[Illustration:
WAIKNA;
Adventures
on the
MOSQUITO SHORE.
by
Saml. A. Bard.
New-York;
HARPER & BROS.]
WAIKNA;
OR,
ADVENTURES
ON THE
MOSQUITO SHORE.
BY SAMUEL A. BARD.
“Whatever sweets salute the northern sky,
With vernal lives, that blossom but to die;
These here disporting, own the kindred soil,
Nor ask luxuriance from the planter’s toil;
While sea-born gales their gelid wings expand,
To winnow fragrance round the smiling land.”
GOLDSMITH.
WITH SIXTY ILLUSTRATIONS.
NEW YORK:
HARPER & BROTHERS.
329 & 331 PEARL STREET.
1855.
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1855, by
HARPER & BROTHERS,
In the Clerk’s Office of the Southern District of New York.
PREFACE.
SCENE.—_A lonely shore._
_Enter YANKEE and MOSQUITO MAN._
Well, my dark friend, who are you?
“_Waikna!_” A man!
And what is your nation?
“_Waikna!_” A nation of men!
Pretty good for you, my dark friend! There was once a great
nation—a few old bricks are about all that remains of it
now—whose people were proud to call themselves —— but then what
do you know about the Romans?
“Him good for drink—him grog?”
Bah! No!
“Den no good! bah, too!”
_Exeunt ambo._
Now such a dialogue took place, or might have taken place, on the
Mosquito Shore. For all artistic purposes it did take place; and, as my
book is chiefly devoted to the Mosquito man and his country, it shall be
called WAIKNA—a word that, in the Mosquito tongue, means simply MAN, but
which is proudly claimed as the generic designation of the people of the
entire coast.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
CHAPTER I.
Jamaica, and how the Author got there—A solemn Soliloquy—An
Artist Tempted—Painting a Portrait—The Schooner Prince
Albert—Captain and Crew—Antonio—Superstitions—Gathering of the
Storm—A Scene of Terror—The Shipwreck 13
CHAPTER II.
“El Roncador”—The Escape—Coral Cays—Scene with the Dead—A Night
of Fever—Delirium—Island Scenes—Turtles—A cruel Practice—Sail
ho!—An Encounter—Revolvers _versus_ Knives—Departure from “El
Roncador”—Island of Providence—A Scene of Revelry—Away for the
Mainland 36
CHAPTER III.
Approach to Bluefields—An Imperial City—New Quarters—Mr.
Hodgson—The Mosquito King—“George William Clarence!”—Grog
_versus_ Gospel—The “Big-Drunk”—A Mosquito Funeral—Singular
Practices—Superstitions—An ill-fated Colony—Sad Reflections 56
CHAPTER IV.
Rama Indians—Departure from Bluefields—Canoe Voyage—Strange
Companionship—The “Haulover”—Our first Encampment—Epicurean
Episode—Night under the Tropics—Life on the Lagoons—Pearl
Cay Lagoon—Climbing after Cocoa-Nuts—A Solitary
Grave—Mangroves—Soldier Crabs—Roseate Spoonbill—River
Wawashaan—Deserted Plantation—Sambo Settlement—“A
King-Paper”—Extraordinary Reception—Captain Drummer—King’s
House—Vanilla Plant—Philanthropy—A Dance—“Spoiled
Head”—Fire-light Fishing—Night Scene 76
CHAPTER V.
Visit to the Turtle Cays—Spearing Turtle—Jumping
Turtle—Return to the Lagoon—Off again—Native Indigo—Another
_Haulover_—Tropical Torments—Braving the Bar—Great
River—Temporal Camp—Continuous Rain—Doleful Dumps—Freaks of the
Flood—Rain, Rain!—Craw-Fish—“El Moro”—The Manzanilla—Guavas—The
Release 105
CHAPTER VI.
On the River—Strong Currents—An Indian Village—A Woolwa
Welcome—Ceremonious Reception—Relations of the Indians—Their
Habits—A Tabooed Establishment—Projected Sport—Hunting
the Manitus—Habits of the Animal—The Attack—Great
Excitement—Successful Capture—Division of the Spoil—Instruments
of the Chase—Another Epicurean Episode 122
CHAPTER VII.
Departure—The Plantain-Tree—Bisbire—Nocturnal
Noises—“Stirring up the Animals”—At Sea Again—Mollusca of the
Caribbean—Walpasixa—The Moonlit Ocean—Prinza-pulka River—Vines
and Verdure—Savannahs—Village of Quamwatla—Inhospitable
Reception—A Retreat—Fatal Encounter—A Trial of Cunning—Tropical
Thunder-Storm—A Second Encounter—The Fight, and the
Triumph—Flight—Asylum in the Forest—The Explanation 138
CHAPTER VIII.
Tapir Camp—A Picturesque Retreat—Wild Life—Palm Wine—Queen of
the Forest—Pine Ridges—Parrots and Paroquets—A Fright—“Only a
Dante”—Trapping the Tapir—Successful Result—Narrow Escape—“An
Army with Banners”—Honey-bees—Communion with Nature—Once more
on the Lagoons 162
CHAPTER IX.
Lagoons of the Mosquito Shore—Indians and Sambos—Life among
the Lagoons—Aquatic Birds—Silk-Cotton Tree—Water Plant—Night
Traveling—Tongla Lagoon—Fishing—A Disagreeable Discovery—The
Chase—Prospect of a Fight—Successful Device—Diamond cut
Diamond—Safely off—Wava Lagoon—Attack of Fever—Primitive
Physic—Poisonous Reptiles—My Poyer Boy Bitten—The Cure 179
CHAPTER X.
Leave Fever Camp—Towkas Indians—Formal Reception—Singular
Practices—Towka Marriage—Extraordinary Ceremonies—Presents
Propitiatory—Shouldering the Responsibility—Marriage
Festival—How to get Drunk—The End of it—Wild Animals—Indian
Rabbits—The Curassow—Chachalaca—Gibeonite—River Turtle—Savory
Cooking 200
CHAPTER XI.
Duckwarra Lagoon—Aboriginal Relics—Sandy Bay—Mosquito
Fashions—Sambos of Sandy Bay—General Peter Slam—An English
Captain—Brutality—Interference—A Drunken Debauch—Mishla
Drink—Dances and Songs—A Sukia Woman—Opportune Warning—Hurried
Departure—Power of the Sukias—Making Mishla—A Disgusting
Operation 215
CHAPTER XII.
Cape Gracias—Its Inhabitants—Fine Savannah—Sambo
Practices—Novel Mode of Hunting—Island of San Pio—Mangrove
Oysters—Trial of the Sukia—A Mysterious Seeress—Superstitions
of the Sambos—Wulasha and Lewire—Character and Habits of
the Mosquitos—Drunkenness—Decrease—Festival of the Dead—New
Plans—River Wanks or Segovia—Iguanas—Armadillos 234
CHAPTER XIII.
River Bocay—New Scenery—End of the Savannahs—Indian Village—The
Messenger—A Night Adventure—Sanctuary of the Sukia—Hoxom-Bal,
the Mother of the Tigers—Mysteries—Ruins among the
Mountains—Serious Impressions—A Tale of Wanks River—Harry F.
and the Padre of Pantasma 251
CHAPTER XIV.
Up the Cape River—Imposing Scenery—Storm among the
Mountains—Influence of the Moon’s Rays—River Tirolas—Mountain
Streams—Picturesque Embarcadero—A Sweet Encampment—An
Accident—Laid up—Send off the Poyer Boy for Help—Speedy
Recovery—Monkeys—An Encounter with the Pigs—To Eat or to be
Eaten, a wide Difference—Return of the Poyer—Abandonment of
the Canoe—“El Moro” again—Ascent of the Mountains—Another
Temporal—Reflections on Fire 272
CHAPTER XV.
The Crest of the Mountains—A Desert Waste—Descent—Rio
Guallambre—Gold Washing—The Poyer Village—Habits of the
Poyers—Plantations—Poisoning Fish—Primitive Arts—Indian
Naiads—Patriarchal Government—Departure—Rio Amacwass—Rio
Patuca—“Gateway of Hell”—Approach to the Sea—Brus Lagoon 290
CHAPTER XVI.
Arrival at Brus—A Festival—Hospitality—Loss of the Poyer
Boy—Civilization of the Caribs—Cocoa-Groves—Sanitary
Precautions—Wild-Fig or Banyan-Tree—Habits of the
Caribs—Industry—The Mahogany-Cutters—Celebration of their
Return—A Carib Dandy—Polygamy—Singular Practices—A Carib
Crew—Departure—The Bay of Honduras—The Bottom of the Sea—Island
of Guanaja—Night—Sombre Soliloquies—Antonio’s Secret—The
Rousing of the Indians—Deep-laid Schemes of Revenge—The Voice
of the Tiger in the Mountains 312
APPENDIX.
A—HISTORICAL SKETCH 335
B—NOTES AND EXTRACTS 354
C—MOSQUITO VOCABULARY 363
ILLUSTRATIONS.
NUMBER PAGE
1. ILLUSTRATIVE TITLE 1
2. MAP OF MOSQUITO SHORE 12
3. THE ARTIST 13
4. MY LANDLADY 22
5. ANTONIO CHUL 28
6. THE SHIPWRECK 35
7. THE ESCAPE 36
8. “SHELLING” TURTLES 46
9. A SAIL! A SAIL! 48
10. “EL RONCADOR” 52
11. APPROACH TO BLUEFIELDS 56
12. GOING TO THE FUNERAL 67
13. A MOSQUITO BURIAL 70
14. AFLOAT IN THE LAGOON 76
15. CLIMBING AFTER COCOAS 84
16. A MANGROVE SWAMP 85
17. THE ROSEATE SPOONBILL 89
18. CAPTAIN DRUMMER 93
19. TURTLE CAYS 105
20. SPEARING TURTLE 109
21. TEMPORAL CAMP 117
22. A FRESHET IN THE RIVER 122
23. HUNTING THE MANITUS 133
24. HARPOONS AND LANCES 136
25. TROPICAL VERDURE 138
26. MARINE MOLLUSCA 143
27. ON THE MOONLIT SEA 144
28. VILLAGE OF QUAMWATLA 149
29. FIGHT NEAR QUAMWATLA 153
30. TAPIR CAMP 162
31. PALMETTO ROYAL 166
32. THE DEATH OF THE TAPIR 172
33. BIRDS OF THE LAGOONS 179
34. LIFE AMONG THE LAGOONS 182
35. CHASE ON TONGLA LAGOON 189
36. FEVER CAMP 200
37. TOWKAS INDIANS 202
38. THE END OF IT! 210
39. TOWN OF SANDY BAY 215
40. A GOLDEN IDOL 217
41. GENERAL PETER SLAM 221
42. SUKIA OF SANDY BAY 228
43. CAPE GRACIAS A DIOS 234
44. HUNTING DEER 237
45. RIVER BOCAY 251
46. THE MOTHER OF THE TIGERS 256
47. SANCTUARY OF THE SUKIA 259
48. SCENERY ON THE RIVER WANKS 272
49. EMBARCADERO ON THE TIROLAS 276
50. THE WAREE 283
51. THE MOUNTAIN CREST 290
52. A POYER VILLAGE 295
53. “THE GATEWAY OF HELL” 309
54. VIEW AT BRUS 312
55. APPROACH TO GUANAJA 325
56. REVEALING THE SECRET 332
[Illustration: MAP of MOSQUITO SHORE
The route of the author is indicated in the Map by a dotted line.]
THE MOSQUITO SHORE.
Chapter I.
[Illustration]
A month in Jamaica is enough for any sinner’s punishment, let alone
that of a tolerably good Christian. At any rate, a week had given me a
surfeit of Kingston, with its sinister, tropical Jews, and variegated
inhabitants, one-half black, one-third brown, and the balance as fair
as could be expected, considering the abominable, unintelligible
Congo-English which they spoke. Besides, the cholera which seems to
be domesticated in Kingston, and to have become one of its local
institutions, had begun to spread from the stews, and to invade the
more civilized parts of the town. All the inhabitants, therefore, whom
the emancipation had left rich enough to do so, were flying to the
mountains, with the pestilence following, like a sleuth-hound, at their
heels. Kingston was palpably no place for a stranger, and that stranger a
poor-devil artist.
The cholera had cheated me of a customer. I was moody, and therefore
swung myself in a hammock, lit a cigar, and held a grand inquisition on
myself, as the poets are wont to do on their souls. It ran after this
wise, with a very little noise but much smoke:—
“Life is pleasant at twenty-six. Do you like life?”
Rather.
“Then you can’t like the cholera?”
No!—with a hurried pull at the cigar.
“But you’ll have it here!”
Then I’ll be off!
“Where?”
Any where!
“Good, but the exchequer, my boy, how about that? You can’t get away
without money.”
There was a long pause, a great cloud of smoke, and much swinging in the
hammock, and a final echo—
_Money!_ Yes, I _must_ have money!
So I got up, spasmodically opened my portmanteau, dived deep amongst
collars, pencils and foul linen, took out my purse, turned its contents
on the table, and began to count.
Forty-three and a half, forty-four, forty-five, and this handful of small
silver and copper. Call it fifty in all.
“_Only_ fifty dollars!” ejaculated my mental interrogator.
Only fifty! responded I.
“’Twon’t do!”
I lit another cigar. It was clear enough, it wouldn’t do; and I got into
the hammock again. Commend me to a hammock, (a _pita_ hammock, none of
your canvas abominations,) and a cigar, as valuable aids to meditation
and self-communion of all kinds. There was a long silence, but the
inquisition went on, until the cigar was finished. Finally “I’ll do it!”
I exclaimed, in the voice of a man determined on some great deed, not
agreeable but necessary, and I tossed the cigar stump out of the window.
But what I determined to do, may seem no great thing after all; it was
only to paint the portrait of my landlady.
“Yes, I’ll paint the old wench!”
* * * * *
Now, I am an artist, not an author, and have got the cart before the
horse, inasmuch as my narrative does not preserve the “harmonies,” as
every well-considered composition should do. It has just occurred to me
that I should first have told who I am, and how I came to be in Jamaica,
and especially in that filthy place, Kingston. It isn’t a long story, and
if it is not too late, I will tell it now.
As all the world knows, there are people who sell rancid whale oil, and
deal in soap, and affect a great contempt for artists. They look down
grandly on the quiet, pale men who paint their broad red faces on canvas,
and seem to think that the few greasy dollars which they grudgingly pay
for their flaming immortality, should be received with meek confusion and
blushing thanks, as a rare exhibition of condescension and patronage.
I never liked such patronage, and therefore would paint no red faces.
But there is a great difference between red, bulbous faces, and rosy
faces. There was that sweet girl at the boarding-school in L—— Place, the
Baltimore girl, with the dark eyes and tresses of the South, and the fair
cheek and elastic step of the North! Of course, I painted her portrait, a
dozen times at least, I should say. I could paint it now; and I fear it
is more than painted on my heart, or it wouldn’t rise smiling here, to
distract my thoughts, make me sigh, and stop my story.
An artist who wouldn’t paint portraits and had a soul above
patronage—what was there for him to do in New York? Two compositions
a year in the Art Union, got in through Mr. Sly, the manager, and a
friend of mine, were not an adequate support for the most moderate
man. I’ll paint grand historical paintings, thought I one day, and
straightway purchased a large canvas. I had selected my subject,
Balboa, the discoverer of the Pacific, bearing aloft the flag of Spain,
rushing breast-deep in its waves, and claiming its boundless shores and
numberless islands for the crown of Castile and Leon. I had begun to
sketch in the plumed Indians, gazing in mute surprise upon this startling
scene, when it occurred to me—for I have patches of common sense
scattered amongst the flowery fields of my fancy—to count over the amount
of my patrimonial portion. Grand historical paintings require years of
study and labor, and I found I had but two hundred dollars, owed for a
month’s lodging, and had an unsettled tailor’s account. It was clear that
historical painting was a luxury, for the present at least, beyond my
reach. It was then some evil spirit, (I strongly suspect it was the ——,)
taking the cue doubtless from my projected picture, suggested:—
“Try landscape, my boy; you have a rare hand for landscapes—good flaming
landscapes, full of yellow and vermillion, you know!”
Although there was no one in the room, I can swear to a distinct slap on
the back, after the emphatic “you know” of the tempter. It was a true
diabolical suggestion, the yellow and vermillion, but not so sulphurous
as what followed:—
“Go to the tropics boy, the glorious tropics, where the sun is supreme,
and never shares his dominion with blue-nosed, leaden-colored,
rheumy-eyed frost-gods; go there, and catch the matchless tints of the
skies, the living emerald of the forests, and the light-giving azure of
the waters; go where the birds are rainbow-hued, and the very fish are
golden; where—”
But I had heard enough; I was blinded by the dazzling panorama which
Fancy swept past my vision, and cried, with enthusiastic energy,
“Hold; I’ll go to the glorious tropics!”
And I went—more’s the pity—in a little dirty schooner, full of pork and
flour; and that is the way I came to be in Jamaica, dear reader, if
you want to know. I had been there a month or more, and had wandered
all over the really magnificent interior, and filled my portfolio with
sketches. But that did not satisfy me; there were other tropical lands,
where Nature had grander aspects, where there were broad lakes and
high and snow-crowned volcanoes, which waved their plumes of smoke in
mid-heaven, defiantly, in the very face of the sun; lands through whose
ever-leaved forests Cortez, Balboa, and Alvarado, and Cordova had led
their mailed followers, and in whose depths frowned the strange gods of
aboriginal superstition, beside the deserted altars and unmarked graves
of a departed and mysterious people. Jamaica was beautiful certainly, but
I longed for what the transcendentalists call the sublimely-beautiful,
or, in plain English, the combined sublime and beautiful—for, in short,
an equatorial Switzerland. And, although Jamaica was fine in scenery,
its dilapidated plantations, and filthy, lazy negroes, already more than
half relapsed into native and congenial barbarism, were repugnant to my
American notions and tastes. They grinned around me, those negroes, when
I ate, and scratched their heads over my paper when I drew. They followed
me every where, like black jackals, and jabbered their incomprehensive
lingo in my ears until they deafened me. And then their odor under
tropical heats! Faugh! “’Twas rank, and smelt to heaven!”
I had, therefore, come down from the interior to set up my easel in
Kingston, paint a few views, and thereby raise the wind for a trip to
the mainland. Of course, I did not fly from painting red-faced portraits
in the United States, to paint ebony ones in Jamaica. My scruples,
however, did not apply to customers. There was a “_brown man_,” which is
genteel Jamaican for mulatto, who was an Assembly-man, or something of
the kind, and wanted a view of the edifice at Spanish-town, wherein he
legislated for the “emancipated island.” I had agreed to paint it for
the liberal compensation of twenty pounds. But one hot, murky morning,
my brown lawgiver took the cholera, and before noon was not only dead,
but buried—and my picture only half-finished! _Mem._ As people have a
practice of dying, always get your pay beforehand.
Voltaire, I believe, has said, that if a toad were asked his ideal of
beauty, he would, most likely, describe himself, and dwell complacently
on a cold, clammy, yellow belly, a brown, warty, corrugated back, and
become ecstatic on the subject of goggle eyes. And, I verily believe,
that if my landlady had been asked the same question, she would have
coquettishly patted up her woolly curls over each oleaginous cheek, and
glanced toward the mirror, by way of reply. Black, glossy black, and
_fat_, marvelously fat, yet she was possessed, even she, of her full
share of feminine vanity. There was no mistaking, from the first day
of my arrival, that her head was running on a portrait of herself. She
was fond of money and penurious, and careful, therefore, not to venture
upon a proposition until she had got some kind of a clew as to what her
immortality would be likely to cost. I had, however, diplomatically
evaded all of her approaches, up to the unfortunate day when my
Assembly-man died. She brought me the news herself, and saw that it
annoyed rather than shocked me, and that I stopped painting with the air
of a man abandoning a bad job. She evidently thought the time favorable
for a _coup de main_; there was a gleam of cunning in her little, round,
half-buried eyes, and the very ebony of her cheek lightened palpably, as
she said:
“So your picture will be no good for nothing?”
No!
“You have not got the——?”
And she significantly rubbed the forefinger of one hand in the palm of
the other.
No!
There was a pause, and then she resumed:
“I want a picture!”
Eh?
“A picture, you know!”
And now she complacently stroked down her broad face, and exhibited a
wide, vermillion chasm, with a formidable phalanx of ivories, by way of a
suggestive smile.
No, I never paint portraits!
“Not for ten pounds?”
No; nor for a hundred,—go!
And my landlady rolled herself out of the room with a motion which, had
she weighed less than two hundred, might have passed for a toss.
It was on the evening of this day, and after this conversation, one half
of the Assembly-house at Spanish-town staring redly from the canvas in
the corner, that I lay in my hammock and soliloquized as aforesaid. It
was thus and then, that I resolved to paint my landlady.
* * * * *
And having now, by means of this long parenthesis, restored the harmonies
of my story, and got my horse and cart in correct relative positions, I
am ready to go ahead.
I not only resolved to paint my landlady, but I did it, right over the
half-finished Assembly-house. It was the first, and, by the blessing of
Heaven, so long as there are good potatoes to be dug at the rate of six
cents the bushel, it shall be my last portrait. I can not help laughing,
even now, at that fat, glistening face, looking for all the world as if
it had been newly varnished, surmounted by a gaudy red scarf, wound
round the head in the form of a peaked turban; and two fat arms, rolling
down like elephants’ trunks against a white robe for a background, which
concealed a bust that passeth description. That portrait—“long may it
wave!” as the man said, at the Kossuth dinner, when he toasted “The day
we celebrate!”
[Illustration: MY LANDLADY.]
My landlady was satisfied, and generous withal, for she not only paid
me the ten pounds, and gave me my two weeks board and lodging in the
bargain, but introduced me to a colored gentleman, a friend of hers, who
sailed a little schooner twice a year to the Mosquito Shore, on the coast
of Central America, where he traded off refuse rum and gaudy cottons for
turtle-shells and sarsaparilla. There was a steamer from Kingston, once
a month, to Carthagena, Chagres, San Juan, Belize, and “along shore;”
but, for obvious reasons, I could not go in a steamer. So I struck up a
bargain with the fragrant skipper, by the terms of which he bound himself
to land me, bag and baggage, at Bluefields, the seat of Mosquito royalty,
for the sum of three pounds, “currency.”
* * * * *
Why Captain Ponto (for so I shall call my landlady’s friend, the colored
skipper) named his little schooner the “Prince Albert,” I can not
imagine, unless he thought thereby to do honor to the Queen-Consort; for
the aforesaid schooner had evidently got old, and been condemned, long
before that lucky Dutchman woke the echoes of Gotha with his baby cries.
The “Prince Albert” was of about seventy tons burden, built something on
the model of the “Jung-frau,” the first vessel of the Netherlands that
rolled itself into New York bay, like some unwieldy porpoise, after a
rapid passage of about six months from the Hague. The wise men of the
Historical Society have satisfactorily shown, after long and diligent
research, that the “Jung-frau” measured sixty feet keel, sixty feet beam,
and sixty feet hold, and was modeled after one of Rubens’ Venuses. The
dimensions of the “Prince Albert” were every way the same, only twenty
feet less. The sails were patched and the cordage spliced, and she did
not leak so badly as to require more than six hours’ steady pumping out
of the twenty-four. The crew was composed of Captain Ponto, Thomas, his
mate, one seaman, and an Indian boy from Yucatan, whose business it was
to cook and do the pumping. As may be supposed, the Indian boy did not
rust for want of occupation.
It was a clear morning, toward the close of December, that Captain
Ponto’s wife, a white woman, with a hopeful family of six children,
the three eldest with shirts, and the three youngest without, came
down to the schooner to see us off. I watched the parting over the
after-bulwarks, and observed the tears roll down Mrs. Ponto’s cheeks as
she bade her sable spouse good-by. I wondered if she really could have
any attachment for her husband, and if custom and association had utterly
worn away the natural and instinctive repugnance which exists between
the superior and inferior races of mankind? I thought of the condition
of Jamaica itself, and mentally inquired if it were not due to a grand,
practical misconception of the laws of Nature, and the inevitable result
of their reversal? It can not be denied that where the superior and
inferior races are brought in contact, and amalgamate, there we uniformly
find a hybrid stock springing up, with most, if not all of the vices,
and few, if any of the virtues of the originals. And it will hardly
be questioned, by those experimentally acquainted with the subject,
that the manifest lack of public morality and private virtue, in the
Spanish-American States, has followed from the fatal facility with which
the Spanish colonists have intermixed with the negroes and Indians. The
rigid and inexorable exclusion, in respect to the inferior races, of
the dominant blood of North America, flowing through different channels
perhaps, yet from the same great Teutonic source, is one grand secret of
its vitality, and the best safeguard of its permanent ascendency.
Mrs. Ponto wept; and as we slowly worked our way outside of Port Royal, I
could see her waving her apron, for she was innocent of a more classical
signal, in fond adieus. We finally got out from under the lee of the
land, and caught in our sails the full trade-wind, blowing steadily in
the desired direction. I sat long on deck, watching the receding island
sinking slowly in the bright sea, until Captain Ponto signified to me,
in the _patois_ of Jamaica, which the deluded people flatter themselves
is English, that dinner was ready, and led the way into what he called
the cabin. This cabin was a little den, seven feet by nine at the utmost,
low, dark and dirty, with no light or air except what entered through
the narrow hatchway, and, consequently, hot as an oven. Two lockers, one
on each side, answered for seats by day, and, covered with suspicious
mattresses, for beds by night. The cabin was sacred to Captain Ponto and
myself, the mate having been displaced to make room for the gentleman who
had paid three pounds for his passage! I question if the “Prince Albert”
had ever before been honored with a passenger; certainly not since she
had come into the hands of Captain Ponto, who therefore put his best foot
forward, with a full consciousness of the importance of the incident.
Ponto had been a slave once, and was consequently imperious and
tyrannical now, toward all people in a subordinate relation to himself.
Yet, as he had evidently been owned by a man of consequence, he had not
entirely lost his early deference for the white man, and sometimes forgot
Ponto the captain in Ponto the chattel. It was in the latter character
only, that he was perfectly natural; and, although I derived no little
amusement from his attempts to enact a loftier part, I shall not trouble
the reader with an episode on Captain Ponto. He was a very worthy darkey,
with a strong aversion to water, both exteriorly and internally. The
mate, and the man who constituted the crew, were ordinary negroes of no
possible account.
But Antonio, the Indian boy, who cooked and pumped, and then pumped and
cooked—I fear he never slept, for when there was not a “sizzling” in the
little black caboose, there was sure to be a screeching of the rickety
pump—Antonio attracted my interest from the first; and it was increased
when I found that he spoke a little English, was perfect in Spanish, and
withal could read in both languages. There was something mysterious in
finding him among these uncouth negroes, with his relatively fair skin,
intelligent eyes, and long, well-ordered, black hair. He was like a
lithe panther among lumbering bears; and he did his work in a way which
accorded with his Indian character, without murmur, and with a kind
of silent doggedness, that implied but little respect for his present
masters. He seldom replied to their orders in words, and then only in
monosyllables. I asked Captain Ponto about him, but he knew nothing,
except that he was from Yucatan, and had presented himself on board only
the day previously, and offered to work his passage to the main land. And
Captain Ponto indistinctly intimated that he had taken the boy solely on
my account, which, of course, led to the inference on my part, that the
captain ordinarily did his own cooking. He also ventured a patronizing
remark about the Indians generally, to the effect that they made very
good servants, “if they were kept under;” which, coming from an ex-slave,
I thought rather good.
[Illustration: ANTONIO.]
All this only served to interest me the more in Antonio; and, although I
succeeded in engaging him in ordinary conversation, yet I utterly failed
in drawing him out, as the saying is, in respect to his past history, or
future purposes. Whenever I approached these subjects he became silent
and impassible, and his eyes assumed an expression of cold inquiry,
not unmingled with latent suspicion, which half inclined me to believe
that he was a fugitive from justice. Yet he did not look the felon or
knave; and when the personal inquiries dropped, his face resumed its
usual pleasant although sad expression, and I became ashamed that I had
suspected him. There was certainly something singular about Antonio;
but, as I could imagine no very profound mystery attaching to a cook,
on board of the “Prince Albert,” after the first day, I made no attempts
to penetrate his secrets, but sought rather to attach him to me, as a
prospectively useful companion in the country to which I was bound. So
I relieved him occasionally at the pump, although he protested against
it; and finally, to the horror of Captain Ponto, and the palpable high
disdain of the mate, I became so intimate with him as to show him my
portfolio of drawings. His admiration, I found to my surprise, was always
judiciously bestowed, and his appreciation of outline and coloring showed
that he had the spirit of an artist. Several times, in glancing over the
drawings, he stopped short, looked up, his face full of intelligence, as
if about to speak, and I paused to listen. Each time, however, the smile
vanished, the flexible muscles ceased their play and became rigid, and a
cold, filmy mist settled over the clear eyes which had looked into mine.
Whatever was Antonio’s secret, great or small, it was evidently one that
he half-wished, half-feared to reveal. I was puzzled to think that there
could exist any relation between it and my paintings; but Antonio was
only a cook, and so I dismissed all reflection on the subject.
On our third day out, the weather, which up to that time had been clear
and beautiful, began to change, and night settled black and threatening
around us. The wind had increased, but it was loaded with sultry
vapors—the hot breath of the storm which was pressing on our track.
Captain Ponto was not a scientific sailor, and kept no other than what
is called “dead reckoning.” He had made the voyage very often, and was
confident of his course. Upon that point, therefore, I gave myself no
uneasiness; not so much from faith in Captain Ponto, as because there
was nothing in the world to be done, except to follow his opinion.
Nevertheless the captain was serious, and consulted an antediluvian chart
which he kept in his cabin. It was a Rembrandtish picture, that negro
tracing his forefinger slowly over the chart, by the light of a candle,
which only half revealed the little cabin, while it brought out his
grizzly head and anxious face in strong relief against the darkness.
What Captain Ponto learned from all this study is more than I can tell;
but when he came on deck, he ordered a reef to be made in the sails,
and a variation of several points in our course, for the wind not only
freshened, but veered to the north-east. The hot blasts or puffs of air
became more and more frequent, and occasional sheets of lightning gleamed
along the horizon. The sea, too, was full of phosphorescent light; fiery
monsters seemed to leap around us and wreath and twine their livid
volumes in our wake. I could hear the hiss of their forked tongues where
the waters closed under our stern. I stood, leaning over the bulwarks,
gazing on the gleaming waves, and thinking of home—for the voyager
on the great deep always thinks of home, when darkness envelops him,
and the storm threatens—when Antonio silently approached, so silently
that I did not hear him, and took his place at my side. I was somewhat
startled, therefore, when, changing my position a little, I saw, by the
dim, reflected light of the sea, his eyes fixed earnestly on mine. “Ah,
Antonio,” I said, “is that you?” and I placed my hand familiarly on his
shoulder. He shrank beneath it, as if it had been fire. “What’s the
matter?” I exclaimed, reproachfully; “have I hurt you?”
“Pardon me!” he ejaculated, rather than spoke, in a voice deep and
tremulous; “I know now that it is not you who will die to-night!”
“What do you mean? You are not afraid, Antonio? Who thinks of dying?” I
replied, in a light tone.
“No! it is not myself. I was afraid it might be you; for, sir,” and he
laid a hand cold and clammy as that of a corpse on mine; “for, sir, there
is death on board this vessel!”
This was said in a voice so awed and earnest that I was impressed deeply,
in spite of myself, and for some moments made no reply. “You talk wildly,
Antonio,” I finally said; “we are going on bravely, and shall all be in
Bluefields together in a day or two.”
“All of us, never,” he replied, “never! The Lord, who never lies, has
told me so!” and, pressing near me, he drew from his bosom something
resembling a small, round plate of crystal, except that it seemed to
be slightly luminous, and veined or clouded with green. “See, see!” he
exclaimed, rapidly, and held the object close to my eyes. I instinctively
obeyed, and gazed intently upon it. As I gazed, the clouds of green
seemed to concentrate and assume a regular form, as the moisture of one’s
breath passes away from a mirror, until I distinctly saw, in the center,
the miniature of a human head, of composed and dignified aspect, but the
eyes were closed, and all the lineaments had the rigidity of death.
“Do you see?”
“I do!”
“It is _Kucimen_, the Lord who never lies!” and Antonio thrust his
talisman in his bosom again, and slowly moved away. There was no mistake
in what I had seen, and although I am not superstitious, yet the feeling
that some catastrophe was impending gathered at my heart. It was in vain
that I tried to smile at the Indian trick; the earnest voice of the
Indian boy still sounded in my ears, “All of us, never!” What reason
should he have for attempting to practice his Indian _diablerie_ on any
one, least of all on me? I rejected the thought, and endeavored to banish
the subject from my mind.
Meanwhile the wind had gathered strength, and Captain Ponto had taken
in sail, so that we had no more standing than was necessary to keep the
vessel steady before the wind. The waves now began to rise, the gloom
deepened, the hot puffs of air became more and more frequent, and the
broad lightning-sheets rose from the horizon to the very zenith. The
thunder, too, came rolling on, every peal more distinctly, and occasional
heavy drops of rain fell with an ominous sound on the deck. The storm
was evidently close at hand; and I left the side of the vessel, and
approached the little cabin to procure my _poncho_, for I preferred the
open deck and the storm to the suffocation below. The hatchway was nearly
closed, but there was a light within. I stooped to remove the slide,
and in doing so obtained a full view of the interior. The spectacle
which presented itself was so extraordinary that I stopped short, and
looked on in mute surprise. The candle was standing on the locker, and
kneeling beside it was the captain. He was stripped to the waist, and
held in one hand what appeared to be the horn of some animal, in which
he caught the blood which dripped from a large gash in the fleshy part
of his left arm, just above the elbow, while he muttered rapidly some
rude and strangely-sounding words, unlike any I had ever before heard.
My first impression was that Antonio had tried to fulfill his own
prediction, by attempting the life of the captain; but I soon saw that
he was performing some religious rite, a sacrifice or propitiation, such
as the _Obi_ men still teach in Jamaica and Santo Domingo, and which
are stealthily observed, even by the negroes professing Christianity
and having a nominal connection with the church. I recognized in the
horn the mysterious _gre-gre_ of the Gold Coast, where the lowest form
of _fetish_ worship prevails, and where human blood is regarded as the
most acceptable of sacrifices. Respecting too rigidly all ceremonies and
rites, which may contribute to the peace of mind of others, to think of
disturbing them, I silently withdrew from the hatchway, and left the
captain to finish his debasing devotions. In a short time he appeared
on deck, and gave some orders in a calm voice, as one reassured and
confident.
I was occupied below for only a few minutes, yet when I got on deck
again the storm was upon us. The waves were not high, but the water
seemed to be caught up by the wind, and to be drifted along, like snow,
in blinding, drenching sheets. I was nearly driven off my feet by its
force, and would have been carried overboard had I not become entangled
in the rigging. The howling of the wind and the hissing of the water
would have drowned the loudest voice, and I was so blinded by the spray
that I could not see. Yet I could feel that we were driving before the
hurricane with fearful rapidity. The very deck seemed to bend, as if
ready to break, beneath our feet. I finally sufficiently recovered myself
to be able, in the pauses of the wind, and when the lightning fell, to
catch glimpses around me. Our sails were torn in tatters, the yards
were gone, in fact every thing was swept from the deck except three
dark figures, like myself, clinging convulsively to the ropes. On, on,
half-buried in the sea, we drifted with inconceivable rapidity.
Little did we think that we were rushing on a danger more terrible than
the ocean. The storm had buffeted us for more than an hour, and it seemed
as if it had exhausted its wrath, and had begun to subside, when a sound,
hoarse and steady, but louder even than that of the wind, broke on our
ears. It was evident that we were approaching it, for every instant
it became more distinct and ominous. I gazed ahead into the hopeless
darkness, when suddenly a broad sheet of lightning revealed immediately
before us, and not a cable’s length distant, what, under the lurid
gleam, appeared to be a wall of white spray, dashing literally a hundred
feet in the air—a hell of waters, from which there was no escape. “_El
Roncador!_” shrieked the captain, in a voice of utter despair, that even
then thrilled like a knife in my heart. The fearful moment of death had
come, and I had barely time to draw a full breath of preparation for the
struggle, when we were literally whelmed in the raging waters. I felt a
shock, a sharp jerk, and the hiss and gurgle of the sea, a sensation of
immense pressure, followed by a blow like that of a heavy fall. Again I
was lifted up, and again struck down, but this time with less force. I
had just enough consciousness left to know that I was striking on the
sand, and I made an involuntary effort to rise and escape from the waves.
Before I could gain my feet I was again struck down, again and again,
until, nearer dead than alive, I at last succeeded in crawling to a spot
where the water did not reach me. I strove to rise now, but could not;
and, as that is the last thing I remember distinctly of that terrible
night, I suppose I must have fallen into a swoon.
[Illustration: THE SHIPWRECK.]