FIRST DAYS IN THE NEW COLONY.
The first few days after our arrival we led a strange and what seemed to
many of us an unreal life. Shut into a small open space by a great
forest, with no elevation high enough for us to see even so much of the
outside world as hills, mountains, or the sea, it almost seemed as if we
had dropped off of the earth to some unknown planet. Day after day
passed without our seeing the horizon, or hearing a locomotive or
steamboat whistle. We had no houses, only tents, and there was not a
wooden building of any sort within a dozen miles. At night the camp was
dimly lighted by flickering fires and the starry sky, and through the
semi-darkness came the hollow, indistinct voices of men discussing the
outlook for the future. There were always some who talked the larger
part of the night, and others who invariably rose at three o'clock in
the morning; this was two hours before light. In the deep forest at
night were heard strange sounds, but high above them all, every night
and the whole of the night, the harsh, complaining note of a certain
bird who seemed to be eternally unreconciled to the departure of day. I
think it was a bird, but it may have been the wail of a lost soul.
It was lonesome there in the wilds of Cuba in those early days of the
new colony, and doubtless there was some home-sickness, but the reader
should not gain the impression that the pioneers were downcast and
unhappy. On the contrary, they were delighted with the climate and the
country, despite the difficulties encountered in entering it and the
deprivations which had to be put up with. From the first, the colonists,
generally speaking, were more than cheerful; they were happy and
contented. Buoyant in spirits, eager to explore and acquire information
concerning the surrounding country, they enjoyed the pioneer life with
the keenest relish. They laughed at the hardships and privations, made
friends with each other and with the Cubans, and tramped the woods and
trails with reckless disregard of mud and water and thorny underbrush.
The men were astonished to find themselves in such excellent health; the
more they exposed themselves, the more they seemed to thrive, until
nearly every man in the colony was ready to say that he was better
physically and mentally than when he left home. It was the same with the
women, whose improved health, entire cheerfulness, and evident
contentment were a revelation to the observer. There are many women who
take as readily to a pioneer life as do the men. This was notably the
case in La Gloria.
The colonists had not come to La Gloria in search of a health resort--at
least, the great majority had not--but that is what they found. Scarcely
had we set foot on the soil of Cuba when those of us who had
catarrh--and what Yankee has not?--found that we no longer suffered from
the affliction. This cure, which proved permanent, was something the
majority of us had not counted on. Nor had we counted on the entire
freedom from colds which we enjoyed in the island. But the cure of
catarrh was of small importance in comparison with the sudden and marked
improvement in those who suffered from nervous diseases. It is not too
much to say, that many found the soothing Cuban climate a specific for
such disease which they had not dreamt of in their philosophy. Those
with kidney ailments and rheumatism reported themselves improved, and
there was not wanting evidence that persons with consumptive tendencies
and other weaknesses would find the air salubrious and a residence in
this part of the island beneficial.
The temperature at this time was delightful, a close approach to
perfection, the thermometer ranging from 70° to 84° at noon, and rarely
falling below 60° at any time of day. It still rained frequently, an
unusual and remarkable prolongation of the rainy season, which
ordinarily ends in November, but the water fell in brief showers and
left the rest of the day bright and clear. Indeed, it was not until
February that the rain ceased altogether and the dry season fairly
began. The Cubans declared that they had never known the wet season to
continue so late.
The long continued rains were held responsible, perhaps justly so, for
many of the inconveniences and drawbacks which the colonists
encountered. The company stoutly declared that to these unusual
meteorological conditions was due the failure to build the road to the
port which had been promised, and that the absence of the road prevented
the transportation of the lumber for the construction of the hotel.
This latter assertion was true beyond all question. The "hotel" was a
subject of much comment and immoderate mirth. It existed on paper in
spacious and imposing elegance; it was a splendid structure of the
imagination. But let it not be thought for one moment that the hotel was
wholly a myth. Not so; the situation would not have been half so funny
if it had been. There stood the foundation for the immense building
squarely across Central avenue, about a quarter of a mile back from the
front line of the town. A large space had been cleared in the forest,
and the centre of this opening was the hotel site. The foundation
consisted of large logs of hard wood, sawed about four feet long and
stood upright. They were set in cement on stone that was sunk slightly
below the surface of the ground. How many of these logs there were I
cannot say, but there was a small army of them, aligned across Central
avenue and extending far to either side. Under the dim light of the
stars they looked like a regiment of dwarfs advancing to attack the
camp. Workmen were putting the finishing touches on this foundation when
we arrived, but the work was soon discontinued altogether, leaving the
wooden army to serve as an outpost of slowly advancing civilization. Of
course, we always directed new arrivals to the "hotel" as soon as they
came in over the "road" from the port! After a while we became so fond
of the hotel joke that I think we should have been sorry to see the
building completed.
[Illustration: "THE HOTEL."
_Photograph by V. K. Van De Venter, Jan. 23, 1900._]
The bad road to the port also cut off all chance of getting the sawmill
up to La Gloria, and it daily became more evident that we should
continue to dwell in tents for some time to come. We were destitute
enough during those first days in the colony. Our trunks had not come,
and did not for several weeks, and many of us were without change of
clothing or even a towel. We washed in a small creek which ran through
the Cuban camp, wiping our hands and faces on handkerchiefs. This and
other creeks served us well for drinking water, and there was also an
excellent spring on the company's reserve north of the town. Very little
freight could be brought up from the port, and hence it was that we were
not over-well supplied with provisions. There was usually enough in
quantity, but the quality was poor and there was a painful lack of
variety. The engineer corps' cook house was hastily enlarged into a
public restaurant upon our arrival, and did the best it could to feed
the hungry colonists. Some of the latter boarded themselves from the
start--purchasing what supplies they could get at the commissary--and
perhaps had a shade the best of it.
I shall never forget my first supper in La Gloria. It was at the
company's restaurant. We were crowded together on long, movable benches,
under a shelter tent. Before us were rough board tables innocent of
cloth. The jejines (gnats or sand flies) swarmed about us, disputing our
food and drink and even the air we breathed. The food was not served in
courses; it came on all at once, and the "all" consisted of cold bread
without butter, macaroni, and tea without milk. There were not even
toothpicks or glasses of water. Amid the struggling humanity, and
regardless of the inhumanity of the jejines (pronounced by the Cubans
"haheens"), my gentlemanly friend from Medfield, Mass., sat at my right
and calmly ate his supper with evident relish. He was fond of macaroni
and tea. Alas! I was not. At home he had been an employé in an insane
asylum. I, alas! had not enjoyed the advantages of such wholesome
discipline. Of that supper I remember three things most distinctly--the
jejines, my friend's fondness for macaroni and tea, and the saintly
patience and good-humor of our waiter, Al Noyes.
It was not long before there was an improvement in the fare, although no
great variety was obtainable. We usually had, however, the best there
was in camp. The staples were salt beef, bacon, beans, and sweet
potatoes or yams, and we sometimes had fresh pork (usually wild hog),
fried plantains, and thin, bottled honey. We often had oatmeal or corn
meal mush, and occasionally we rejoiced in a cook whose culinary talent
comprehended the ability to make fritters. The bread was apt to be good,
and we had Cuban coffee three times a day. We had no butter, and only
condensed milk. It was considerably later, when I ate at the chief
engineer's table, that we feasted on flamingo and increased our muscular
development by struggling with old goat. If it had been Chattey's goat,
no one would have complained, but unfortunately it was not. Chattey was
our cook, and he kept several goats, one of which had a pernicious habit
of hanging around the dining tent. One day, just before dinner, he was
discovered sitting on a pie in the middle of the table, greedily eating
soup out of a large dish. Chattey's goat was a British goat, and had no
respect for the Constitution of the United States or the table etiquette
which obtained in the first American colony in Cuba. The soup was
dripping from Billy's whiskers, which he had not even taken the trouble
to wipe. It is certain that British goats have no table manners.
[Illustration: THE SPRING.
_Photograph by V. K. Van De Venter, Jan. 23, 1900._]
But I am getting ahead of my story. The condition of the road to the
port was so bad for some time after our arrival that it was barely
possible to get up sufficient provisions to supply the daily needs of
the camp, to say nothing of other freight. We were in need of almost
everything to furnish our tents or to begin agricultural operations.
There was, to be sure, the "commissary," where the company had
confidently assured us in its advertising literature "every necessary
article from a plough to a knitting needle" would be on sale "at the
most reasonable prices." As a matter of fact, the commissary was almost
as bare as the famous cupboard of old Mother Hubbard, and of the
commodities that were stored there, very few seemed to be for sale to
the colonists. After several ineffectual attempts to get what I wanted,
I entered the commissary tent one day to make a test case. Of Mr.
Richardson, the man in charge, I blandly inquired:
"Can I get a tin pail?"
"No," with a gentle shake of the head.
"Can I get any kind of a pail?"
"No," with another shake.
"Can I get a tin pan or a wash basin?"
"No," with a shake.
"Can I get a tin dish or an earthen dish or a wooden dish?"
"No," with more shakes.
"Can I buy a tin cup or an earthen mug?"
"No," with a vigorous shake.
"Can I buy a knife, fork, or spoon?"
"No, no," with two quick shakes.
"Can I buy a piece of cloth of any kind?"
"No, sir," stiffly.
"Can I buy an empty box?"
"No, sir, you can't--need 'em all ourselves."
"Is there anything that you have got to sell?" I inquired meekly.
"Well, there is some mosquito netting over there."
I had mosquito netting--but mosquito netting did not make a very good
drinking utensil. I left the commissary without inquiring for a plough
or a knitting needle.
The population of La Gloria fluctuated greatly during the first week
after our advent. Our arrival and the additions of the following day had
brought the total population of the camp up to at least three hundred.
The wet and muddy trails, and the backwardness of all improvements,
increased enormously the feeling of distrust among the colonists, and
some began to loudly question the security of titles. This alarm, which
ultimately proved to be entirely unfounded, kept the camp in a ferment
for a day or two. Oceans of discussion were indulged in, Mr. Park was
closely and warmly questioned, and there was a general feeling of
uneasiness and unrest. The result was that when the last half of the
week had begun, La Gloria had suffered a loss of nearly one hundred of
its population. Discouraged and disgusted men made their way back to the
coast, hoping to get transportation to Nuevitas, and thence back to
their respective homes. There was a delay at Port La Gloria, and a few
remained there until they had made up their minds to return to the camp.
The others went on to Nuevitas, but were unable to secure
transportation at once to the States. The consequence was that nearly or
quite one half eventually returned to La Gloria, straggling in from time
to time.
As the week drew to a close the town quieted down, the restless spirits
having departed. Those of us who remained either had faith in the
ultimate success of the project, or were at least disposed to give the
enterprise a fair trial. We were not easily stampeded; and we placed
some reliance on Senator Park's positive assurance that the deeds would
be all right. We saw, of course, that the company's affairs had been
badly managed, and that promised improvements had not as yet
materialized, but, on the other hand, we had learned from personal
observation that the land was good, the timber valuable, the drinking
water pure and abundant, and the climate delightful beyond description.
The most of those who returned to the States with harrowing tales either
never got as far as La Gloria at all, or else spent less than
forty-eight hours in the camp. The majority of the colonists cheerfully
stuck by the colony, and laughed at the untruthful and exaggerated
newspaper stories as they were sent down to us from the frozen North.