time to reach the sandy
bottom of the water. It was a most amazing thing to watch the speed and
alertness of these children who seemed automatic in their instantaneous
dive the moment the hand let go the coin.
In several instances the boys caught the coin in their hands just as it
splashed into the surface of the water. When the girls had tired of
watching this performance, the sailors were told to move on to land.
The hotel accommodations at Spanish Town were not to be compared to the
Spring Hotel at Kingston; but they would have the yacht to use if
matters were too, uncomfortable at the hotel in Spanish Town.
Soon after landing at Spanish Town the men heard of the excellent
fishing to be had in the Rio Cobra River, hence they hoped to try a
catch that day. But the ladies had also heard of the beauty of Bog Walk,
and they clamored to go with the men. That necessitated a string of
punts and men to pole, but expense was no drawback on this excursion.
Moreover, Jamaican blacks work for a mere nothing in comparison with New
York laborers.
Down the shores of the Rio Cobra went the flat punts and then drifted
along the famous Bog Walk, the passengers listening to the songs of the
tropical birds, and watching the verdure clad shores—clad in palms, tall
cane, or heavy bamboo clumps. Both banks were carpeted with perfumed and
gaudy flowers, and the breeze stirred lazily through the reeds and
grasses along the edge of the water where one could see the clumsy
tortoise, or swift water-rats moving about.
As she sat in the bow of one of the punts Polly called the attention of
Eleanor to a great bulky tortoise. “Isn’t he ugly? Would you believe
that such beautiful things as our tortoise-shell toilet articles could
ever come from that filthy back?”
“It looks like a scum-covered bit of wreckage from the sea!” declared
Eleanor.
“There goes one,—swimming down the stream!” called Nancy.
The girls looked and sure enough! A mud-covered projection floated past
while the weeds which grow from the crevices in the back of the shell,
trailed behind him like dank strips of string.
The men in the other punts saw the tortoise and this brought forth a
suggestion that they enjoy a day’s turtle fishing while they tarried at
Jamaica. Nothing loth, Jack urged Mr. Dalken to accept the offer.
Hunting the turtle is a varied sport, according to the energy and
sportsmanship of the hunter. The easiest way is that pursued by men who
wish to use the least power and run the least risk of danger to
themselves. These men catch the female just after she has deposited her
eggs on a muddy river bank. They turn her over on her back and render
her helpless until they come to drag her to the pens where they keep
them until exported.
Other hunters spear the turtles in the open sea, and this is really the
most daring of the hunt, as often a turtle will suddenly make a swift
run to the open sea and drag a harpoon in its track.
But the method mostly followed is that of snaring the creatures in nets
when they rise to the surface for breath. The men of Jamaica are
experienced turtle hunters, and they follow the net method.
Early at dawn, the following morning, the Captain called Mr. Dalken and
said the turtle fishermen were alongside waiting for them to go out to
fish. No need of calling twice! Jack Baxter and Ray jumped into old
clothes and in an incredibly short time were on deck, the three elder
men in the party soon followed, and then the natives made room for their
employees. But the Captain had taken orders from Mr. Dalken to slowly
follow in the wake of the boats, in order to give the ladies an
opportunity to watch the hunting.
Breakfast was quite neglected that morning because the girls were
engaged in watching the sport. From the vantage point of the higher
elevation on the yacht they could watch all without any trouble
whatever.
There seemed to be quite a fleet of boats, all of which were built by
the natives. The turtle nets were woven of the leaves of the
thatch-palm. The leaf is denuded and the membrane thus left is twisted
into almost unbreakable fibrous cords. When dried, this mesh would have
held the most powerful fish caught in its net.
There was intense excitement when one of the men in a boat sighted a
deep-sea turtle. Then the others all followed carefully the directions
of the leader in his boat. They came up to the quarry in a semi-circle,
dragging the great net as they approached in shallow water.
Suddenly the watchers on the yacht saw the heavy net cast and
immediately a desperate thrashing and flopping of about three hundred
pounds of turtle began. The water was lashed to a foam and one boat was
completely capsized by a fin that struck its side.
Finally the men manipulated the net in such a way that the great turtle
was turned over upon his back; then the flapping of fins, each stronger
than a flail, accompanied by the uncanny sort of moaning from the
reptile, caused vague sympathy from the watchers on the yacht.
The great creature was dragged in the net by the last boat in the line,
and after strenuous effort was left in the deep-sea pool off the quay. A
quantity of turtle grass was left for the reptile to feed upon, and the
sport for that time was over—all but the paying off of the natives who
had staged the play.
These same natives had induced Mr. Dalken and his friends to consider a
day’s hunting in the alligator swamps just off the Rio Cobra River. The
ladies could not possibly take part in this dangerous sport—not so
dangerous from the jaws of the alligators as from the dreaded miasma
which is continually rising from the hotbeds of typhoid-malarial scums.
All the warnings and beseechings, to say nothing of the threats, from
the wives of two of the men proved to be of any avail. They were
determined to go!
When it was found that all prayers left the male contingent of the
yachting party as hard as flint toward any proposition of giving up the
alligator shooting, the ladies suddenly reversed their opinions and did
all possible to hasten the men from the yacht.
“They have some trick up their sleeves,” remarked Mr. Ashby smilingly,
to his companions.
“You don’t think they plan to accompany us in the yacht, do you?”
questioned Mr. Dalken, anxiously. “It would be a great hazard for them.”
“No, not that; but there is no use in asking them what is their plan
because they would come back with the counter proposition for us to
remain here and find out.”
Hence the men in their oldest clothes with rubber boots to their hips
left the yacht. The slimy marshes they would have to wade through would
necessitate the discard of any clothing after the hunt ended.
The alligator of the West Indies is half-brother to the crocodile of
Africa, though he is not as large as the latter; still, he is large
enough to mutilate a man and quickly kill him. Hence the sport is
fraught with some danger as well as unpleasant experiences from insects
and the malarial localities.
The natives called at the yacht in a large open boat something after the
pattern of a northern whaler. Having approved of the attire of the
yachtsmen, the guide started the craft for the swamps. At the mouth of
the Rio Cobra lay a flat stretch of mud-colored sand with every now and
then a patch of bushes, scrub-trees and coarse grass.
“I suppose the reptiles sleep in those watery places, which one can see
glistening through the swamp growth,” suggested Mr. Dalken.
The guide of the party nodded and pointed at what seemed afar to be a
floating log. The Americans looked intently and found the log had
half-closed eyes but an open mouth—open to catch any wandering tidbit
which might be attracted to venture to that gate of sure death.
“If only we were over there now—we’d bag our first ’gator, eh?” said
Jack, anxiously.
“No, no, not him! He gone too queeck,” replied the guide.
The boat was anchored and the men climbed out into water which reached
to their waists. Then the guide started out to divide the party into
units. He led the two young men as he must have thought they needed more
careful supervision than the older and more reserved men in the group.
“Good gracious! Every known pest of an insect must find its home in this
swamp!” exclaimed Ray, as he kept busily whipping away gnats, midges,
mosquitoes, and a myriad of other stinging bugs.
“Gee! Can’t say I care for this stench of rotting wood and decayed
vegetation,” laughed Jack, wrinkling his nostrils to keep out the odor.
Passing through evil-looking stretches of scum, over rotting stumps,
disturbing nests of plagues, and causing swarms of stinging insects to
cover their hands and faces, the two young men finally reached a spot
where the guide suddenly halted.
“Looka-dere!” he whispered, pointing to an up-thrust of green filth and
scum.
Jack and Ray stared for a moment in sheer unbelief, then they aimed,
shot, and at the same instant the sickening mass sunk, and all the
hunters could see was a cleavage of the surrounding slime.
“Too late!” sighed the guide: “Him hear me talk.”
The three resumed their difficult progress farther into the swamp, and
then without notice Jack lifted his rifle, aimed, and an explosion
echoed throughout the place. A great shower of chips and bark rewarded
this exploit, and the guide laughed good-naturedly.
“Him sure dead log!” remarked he to Jack’s discomfiture.
Finally they halted again and the guide silently pointed to a smaller
heap of scum quite close to what looked like a great tree-trunk fallen
over into the water. Both boys aimed and shot at what they believed to
be a small alligator, and then to their great amazement the _huge_ log
scuttled away, while the small child of the immense mother followed in
her wake leaving a streak of crimson in the stream to tell the hunters
they had missed killing him.
“We go in here, sit down and watch. Mebbe big ’gator come by.” Thus
saying the guide started for a screened spot in the marsh and posted his
followers upon a log which gave them a good view of the surrounding
area. He sat upon the lower end of the tree.
Jack looked carefully around, and Ray watched a spot that made him think
a submerged alligator might rise up and offer him a good target. Jack
spied a vast depression in the mud bank near his right hand, and the
guide nodded.
At the moment of Jack’s distraction and the guide’s nod, Ray pulled the
trigger of his gun and the shot found a true result of that aim. A tiny
alligator came to the surface, half-turned over in the coating of green,
and gasped. At the same time a maddened splashing came through the green
marsh-grass near the dying infant ’gator, and soon an enormous head with
snapping jaws thrust itself from the water.
The half-crazed mother used her snout to tenderly go over the quivering
body of her child, and when she found it had breathed its last she
lifted the mud-crusted head and gazed balefully around.
“Queeck! Queeck—shoot!” commanded the guide, taking swift aim and firing
a load at the reptile. But his shot missed because the alligator was
thrashing too wildly across the water and making for the hunters.
Not ten yards separated the three men who were doomed if they did not
climb out of the reach of those sinister jaws with their double rows of
long white teeth. Her eyes showed what the alligator meant to do to the
murderers of her child, and the very twisting and lightning-like advance
of the huge thing sent a shiver of dread along the spines of the two
young hunters.
Again the rifle of the guide cracked, and in another moment the guns of
the two Americans sent forth their spurts of red and the yellow streaks
of death right into the opened jaws of the monster. Still she came on
and lifted her vast opened jaw within a foot of Jack’s leg. The lashing
tail of the alligator was the only thing which told she had been shot
and was suffering.
It would have been good-night for the hunter’s leg had not the guide
filled the forehead of the reptile with shot—shot that entered between
the eyes and sank into the brain to paralyze further designs on her
enemies.
With a mighty effort the huge creature lifted herself half out of the
water and flung herself far from the log. The midstream silently covered
her with its green covering and the monster sank from view.
“Did we kill her?” nervously cried Jack.
“Her gone! She die, but not here. Where she go we no go!”
“All right, then, I’m through hunting alligators. After seeing the
frantic grief and mother-love in that awful thing’s eyes I could not aim
at another creature in this swamp. You go on with the guide, Ray, but
I’m through!” declared Jack.
“I say the same, Jack. When you remember the old reptile’s snout as she
lovingly went over the carcass of her young, it makes us seem like
brutes, even less soulful than the poor alligator. Come on.”
The guide smiled. He could not understand such sentiments over a vile
alligator, and he felt that he had selected a pair of weak-kneed youths
to take into the swamp.
“You not fraid of legs! I not let alligator bite you, I swear!”
exclaimed the guide, thinking they were nervous at the close
acquaintance with the mother-’gator.
But Jack took no trouble to explain. They motioned the man to lead out,
and shortly after the incident had closed the three reached the sandy
shore where the boat had been anchored.
In the heat of a tropical sun they ate a few rice-cakes and drank warm
water from the canteen, but they had to wait for more than an hour
before the other hunters came back. Meanwhile the guide had followed his
own bent and had gone back into the swamp to secure a trophy. Jack was
glad to find later that he had not seen a single snout.
The return trip was soon accomplished, but when the boat came to the
place where the yacht had been last seen there was not a sign of the
White Crest.
“Well, this is what they planned—to give us the slip!” laughed Mr.
Dalken, as he motioned the men to keep on and land them on the wharf of
Spanish Town.
The hunters returned earlier than had been planned for, hence they had a
tiresome wait at Spanish Town for the appearance of the White Crest once
more. All they could learn by questioning the loafers at the quay was
the fact that the yacht had sailed away. That was self-evident, or else
she had gone down. The latter was too impossible for belief so she
_must_ have sailed away.
Dinnertime came and passed, still no White Crest. The darkness came over
the water and the squatty houses of Spanish Town, and still no yacht. It
was close to midnight when the impatient watchers, seated on a crude
plank on the wharf, saw a beautiful silvery craft glide up to the mouth
of the river and silently drop her anchor.
“Well, there she is, but how are we to reach her?” asked the owner,
chewing the end of a cigar.
“We’ll halloo for the Captain to send us the boat,” replied Jack, and
immediately Ray and he chorused a loud call for transportation over the
bay.
The transfer was made and then, man-like, the hunters all clamored for
an explanation. “To think of leaving us stranded all day and half the
night!” exclaimed Mr. Ashby.
“We thought you planned to be hunting until sundown,” said Mrs. Ashby.
“And of course you would be worn out when you got back and would
appreciate a little quiet on the quay,” added Mrs. Fabian, smilingly.
“Where have you been?” demanded Jack.
“We’ve been cooling our heels ever since four o’clock.”
“Perhaps we had the best time then,” said Mrs. Courtney. “I certainly
enjoyed myself immensely to-day and this evening.”
“We all did,” echoed her companions. “We sailed all round Jamaica and
saw sights which you men would not bother to stop and appreciate. We
have seen the tiny palm-covered coral dots which lift their heads above
the rippling sea and warn us to keep a keen watch for the reefs hidden
under the water. We have had pointed out to us the great mountainsides
where the three hundred thousand black slaves climbed in order to face
the rising sun on the dawn of the day that witnessed their emancipation.
We got birdseye views of the other towns on the Island of Jamaica—Port
Antonio, Montego Bay, and the smaller settlements which dot the island
like so many studs of color. Oh, yes! we had a glorious sail—thanks to
our good Captain.”
“And thanks to the good yacht,” laughed Mr. Dalken.
“We may as well add: thanks to Dalky and his generous invitation to us,”
concluded Polly.
And to the latter motion every one called a unanimous hurrah!
The following day was given to visiting the cathedral which is the
oldest building on the island. It can show an antiquity of four
centuries and withstood all battles for supremacy of different factions
and nations since 1523. Polly and Eleanor went with Mr. Fabian and Mr.
Ashby to examine and study the old monuments, the style of decoration,
and the many other notable points of interest to architects and
decorators.
Having ended this visit, the tourists returned to the White Crest and
sailed away, but to stop at Hope Gardens—the Botanical Gardens and a
show-place of Jamaica. There were many other places to be visited, a
list of them showing that some would have to be eliminated. So after
“doing” Belle View, Castleton, and Mandeville, the entire party voted to
say goodby to Jamaica, the Queen of the Antilles, and continue on their
vagabondage.