[Illustration]
How long I remained insensible I know not, but when my consciousness
returned, which it did slowly, like the lifting of a curtain, I felt
that I was severely hurt; and, before opening my eyes, tried to drive
away my terrible recollections, as one rousing from a troubled dream
tries to banish its features from his mind. It was in vain; and, with
a sensation of despair, I opened my eyes! The morning sun was shining
with blinding brilliancy, and I was obliged to close them again. Soon,
however, I was able to bear the blaze, and, painfully lifting myself on
my elbow, looked around me. The sea was thundering with awful force,
not on the sandy shore where I was lying, but over a reef two hundred
yards distant, within which the water was calm, or only disturbed by the
combing waves, as they broke over the outer barrier. Here the first and
only object which attracted my attention was our schooner, lying on her
beam ends, high on the sands. The sea, the vessel, the blinding sun and
glowing sand, and a bursting pain in my head, were too palpable evidences
of my misfortune to be mistaken. It was no dream, but stern and severe
reality, and for the moment I comprehended the truth. But, when younger,
I had read of shipwrecks, and listened, with the interest of childhood,
and a feeling half of envy, to the tales of old sailors who had been
cast away on desert shores. And now, the first shock over, it was almost
with a sensation of satisfaction, and something of exultation, that I
exclaimed to myself, “shipwrecked at last!” Robinson Crusoe, and Reilly
and his companions, recurred to my mind, and my impulse was to leap up
and commence an emulative career. But the attempt was a failure, and
brought me back to stern reality, in an instant. My limbs were torn and
scarified, and my face swollen and stiff. The utmost I could do was to
sit erect.
I now, for the first time, thought of my companions, and despairingly
turned my eyes to look for them. Close by, and nearly behind me, sat
Antonio, resting his head on his hands. His clothes were hanging around
him in shreds, his hair was matted with sand, and his face was black with
dried blood. He attempted to smile, but the grim muscles could not obey,
and he looked at me in silence. I was the first to speak:
Are you much hurt, Antonio?
“The Lord of Mitnal never lies!” was his only response; and he pointed to
the talisman on his swarthy breast, gleaming like polished silver in the
sun. I remembered the scene of the previous night, and asked;—
Are they all dead?
He shook his head, in sign of ignorance.
Where are we, Antonio?
“This is El Roncador!”
And so it proved. We were on one of the numerous coral keys or cays which
stud the sea of the Antilles, and which are the terror of the mariners
who navigate it. They are usually mere banks of sand, elevated a few feet
above the water, occasionally supporting a few bushes, or a scrubby,
tempest-twisted palm or two, and only frequented by the sea-birds for
rest and incubation, and by turtles for laying their eggs. Around them
there is always a reef of coral, built up from the bottom of the sea
by those wonderful architects, the coral insects. This reef surrounds
the cay, at a greater or less distance, like a ring, leaving between it
and the island proper a belt of water, of variable depth, and of the
loveliest blue. The reef, which is sometimes scarcely visible above the
sea, effectually breaks the force of the waves; and if, as it sometimes
happens, it be interrupted so as to leave an opening for the admission
of vessels, the inner belt of water forms a safe harbor. Except a few
of the larger ones, none of these cays are inhabited, nor are they ever
frequented, except by the turtle fishers.
It was to the peculiar conformation of these islands that our safety
was owing. Our little vessel had been driven, or lifted by the waves,
completely over the outer reef. The shock had torn us from our hold on
the ropes, and we had drifted upon the comparatively protected sands. The
vessel too, had been carried upon them, and the waves there not being
sufficiently strong to break her in pieces, she was left high and dry
when they subsided. There was, nevertheless, a broad break in her keel,
caused probably by striking on the reef.
Two of the five human beings who had been on board of her, the captain
and his mate, were drowned. We found their bodies;—but I am anticipating
my story. When we had recovered ourselves sufficiently to walk, Antonio
and myself took a survey of our condition. “El Roncador,” _the Snorer_,
is a small cay, three quarters of a mile long, and at its widest part not
more than four hundred yards broad,—a mere bank of white sand. At the
eastern end is an acre or more of scrubby bushes, and near them three or
four low and distorted palm-trees. Fortunately for us, as will be seen in
the sequel, “El Roncador” is famous for the number of its turtles, and is
frequented, at the turtle season, by turtle-fishers from Old Providence,
and sometimes from the main land. Among the palm-trees, to which I have
referred, these fishermen had erected a rude hut of poles, boards, and
palm-branches, which was literally withed and anchored to the trees, to
keep it from being blown away by the high winds. It was with a heart
full of joy that I saw even this rude evidence of human intelligence,
and, accompanied by Antonio, hastened to it as rapidly as my bruised
limbs would enable me. We discovered no trace of recent occupation as we
approached, except a kind of furrow in the sand, like that which some
sea-monster, dragging itself along, might occasion. It led directly
to the hut, and I followed it, with a feeling half of wonder, half of
apprehension. As we came near, however, I saw, through the open front,
a black human figure crouching within, motionless as a piece of bronze.
Before it, stretched at length, was the dead body of Captain Ponto.
The man was Frank, of whom I have spoken, as constituting the crew of
the Prince Albert. It was a fearful sight! The body of the captain was
swollen, the limbs were stiff and spread apart, the mouth and eyes open,
and conveying an expression of terror and utter despair, which makes
me shudder, even now, when I think of it. Upon his breast, fastened by
a strong cord, drawn close at the throat, was the mysterious _gre-gre_
horn, and the gash in his arm, from which the poor wretch had drawn the
blood for his unavailing sacrifice, had opened wide its white edges, as
if in mute appeal against his fate.
The negro sailor had drawn the body of the captain to the hut, and
the trail in the sand was that which it had made. I spoke to him, but
he neither replied nor looked up. His eyes were fixed, as if by some
fascination, on the corpse. Antonio exhibited no emotion, but advancing
close to the body lifted the _gre-gre_ horn, eyed it curiously for a
moment, then tossed it contemptuously aside, exclaiming:—
“It could not save him: it is not good!”
The words were scarcely uttered, when the crouching negro leaped, like
a wild beast, at the Indian’s throat; but Antonio was agile, and evaded
his grasp. The next instant the poor wretch had returned to his seat
beside the dead. The negro could not endure a sneer at the potency of the
_gre-gre_. Such is the hold of superstition on the human mind!
I tried to induce the negro to remove the body, and bury it in the
sand; but he remained silent and impassible as a stone. So I returned
with Antonio to the vessel, for the instincts of life had come back. We
found, although the little schooner had been completely filled, that
the water had escaped, and left the cargo damaged, but entire. Some of
the provisions had been destroyed, and the remainder was much injured.
Nevertheless they could be used, and for the time being, at least, we
were safe from starvation. My spirits rose with the discovery, and I
almost forgot my injuries in the joy of the moment. But Antonio betrayed
no signs of interest. He lifted boxes and barrels, and placed them on the
sands, as deliberately as if unloading the vessel at Kingston. I knew
that it was not probable the wrecked schooner would suffer further damage
from the sea, protected as it was by the outer reef, yet I sought to
make assurance doubly sure, by removing what remained of the provisions
to the hut by the palm-trees. Antonio suggested nothing, but implicitly
followed my directions.
We had got out most of the stores, and carried them above the reach
of the waters on the sands, when I went back to the hut, with the
determination, by at once assuming a tone of authority, to have the negro
remove and bury the body of the captain. I was surprised to find the
hut empty, and a trail, like that which had attracted my notice in the
morning, leading off in the direction of the bushes, at some distance
from the hut. I followed it; and, in the centre of the clump, discovered
the negro filling in the sand above the corpse. He mumbled constantly
strange guttural words, and made many mysterious signs on the sand, as he
proceeded. When the hole was entirely filled, he laid himself at length
above it. I waited some minutes, but as he remained motionless, returned
to the hut. We now commenced carrying to it, such articles of use as
could be easily removed. But we had not accomplished much when Frank, the
negro, presented himself; and, approaching me, inquired meekly what he
should do. He was least injured of the three, and proved most serviceable
in clearing the wreck of all of its useful and moveable contents.
By night I had bandaged my own wounds and those of my companions, and
over a simple but profuse meal, forgot the horrors of the shipwreck, and
gave myself up, with real zest, to the pleasures of a cast-away! I cannot
well describe the sensation of mingled novelty and satisfaction, with
which I looked out from the open hut upon the turbulent waters, whence
we had so narrowly escaped. The sea still heaved from the effects of the
storm, but the storm itself had passed, and the full tropical moon looked
down calmly upon our island, which seemed silvery and fairy-like beneath
its rays.
At first, all these things were quieting in their influences, but as the
night advanced I must have become feverish, for notwithstanding the toils
of the day, and the exhaustion of the previous night, I could not sleep.
My thoughts were never so active. All that I had ever seen, heard, or
done, flashed back upon my mind with the vividness of reality. But, owing
to some curious psychical condition, my mind was only retrospectively
active; I tried in vain to bring it to a contemplation of the present or
the future. Incidents long forgotten jostled through my brain; the grave
mingling strangely with the gay. Now I laughed outright over some freak
of childhood, which came back with primitive freshness; and, next moment,
wept again beside the bed of death, or found myself singing some hitherto
unremembered nursery rhyme. I struggled against these thronging memories,
and tried to ask myself if they might not be premonitions of delirium.
I felt my own pulse, it beat rapidly; my own forehead, and it seemed
to burn. In the vague hope of averting whatever this strange mental
activity might portend, I rose and walked down to the edge of the water.
I remember distinctly that the shore seemed black with turtles, and that
I thought them creations of a disordered fancy, and became almost mad
under the mere apprehension that the madness was upon me.
I might, and undoubtedly would, have become mad, had it not been for
Antonio. He had missed me from the hut; and, in alarm, had come to seek
me. I felt greatly relieved when he told me that there were real turtles
on the shore, and not monsters of the imagination; and that it was now
the season for laying their eggs, and therefore it could not be long
before the fishers would come for their annual supply of shells. So I
suffered him to lead me back to the hut. When I laid down he took my head
between his hands, and pressed it steadily, but apparently with all his
force. The effect was soothing, for in less than half an hour my ideas
had recovered their equilibrium, and I fell into a slumber, and slept
soundly until noon of the following day.
When I awoke, Antonio was sitting close by me, and intently watching
every movement. He smiled when my eyes met his, and pointing to his
forehead said significantly—
“It is all right now!”
And it was all right, but I felt weak and feverish still. A sound
constitution, however, resisted all attacks, and it was not many days
before I was able to move around our sandy prison, and join Antonio and
Frank in catching turtles; for, with more foresight than I had supposed
to belong to the Indian and negro character, they were laying in a stock
of shells, against the time when we should find an opportunity of escape.
Upon the side of our island, to which I have alluded as covered with
bushes, the water was comparatively shoal, and the bottom overgrown with
a species of sea-grass, which is a principal article of turtle-food.
The surface of the water, also, was covered with a variety of small
blubber fish, which Antonio called by the Spanish name of _dedales_, or
thimbles—a name not inappropriate, since they closely resembled a lady’s
thimble both in shape and size. These, at the spawning or egg-laying
period of the year, constitute another article of turtle-food. During the
night-time the turtles crawled up on the shore, and the females dug holes
in the sand, each about two feet deep, in which they deposited from sixty
to eighty eggs. These they contrived to cover so neatly, as to defy the
curiosity of one unacquainted with their habits. Both Antonio and Frank,
however, were familiar with turtle-craft, and got as many eggs as we
desired. When roasted, they are really delicious. The Indians and people
of the coasts never destroy them, being careful to promote the increase
of this valuable shell-fish. But on the main land, wild animals, such
for instance as the cougar, frequently come down to the shore, and dig
them from their resting places. Occasionally they capture the turtles
themselves, and dragging them into the forest, kill and devour them, in
spite of their shelly armor.
[Illustration: “SHELLING” TURTLES.]
It was during the night, therefore, that Antonio and Frank, who kept
themselves concealed in the bushes, rushed out upon the turtles, and with
iron hooks turned them on their backs, when they became powerless and
incapable of moving. The day following, they dragged them to the most
distant part of the island, where they “shelled” them;—a cruel process,
which it made my flesh creep to witness. Before describing it, however,
I must explain that, although the habits of all varieties of the turtle
are much the same, yet their uses are very different. The large, green
turtle is best known; it frequently reaches our markets, and its flesh is
esteemed, by epicures, as a great delicacy. The flesh of the smaller or
hawk-bill variety is not so good, but its shell is most valuable, being
both thicker and better-colored. What is called tortoise-shell is not,
as is generally supposed, the bony covering or shield of the turtle, but
only the scales which cover it. These are thirteen in number, eight of
them flat, and five a little curved. Of the flat ones four are large,
being sometimes a foot long and seven inches broad, semi-transparent,
elegantly variegated with white, red, yellow, and dark brown clouds,
which are fully brought out, when the shell is prepared and polished.
These laminæ, as I have said, constitute the external coating of the
solid or bony part of the shell; and a large turtle affords about eight
pounds of them, the plates varying from an eighth to a quarter of an inch
in thickness.
The fishers do not kill the turtles; did they do so, they would in a
few years exterminate them. When the turtle is caught, they fasten him,
and cover his back with dry leaves or grass, to which they set fire.
The heat causes the plates to separate at their joints. A large knife
is then carefully inserted horizontally beneath them, and the laminæ
lifted from the back, care being taken not to injure the shell by too
much heat, nor to force it off, until the heat has fully prepared it for
separation. Many turtles die under this cruel operation, but instances
are numerous in which they have been caught a second time, with the outer
coating reproduced; but, in these cases, instead of thirteen pieces, it
is a single piece. As I have already said, I could never bring myself to
witness this cruelty more than once, and was glad that the process of
“scaling” was carried on out of sight of the hut. Had the poor turtles
the power of shrieking, they would have made that barren island a very
hell, with their cries of torture.
[Illustration: A SAIL! A SAIL!]
We had been nearly two weeks on the island, when we were one morning
surprised by a sail on the edge of the horizon. We watched it eagerly,
and as it grew more and more distinct, our spirits rose in proportion.
Its approach was slow, but at noon Frank declared that it was a turtle
schooner, from the island of Catarina or Providence, and that it was
making for “El Roncador.” And the event proved that he was right; for,
about the middle of the afternoon, she had passed an opening through
the reef, and anchored in the still water inside. She had a crew of
five men, in whom it was difficult to say if white, negro, or Indian
blood predominated. They spoke a kind of _patois_, in which Spanish
was the leading element. And although we were unqualifiedly glad to
see them, yet they were clearly not pleased to see us. The _patrón_,
or captain, no sooner put his foot on shore, than affecting to regard
us as intruders, he demanded why we were there? and if we did not know
that this island was the property of the people of Catarina? We replied
by pointing to our shattered schooner, when the whole party started for
it, and unceremoniously began to strip it of whatever article of use or
value they could find, leaving us to the pleasant reflections which such
conduct was likely to suggest.
While this was going on, I returned to the hut, and found that Antonio
and Frank had already removed the shells which they had procured, as
also some other valuables which we had recovered from the wreck, and
had buried them in the sand—a prudent precaution, which no doubt saved
us much trouble. A little before sundown, our new friends, having
apparently exhausted the plunder, came trooping back to the hut, and
without ceremony ordered us out. I thought, although the physical force
was against us, that a little determination might make up for the odds,
and firmly replied that they might have a part of it, if they wished,
but that we were there, and intended to remain. The patron hereupon fell
into a great passion, and told his men to bring up the _machétes_—ugly
instruments, half knife, half cleaver. “He would see,” he said, in his
mongrel tongue, “if this white villain would refuse to obey him.” Two of
the men started to fulfill his order, while he stood scowling in the
doorway. When they had got off a little distance, I unrolled a blanket
in which I had wrapped our pistols, and giving one to Frank, and another
to Antonio, I took my own revolver, and passed outside of the hut. The
patron fell back, in evident alarm.
“Now, amigo,” said I, “if you want a fight, you shall have it; but you
shall die first!” And I took deliberate aim at his breast, at a distance
of less than five yards. “Mother of Mercy!” he exclaimed, and glanced
round, as if for support, to his followers. But they had taken to their
legs, without waiting for further proceedings. The patron attempted to
follow, but I caught him by the arm, and pressed the cold muzzle of the
pistol to his head. He trembled like an aspen, and sunk upon the ground,
crying in most abject tones for mercy. I released him, but he did not
attempt to stir. The circumstances were favorable for negotiation, and
in a few minutes it was arranged that we should continue to occupy the
hut, and that he should remain with us, while his crew should stay on
board the vessel, when not engaged in catching turtles. He did not like
the exception in his favor; but, fearing that he might pull up anchor and
leave us to our fate, I insisted that I could not forego the pleasure of
his company.
The reader may be sure that I had a vigilant eye on our patron, and at
night either Antonio or Frank kept watch, that he should not give us the
slip. He made one or two attempts, but finding us prepared, at the end
of a couple of days, resigned himself to his fate. Contenting ourselves
with our previous spoil, we allowed the new comers to pursue the fishery
alone. At the end of a week I discovered, by various indications,
that the season was nearly over, and, accordingly, making a careless
display of my revolver, told the captain that I thought it would be more
agreeable for us to go on board his schooner, than to remain on shore. I
could see that the proposition was not acceptable, and therefore repeated
it, in such a way that there was no alternative but assent left. He was
a good deal surprised when he discovered the amount of shells which we
had obtained; and when I told him that he should have half of it, for
carrying us to Providence, and the whole if he took us to Bluefields, his
good nature returned. He asked pardon for his rudeness, and, slapping his
breast, proclaimed himself “_un hombre bueno_,” who would take us to the
world’s end, if I would only put up my horrible pistol. That pistol, from
the very first day, had had a kind of deadly fascination for the patron,
who watched it, as if momentarily expecting it to discharge itself at
his head. And even now, when he alluded to it, a perceptible shudder ran
through his frame.
Two days after I had taken up my quarters on board of the little
schooner, which, in age and accumulated filth, might have been
twin-brother of the Prince Albert, we set sail from “El Roncador.” As it
receded in the distance, it looked very beautiful—an opal in the sea—and
I could hardly realize that it was nothing more than a reef-girt heap of
desert sands.
Although friendly relations had been restored with the patron, for the
crew seemed nearly passive, I kept myself constantly on my guard against
foul play. Antonio was sleeplessly vigilant. But the patron, so far from
having evil designs, appeared really to have taken a liking to me, and
expatiated upon the delights of Providence, where he represented himself
as being a great man, with much uncouth eloquence. He promised that I
should be well received, and that he would himself get up a dance—which
he seemed to think the height of civility—in my honor.
[Illustration: “EL RONCADOR.”]
About noon, on our third day from “El Roncador,” the patron pointed
out to me two light blue mounds, one sharp and conical, and the other
round and broad, upon the edge of the horizon. They were the highlands
of Providence. Before night, we had doubled the rocky headland of Santa
Catarina, crowned with the ruins of some old Spanish fortifications,
and in half an hour were at anchor, alongside a large New Granadian
schooner, in the small but snug harbor of the island.
This island is almost unknown to the world; it has, indeed, very little
to commend it to notice. Although accounted a single island, it is, in
fact, two islands; one is six or eight miles long, and four or five
broad, and but moderately elevated; while the second, which is a rocky
headland, called Catarina, is separated from the main body by a narrow
but deep channel. The whole belongs to New Granada, and has about three
hundred inhabitants, extremely variegated in color, but with a decided
tendency to black. This island was a famous resort of the pirates, during
their predominance in these parts, who expelled the Spaniards, and built
defences, by means of which they several times repelled their assailants.
The productions consist chiefly of fruits and vegetables; a little
cotton is also raised, which, with the turtle-shells collected by the
inhabitants, constitutes about the only export of the island. Vessels
coming northward sometimes stop there, for a cargo of cocoa-nuts and
yucas.
As can readily be imagined, the people are very primitive in their
habits, living chiefly in rude, thatched huts, and leading an indolent,
tropical life, swinging in their hammocks and smoking by day, and
dancing, to the twanging of guitars, by night. My patron, whom I had
suspected of being something of a braggart, was in reality a very
considerable personage in Providence, and I was received with great
favor by the people, to whom he introduced me as his own “very special
friend.” I thought of our first interview on “El Roncador,” but
suppressed my inclination to laugh, as well as I was able. True to his
promise, the second night after our arrival was dedicated to a dance.
The only preparation for it consisted in the production of a number
of large wax candles, resembling torches in size, and the concoction
of several big vessels of drink, in which Jamaica rum, some fresh
juice of the sugar-cane, and a quantity of powdered peppers were the
chief ingredients. The music consisted of a violin, two guitars and a
queer Indian instrument, resembling a bow, the string of which, if the
critic will pardon the bull, was a brass wire drawn tight by means of a
perforated gourd, and beaten with a stick, held by the performer, between
his thumb and forefinger.
I cannot attempt to describe the dance, which, not over delicate at the
outset, became outrageous as the calabashes of liquor began to circulate.
Both sexes drank and danced, until most could neither drink nor dance;
and then, it seemed to me, they all got into a general quarrel, in which
the musicians broke their respective instruments over each other’s heads,
then cried, embraced, and were friends again. I did not wait for the end
of the debauch, which soon ceased to be amusing; but, with Antonio, stole
away, and paddled off to the little schooner, where the last sounds that
rung in my ears were the shouts and discordant songs of the revelers.
Providence, it can easily be understood, offered few attractions to
an artist _minus_ the materials for pursuing his vocation; and I was
delighted when I learned that the New Granadian schooner was on the eve
of her departure for San Juan de Nicaragua. Her captain readily consented
to land me at Bluefields, and our patron magnificently waived all claims
to the tortoise-shells which we had obtained at “El Roncador.” I had no
difficulty in selling them to the captain of “El General Bolivar” for the
unexpected sum of three hundred dollars. Fifty dollars of these I gave to
the negro Frank, who was quite at home in Providence. I offered to divide
the rest with Antonio, but he refused to receive any portion of it, and
insisted on accompanying me without recompense. “You are my brother,”
said he, “and I will not leave you.” And here I may add that, in all my
wanderings, he was my constant companion and firm and faithful friend.
His history, a wild and wonderful tale, I shall some day lay before the
world: for Antonio was of regal stock, the son and lieutenant of Chichen
Pat, one of the last and bravest of the chiefs of Yucatan, who lost his
life, under the very walls of Merida, in the last unsuccessful rising of
the aborigines; and I blush to add that the fatal bullet, which slew the
hope of the Indians, was sped from the rifle of an American mercenary!