[Illustration]
I made many inquiries in Bluefields, in order to decide on my future
movements, to all of which Mr. Bell gave me most intelligent answers. At
first, I proposed to ascend the Bluefields river, which takes its rise in
the mountainous district of Segovia in Nicaragua, and which is reported
to be navigable, for canoes, to within a short distance of the great
lakes of that State, from which it is only separated by a narrow range
of mountains. Upon its banks dwell several tribes of pure Indians, the
Cookras, now but few in number, and the Ramas, a large and docile tribe.
Several of the latter visited Bluefields while I was there, bringing down
dories and pitpans rudely blocked out, which are afterwards finished by
persons expert in that art. They generally speak Spanish, but I could
not learn from them that their country was in any respect remarkable,
or that it held out any prospect of compensation for a visit, unless it
were an indefinite amount of hunger and hard work. So, although I had
purchased a canoe, and made other preparations for ascending the river, I
determined to proceed northward along the coast, and, embarking in some
turtling vessel from Cape Gracias, proceed to San Juan, and penetrate
into the interior by the river of the same name.
This, I ascertained, was all the more easy to accomplish, since the
whole Mosquito shore is lined with lagoons, only separated from the sea
by narrow strips of land, and so connected with each other as to afford
an interior navigation, for canoes, from Bluefields to Gracias. So,
procuring the additional services of a young Poyas or Paya Indian, who
had been left from a trading schooner, I bade “His Mosquito Majesty” and
_his_ governor good-by, took an affectionate farewell of old Hodgson,
and, with Antonio, sailed away to the northern extremity of the lagoon,
having spent exactly a week in Bluefields.
It was a bright morning, and our little sail, filled with the fresh
sea-breeze, carried us gayly through the water. Antonio carefully steered
the boat, and my Poyer boy sat, like a bronze figure-head, in the bow,
while I reclined in the centre, luxuriously smoking a cigar. The white
herons flapped lazily around us, and flocks of screaming curlews whirled
rapidly over our heads. I could scarcely comprehend the novel reality of
my position. The Robinson Crusoe-ish feeling of my youth came back in
all of its freshness; I had my own boat, and for companions a descendant
of an aboriginal prince, the possessor of a mysterious talisman,
devotedly attached to me, half friend, half protector, and a second
strange Indian, from some unknown interior, silent as the unwilling
genii whom the powerful spell of Solyman kept in obedience to the weird
necromancers of the East. It was a strange position and fellowship for
one who, scarcely three months before, had carefully cultivated the
friendly interest of Mr. Sly, with sinister designs on the plethoric
treasury of the Art Union, in New York!
I gave myself up to the delicious novelty, and that sense of absolute
independence which only a complete separation from the moving world can
inspire, and passed the entire day in a trance of dreamy delight. I
subsequently passed many similar days, but this stands out in the long
perspective, as one of unalloyed happiness. “’Twas worth ten years of
common life,” and neither age nor suffering can efface its bright impress
from the crowded tablet of my memory!
It was about four o’clock in the afternoon, when we reached the northern
extremity of the lagoon, at a place called the _Haulover_, from the
circumstance that, to avoid going outside in the open sea, it is
customary for the natives to drag their canoes across the narrow neck
of sand which separates Bluefields from the next northern or Pearl Kay
Lagoon. Occasionally, after long and heavy winds from the eastward, the
waters are forced into the lagoons, so as to overflow the belt of land
which divides them, when the navigation is uninterrupted.
In order to be able to renew our voyage early next morning, our few
effects and stores were carried across the portage, over which our
united strength was sufficient to drag the dory, without difficulty.
All this was done with prompt alacrity on the part of Antonio and the
Poyer boy, who would not allow me to exert myself in the slightest. The
transit was effected in less than an hour, and then we proceeded to
make our camp for the night, on the beach. Our little sail, supported
over the canoe by poles, answered the purpose of a tent. And as for
food, without going fifty yards from our fire, I shot half a dozen
curlews, which, when broiled, are certainly a passable bird. Meanwhile,
the Poyer boy, carefully wading in the lagoon, with a light spear, had
struck several fish, of varieties known as _snook_ and _grouper_; and
Antonio had collected a bag full of oysters, of which there appeared to
be vast banks, covered only by a foot or two of water. They were not
pearl oysters, as might be inferred from the name of the lagoon, but
similar to those found on our own shores, except smaller, and growing in
clusters of ten or a dozen each. Eaten with that relishing sauce, known
among travelers as “hunger sauce,” I found them something more than
excellent,—they were delicious.
While I opened oysters, by way of helping myself to my princely first
course, the Indians busied themselves with the fish and birds. I watched
their proceedings with no little interest, and as their mode of baking
fish has never been set forth in the cookery books, I give it for the
benefit of the gastronomic world in general, which, I take it, is not
above learning a good thing, even from a Poyer Indian boy. A hole having
been dug in the sand, it was filled with dry branches, which were set
on fire. In a few minutes the fire subsided in a bed of glowing coals.
The largest of the fish, a _grouper_, weighing perhaps five pounds, had
been cleaned and stuffed with pieces of the smaller fish, a few oysters,
some sliced plantains, and some slips of the bark of the pimento or
pepper-tree. Duly sprinkled with salt, it was carefully wrapped in the
broad green leaves of the plantain, and the coals raked open, put in the
centre of the glowing embers, with which it was rapidly covered. Half an
hour afterward, by which time I began to believe it had been reduced to
ashes, the bed was raked open again and the fish taken out. The outer
leaves of the wrapper were burned, but the inner folds were entire, and
when they were unrolled, like the cerements of a mummy, they revealed the
fish, “cooked to a charm,” and preserving all the rich juices absorbed in
the flesh, which would have been carried off by the heat, in the ordinary
modes of cooking. I afterward adopted the same process with nearly every
variety of large game, and found it, like patent medicines, of “universal
application.” Commend me to a young _waree_ “done brown” in like manner,
as a dish fit for a king. But of that anon.
By and by the night came on, but not as it comes in our northern
latitudes. Night, under the tropics, falls like a curtain. The sun goes
down with a glow, intense, but brief. There are no soft and lingering
twilight adieus, and stars lighting up one by one. They come, a laughing
group, trooping over the skies, like bright-eyed children relieved from
school. Reflected in the lagoon, they seemed to chase each other in
amorous play, printing sparkling kisses on each other’s luminous lips.
The low shores, lined with the heavy-foliaged mangroves, looked like a
frame of massive, antique carving, around the vast mirror of the lagoon,
across whose surface streamed a silvery shaft of light from the evening
star, palpitating like a young bride, low in the horizon. Then there were
whispered “voices of the night,” the drowsy winds talking themselves to
sleep among the trees, and the little ripples of the lagoon pattering
with liquid feet along the sandy shore. The distant monotonous beatings
of the sea, and an occasional sullen plunge of some marine animal, which
served to open momentarily the eyelids drooping in slumbrous sympathy
with the scene—these were the elements which entranced me during the
long, delicious hours of my first evening, alone with Nature, on the
Mosquito Shore!
My dreams that night so blended themselves with the reality, that I could
not now separate them if I would, and to this day I hardly know if I
slept at all. So completely did my soul go out, and melt, and harmonize
itself with the scene, that I began to comprehend the Oriental doctrine
of emanations and absorptions, which teaches that, as the body of man
springs from the earth, and after a brief space, mingles again with it;
so his soul, part of the Great Spirit of the Universe, flutters away like
a dove from its nest, only to return, after a weary flight, to fold its
wings and once more melt away in Nature’s immortal heart, an uncreated
and eternal essence.
Before the dawn of day, the ever-watchful Antonio had prepared the
indispensable cup of coffee, which is the tropical specific against
the malignant night-damps; and the first rays of the sun shot over the
trees only to fall on our sail, bellying with the fresh and invigorating
sea-breeze. We laid our course for the mouth of a river called Wawashaan
(_hwas_ or _wass_, in the dialect of the interior, signifying water),
which enters the lagoon, about twenty miles to the northward of the
_Haulover_. Here we were told there was a settlement, which I determined
to visit. As the day advanced, the breeze subsided, and we made slow
progress. So we paddled to the shore of one of the numerous islands in
the lagoon, to avoid the hot sun and await the freshening of the breeze
in the afternoon. The island on which we landed appeared to be higher
than any of the others, and was moreover rendered doubly attractive by a
number of tall cocoa-nut palms, that clustered near the beach. We ran
our boat ashore in a little cove, where there were traces of fires, and
other indications that it was a favorite stopping-place with the natives.
A narrow trail led inward to the palm-trees. Leaving the Poyer boy with
the canoe, Antonio and myself followed the blind path, and soon came to
an open space covered with plantain-trees, now much choked with bushes,
but heavily laden with fruit. The palms, too, were clustering with nuts,
of which we could not, of course, neglect to take in a supply. Near the
trees we found the foundations of a house, after the European plan, and,
not far from it, one or two rough grave-stones, on which inscriptions had
been rudely traced; but they were now too much obliterated to be read. I
could only make out the figure of a cross on one of them, and the name
“San Andres,” which is an island off the coast, where it is probable the
occupant of this lonely grave was born.
To obtain the cocoa-nuts, which otherwise could only have been got at by
cutting down and destroying the trees, Antonio prepared to climb after
them. He had brought a kind of sack of coarse netting, which he tied
about his neck. He next cut a long section of one of the numerous tough
vines which abound in the tropics, with which he commenced braiding a
large hoop around one of the trees. After this was done, he slipped it
over his head and down to his waist, gave it a few trials of strength,
and then began his ascent, literally walking up the tree. It was a
curious feat, and worth a description. Leaning back in this hoop, he
planted his feet firmly against the trunk, clinging to which, first with
one hand, and then with the other, he worked up the hoop, taking a step
with every upward movement. Nothing loth to exhibit his skill, in a
minute he was sixty feet from the ground, leaning back securely in his
hoop, and filling his sack with the nuts. This done, he swung his load
over his shoulders, grasped the tree in his arms, let the hoop fall, and
slid rapidly to the ground. The whole occupied less time than I have
consumed in writing an account of it.
[Illustration: CLIMBING AFTER COCOAS.]
Loaded with nuts, plantains, and a species of anona called _soursop_, we
returned to the boat, where the water, with which the green cocoa-nuts
are filled, tempered with a little Jamaica rum, _para á matar los
animalicos_, “to kill the animalculæ,” as the Spanish say, made a
cooling and refreshing beverage.
[Illustration: MANGROVE SWAMP.]
In the afternoon we again embarked, and before dark reached the mouth of
the Wawashaan, which looked like a narrow arm of the lagoon, but which,
we found, when we entered, had considerable current, rendering necessary
a brisk use of our paddles. The banks near the lagoon, were low, and the
ground back of them apparently swampy, and densely covered with mangrove
trees. This tree is universal on the Mosquito coast, lining the shores
of the lagoons and rivers, as high up as the salt water reaches. It is
unlike any other tree in the world. Peculiar to lands overflowed by the
tides, its trunk starts at a height of from four to eight feet from the
ground, supported by a radiating series of smooth, reddish-brown roots,
for all the world like the prongs of an inverted candelabrum. These roots
interlock with each other in such a manner that it is utterly impossible
to penetrate between them, except by laboriously cutting one’s way. And
even then an active man would hardly be able to advance twenty feet in a
day. The trunk is generally tall and straight, the branches numerous, but
not long, and the leaves large and thick; on the upper surface of a dark,
glistening, unfading green, while below, of the downy, whitish tint of
the poplar-leaf. Lining the shore in dense masses, the play of light on
the leaves, as they are turned upward by the wind, has the glad, billowy
effect of a field of waving grain. The timber of the mangrove is sodden
and heavy, and of no great utility; but its bark is astringent, and
excellent for tanning. Its manner of propagation is remarkable. The seed
consists of a long bean-like stem, about the length and shape of a dipped
candle, but thinner. It hangs from the upper limbs in thousands, and,
when perfect, drops, point downward, erect in the mud, where it speedily
takes root, and shoots up to tangle still more the already tangled
mangrove-swamp. Myriads of small oysters, called the mangrove-oysters,
cling to the roots, among which active little crabs find shelter from the
pursuit of their hereditary enemies, the long-legged and sharp-billed
cranes, who have a prodigious hankering after tender and infantile
shell-fish.
The Mosquito settlement is some miles up the river, and we were unable
to reach it before dark; so, on arriving at a spot where the ground
became higher, and an open space appeared on the bank, we came to a
halt for the night. We had this time no fish for supper, but, instead,
a couple of _quams_, a species of small turkey, which is not a handsome
bird, but, nevertheless, delicate food. Many of these flew down to the
shore, as night came on, selecting the tops of the highest, overhanging
trees for their roosting-places, and offering fine marks for my faithful
double-barreled gun.
The mosquitoes proving rather troublesome at the edge of the water,
I abandoned the canoe, and spreading my blanket on the most elevated
portion of the bank, near the fire, was soon asleep. Before midnight,
however, I was roused by the sensation of innumerable objects, with
sharp claws and cold bodies, crawling over me. I leaped up in alarm, and
hastily shook off the invaders. I heard a crackling, rustling noise, as
of rain on dry leaves, all around me, and by the dim light I saw that
the ground was alive with crawling things, moving in an unbroken column
toward the river. I felt them in the pockets of my coat, and hanging
to my skirts. My nocturnal interview with the turtles at “El Roncador”
recurred to me, and Coleridge’s ghastly lines—
——“The very sea did rot—
Oh Christ, that this should be!—
And slimy things did crawl with legs
Upon the slimy sea!”
Half fearing that it might be my own disordered fancy, I shouted to
Antonio, who, quick as light, was at my side. He stirred up the fire, and
laughed outright! We had been invaded by an army of soldier-crabs, moving
down from the high backgrounds. Antonio had selected his bed for the
night nearest the river, and the fire, dividing the host, had protected
him, while it had turned a double column upon me. I could not myself help
laughing at the incident, which certainly had the quality of novelty.
I watched the moving legion for an hour, but there was no perceptible
decrease in the numbers. So I laid down again by the side of Antonio, and
slept quietly until morning, when there were no more crabs to be seen,
nor a trace of them, except that the ground had been minutely punctured
all over, by their sharp, multitudinous claws.
It was rather late when we started up the river. We had not proceeded far
before we came to an open space, where there were some rude huts, with
canoes drawn up on the bank, in front. A few men, nearly naked, shouted
at us as we passed, inquiring, in broken English, what we had to sell,
evidently thinking that the white man could have no purpose there unless
to trade. We passed other huts at intervals, which, however, had no signs
of cultivation around them, except a few palm and plantain-trees, and
an occasional small patch of yucas. The mangroves had now disappeared,
and the banks began to look inviting, covered, as they were, with large
trees, including the _caoba_, or mahogany, and the gigantic ceiba, all
loaded down with vines. Thousands of parrots passed over, with their
peculiar short, heavy flutter, and loud, querulous note. In the early
morning, and toward night, they keep up the most vehement chattering,
all talking and none listening, after the manner of a Woman’s Rights
Convention. There were also gaudy macaws, which floated past like
fragments of a rainbow. In common with the parrots, they always go in
pairs, and when one is found alone, he is always silent and sad, and acts
as if he were a lone widower, and meditated suicide.
[Illustration: “THE SPOONBILL.”]
On the occasional sandy reaches, we saw groups of the _Roseate
Spoonbills_, with their splendid plumage. The whole body is rose-colored;
but the wings, toward the shoulders, and the feathers around the base
of the neck, are of a bright scarlet, deepening to blood-red. But they
form no exception to the law of compensations—in mechanics, called
equilibrium, and in mathematics equations, since, while beautiful in
plumage, they are sinfully ugly in shape. And I could not help fancying,
when I saw them standing silent and melancholy on snags, contemplating
themselves in the water, that, as with some other kinds of birds, their
brilliant colors gave them no joy, coupled with so serious a drawback
in form. I shot several, from which the Poyer boy selected the most
beautiful feathers, which he afterward interwove with others from the
macaw, parrot, and egret, in a gorgeous head-dress, as a present to me.
Toward noon we came to a cleared space, much the largest I had seen
on the coast; and, as we approached nearer, I saw a house of European
construction, and a large field of sugar-cane. In striking contrast
with these evidences of industry and civilization, a Sambo or Mosquito
village, made up of squalid huts, half buried in the forest, filled out
the foreground. I recognized it as the village of Wasswatla (literally
Watertown), the place of our destination. It, nevertheless, looked so
uninviting and miserable, that had I not been attracted by the Christian
establishment in the distance, I should have returned incontinently to
the lagoon.
My unfavorable impressions were heightened on a nearer approach. As we
pushed up our canoe to the shore, among a great variety of dories and
other boats, the population of the village, including a large number
of dogs of low degree, swarmed down to survey us. The juveniles were
utterly naked, and most of the adults of both sexes had nothing more
than a strip of a species of cloth, made of the inner bark of the _ule_
or India-rubber tree (resembling the _tappa_ of the Society Islanders),
wrapped around their loins. There was scarcely one who was not disfigured
by the blotches of the _bulpis_, and the hair of each stood out in
frightful frizzles, “like the quills on the fretful porcupine.” Most of
the men carried a short spear, pointed with a common triangular file,
carefully sharpened by rubbing on the stones, which, as I afterward
learned, is used for striking turtle.
Forbidding as was the appearance of the assemblage, none of its
individuals evinced hostility, and when I jumped ashore, and saluted
them with “Good morning,” they all responded, “_Mornin’ sir!_” brought
out with an indescribable African drawl. Two or three of the number
volunteered to help Antonio draw up our boat, while I gave various
orders, in default of knowing what else to do. Luckily, it occurred to me
to produce a document, or pass, with which Mr. Bell had kindly furnished
me before leaving Bluefields, and which all seemed to recognize, pointing
to it respectfully, and ejaculating, “King paper! King paper!” It was
frequently called afterward, “the paper that talks.” This precious
document, well engrossed on a sheet of fools-cap, with a broad seal at
the bottom, ran as follows:—
“Mosquito Kingdom.
“GEORGE WILLIAM CLARENCE, by the Grace of God, King of the
Mosquito Territory, to our trusty and well-beloved officers
and subjects, Greeting! We, by these presents, do give pass
and license to Samuel A. Bard Esquire, to go freely through
our kingdom, and to dwell therein; and do furthermore exhort
and command our well-beloved officers and subjects aforesaid,
to give aid and hospitality to the aforesaid Samuel A. Bard
Esquire, whom we hold of high esteem and consideration. Given
at Bluefields, this —— day of ——, in this the tenth year of our
reign.”
(Signed,) “George, R.”
The ejaculations of “King paper! King paper!” were followed by loud
shouts of “Capt’n! Capt’n!” while two or three tall fellows ran off in
the direction of the huts. I was a little puzzled by the movement, but
not long left in doubt as to its object, for, in a few moments, a figure
approached, creating hardly less sensation among the people, than he
would have done among the “boys” in the Bowery. I at once recognized him
as the “Capt’n,” whose title had been so vigorously invoked. He was,
to start with, far from being a fine-looking darkey; but all natural
deficiencies were more than made up by his dress. He had on a most
venerable cocked hat, in which was stuck a long, drooping, red plume,
that had lost half of its feathers, looking like the plumes of some rake
of a rooster, returning, crestfallen and bedraggled, from an unsuccessful
attempt on some powerful neighbor’s harem. His coat was that of a
post-captain in the British navy, and his pantaloons were of blue cloth,
with a rusty gold stripe running down each side. They were, furthermore,
much too short at both ends, leaving an unseemly projection of ankle, as
well as a broad strip of dark skin between the waistband and the coat.
And when I say that the captain wore no shirt, was rather fat, and his
pantaloons deficient in buttons wherewith to keep it appropriately closed
in front, the active fancy of the reader may be able to complete the
picture. He bore, moreover, a huge cavalry sword, which looked all the
more formidable from being bent in several places and very rusty. He came
forward with deliberation and gravity, and I advanced to meet him, “king
paper” in hand.
[Illustration: CAPTAIN DRUMMER.]
When I had got near him, he adjusted himself in position, and compressed
his lips, with an affectation of severe dignity. Hardly able to restrain
laughing outright, I took off my hat, and saluted him with a profound
bow, and “Good morning, Captain!” He pulled off his hat in return, and
undertook a bow, but the strain was too great on the sole remaining
button of his waistband; it gave way, and, to borrow a modest nautical
phrase, the nether garment “came down on the run!” The captain, however,
no way disconcerted, gathered it up with both hands, and held it in
place, while I read the “paper that talked.”
The upshot of the ceremony was, that I was welcomed to Wasswatla, and
taken to a large vacant hut, which was called the “king’s house,” and
dedicated to the Genius of Hospitality. That is to say, the stranger or
trader may take up his abode there, provided he can dislodge the pigs and
chickens, who have an obstinate notion of their own on the subject of the
proprietorship, and can never be induced to surrender their prescriptive
rights. The “king’s house” was a simple shed, the ground within trodden
into mire by the pigs, and the thatched roof above half blown away by
the wind. But, even thus uninviting, it was better than any of the other
and drier huts, for the fleas, at least, had been suffocated in the mud.
Before night, Antonio had covered the floor, a foot deep, with _cahoon_
leaves, and, with the aid of the Poyer boy and one or two natives,
seduced thereunto by what they universally call “grog,” had restored the
roof, and built up a barricade of poles against the pigs. These were not
numerous, but hungry and vicious; and, finding the barricade too strong
to be rooted down, they tried the dodge of the Jews at Jericho, and of
Captain Crockett with the bear, and undertook to squeal it down! They
neither ate nor slept, those pigs, I verily believe, during the period of
my stay; but kept up an incessant squeal, occasionally relieving their
tempers by a spiteful drive at the poles. Between them and pestilent
insects of various kinds, my slumbers were none of the sweetest, and I
registered a solemn vow that this should be my last trial of Mosquito
hospitality.
In the afternoon I had a visit from the captain, who told me that his
name was “Lord Nelson Drummer,” and that his father had been “Governor”
in the section around Pearl-Cay Lagoon. He had laid aside his official
suit, and with simple breeches of white cotton cloth, and a straw hat,
afforded a favorable contrast to his appearance in the morning. He
spoke English—quite as well as the negroes of Jamaica, and generally
made himself understood. From him I learned that the house, which I had
seen in the clearings, had been built, many years before, by a French
Creole from one of the islands of the Antilles, who at one time had
there a large plantation of coffee, cotton, and sugar-cane, from the
last of which he distilled much rum. Drummer was animated on the subject
of the rum, of which there had been, as he said, “much plenty!” But the
Frenchmen had died, and although his family kept up the establishment
for a little while, they were obliged to abandon it in the end. The
negroes who had been brought out, soon caught the infection of the coast,
and, slavery having been prohibited (by the British Superintendent
at Belize!), became idle, drunken, and worthless. Some of them still
lingered around Wasswatla, gathering for sale to the occasional trader,
a few pounds of coffee from the trees on the plantation, which, in spite
of years of utter neglect, still bore fruit. The abandoned cane-fields
furnished a supply of canes, at which all the inhabitants of Wasswatla,
old and young, were constantly gnawing. In fact, this appeared to be
their principal occupation. I subsequently visited the abandoned estate.
It was overgrown with vines and bushes, among which the orange, lime,
and coffee-trees struggled for existence. The house was tumbling into
ruin, and the boilers in which the sugar had been made, were full of
stagnating water. I returned to the squalid village, having learned
another philosophy in the science of philanthropy; and with a diminishing
inclination to tolerate the common cant about “universal brotherhood!”
The soil on the Wawashaan is rich and productive. It seems well adapted
to cotton and sugar. The climate is hot and humid, and I saw many of
the natives much reduced, and suffering greatly from fevers, which, if
not violent, appear, nevertheless, to be persistent, and exceedingly
debilitating. The natural products are numerous and valuable. I observed
many indian-rubber trees, and, for the first time, the vanilla. It is
produced on a vine, which climbs to the tops of the loftiest trees. Its
leaves somewhat resemble those of the grape; the flowers are red and
yellow, and when they fall off are succeeded by the pods, which grow
in clusters, like our ordinary beans. Green at first, they change to
yellow, and finally to a dark brown. To be preserved, they are gathered
when yellow, and put in heaps, for a few days, to ferment. They are
afterward placed in the sun to dry, flattened by the hand, and carefully
rubbed with cocoa-nut oil, and then packed in dry plantain-leaves, so
as to confine their powerful aromatic odor. The vanilla might be made a
considerable article of trade on the coast; but, at present, only a few
dozen packages are exported.
Lord Nelson, as I invariably called the captain, domesticated himself
with me from the first day, and ate and drank with me—“especially the
latter.” And I soon found out that there was a direct and intimate
relation, between his degree of thirst and his protestations of
attachment. He even hinted his intention to get up a _mushla_ feast for
me, but I would not agree to stay for a sufficient length of time.
Finally, however, a grand fishing expedition to the lagoon was determined
on, and I was surprised to see with how much alacrity the proposition was
taken up. The day previous to starting was devoted to sharpening spears,
cleaning the boats, and making paddles, in all of which operations the
women worked indiscriminately with the men. Plantains were gathered,
and, as it seemed to me, no end of sugar-canes from the deserted
plantation. In the evening, which happened to prove clear, the big drum
was got out, fires lighted, and there was a dance, as Lord Nelson said,
“Mosquito fashion.” My part of the performance consisted in keeping up
the spirit of the drummers, by pouring spirits down, which service was
responded to by a vehemence of pounding that would have done credit to a
militia training. I was surprised to find how much skill the performers
had attained; but afterward discovered that the drum is the favorite
instrument on the coast, and is called in requisition on all occasions
of festivity or ceremony. The dance was uncouth, without the merit of
being grotesque; and long before it was finished, the performers, of both
sexes, had thrown aside their _tournous_, and abandoned every shadow of
decency in their actions. Lord Nelson began to grow torpid early in the
evening, and, before I left the scene, had been carried off dead drunk.
Next morning he looked rather downcast, and complained that the rum “_had
spoiled his head_.”
It was quite late when our flotilla got under way, with a large dory,
carrying the big drum, leading the van. There were some twenty-odd boats,
containing nearly the entire population of the village. This number was
increased from the huts lower down, the occupants of which hailed us with
loud shouts, and hastened after us with their canoes. We went down the
river with the current very rapidly, the men paddling in the maddest way,
and shouting to each other at the top of their voices. Occasionally the
boats got foul, when the rivals used the flat of their paddles over each
other’s heads without scruple. I was considerably in the rear, and, from
the sound of the blows, imagined that every skull had been crushed; but
next moment their owners were paddling and shouting as if nothing had
happened. From that day, I had a morbid curiosity to get a Mosquito skull!
We all encamped at night, on the sandy beach of a large island, in the
centre of the lagoon. The reader may be sure that I made my own camp at
a respectable distance from the rest of the party, where I had a quiet
supper, patronized, as usual, by Captain Drummer. As soon as it became
dark, the preparations for fishing commenced. The women were left on
the beach, and three men apportioned to each boat. One was detailed to
paddle, another to hold the torch, and the third, and most skillful,
acted as striker or spearsman. The torches were made of splinters of the
fat yellow pine, which abounds in the interior. The spears, I observed,
were of two kinds; one firmly fixed by a shank at the end of a long light
pole, called _sinnock_, which is not allowed to escape the hand of the
striker. The other, called _waisko-dusa_, is much shorter. The staff is
hollow, and the iron spear-head, or harpoon, is fastened to a line which
passes through rings by the side of the shaft, and is wound to a piece
of light-wood, designed to act as a float. When thrown, the head remains
in the fish, while the line unwinds, and the float rises to the surface,
to be seized again by the fisherman, who then hauls in his fish at his
leisure. When the fish is large and active, the chase after the float
becomes animated, and takes the character of what fishermen call “sport.”
As I have said, no sooner was it dark than the boats pushed off, in
different directions, on the lagoon. My Poyer boy had borrowed a
_waisko-dusa_, and with him to strike, and Antonio to paddle, I took a
torch, and also glided out on the water. My torch was tied to a pole,
which I held over the bow. Antonio paddled slowly, while the Poyer boy,
entirely naked (for the strikers often go overboard after their own
spears), stood in the bow, with his spear poised in his right hand,
eagerly inclining forward, and motionless as a statue. He was perfect
in form, and his bronze limbs, just tense enough to display without
distorting the muscles, were brought in clear outline against the
darkness by the light of the torch—revealing a figure and pose that would
shame the highest achievements of the sculptor. It was so admirable that
I quite forgot the fisher in the artist, when, rapid as light, the arm of
the Poyer boy fell, and the spear entered the water eight or nine feet
ahead of the boat. The motion was so sudden, that it nearly startled me
overboard. At first, I thought he had missed his mark, but I soon saw
the white float, now dipping under the water, now jerked this way, now
that, evincing clearly that the spearsman had been true in his aim. A
few strokes of Antonio’s paddle brought the float within reach of the
striker, who began, in sporting phrase, to “land” the fish. It made a
desperate struggle, and, for awhile, it was what is called a “tight pull”
between the boy and the fish. Nevertheless, he was finally got in, and
proved to be what is called a _June_, or _Jew-fish_ (_Coracinus_), by the
English, and _Palpa_ by the natives. In point of delicacy and richness
of flavor, this fish is unequaled by any other found in these seas. The
one which we obtained weighed not far from eighty pounds. Some of them
have been known to weigh two or three hundred pounds. Our prize made a
great disturbance in our little canoe, to which Antonio put a stop by
disemboweling him on the spot, after which we resumed our sport. We were
successful in obtaining a number of rock-fish, and several _sikoko_, or
sheep’s-heads. Ambitious to try my skill, I took the Poyer boy’s place
for awhile. I was astonished to find how perfectly clear the water proved
to be, under the light of the torch. The bottom, which, in the broad
daylight, had been utterly invisible, now revealed all of its mysteries,
its shells, and plants, and stones, with wonderful distinctness. I
observed also that the fish seemed to be attracted by the light, and,
instead of darting away, rose toward the surface and approached the boat.
I allowed several opportunities of throwing the spear to slip. Finally, a
fine sheep’s-head rose just in front of me; I aimed my spear, and threw
it with such an excess of force as literally to drive the dory from
beneath my feet, precipitating myself in the water, and knocking down and
extinguishing the torch in my ungraceful tumble. The spear was recovered,
and I felt rather disappointed to find that it was innocent of a fish.
Antonio suggested that he had broken loose, which was kind of him, but it
wouldn’t do. As we were without light, and, moreover, had as many fish as
we could possibly dispose of, we paddled ashore.
Up to this time, I had been so much absorbed with our own sport, that I
had not noticed the other fishers. It was a strange scene. Each torch
glowed at the apex of a trembling pyramid of red light, which, as the
boats could not be seen, seemed to be inspired with life. Some moved on
stately and slow, while others, where the boats were rapidly whirled in
pursuit of the stricken fish, seemed to be chasing each other in fiery
glee. Every successful throw was hailed with vehement shouts, heightened
by loud blows made by striking the flat of the paddle on the surface
of the water. All along the shore, the women had lighted fires whereat
to dry the fish, which, in this climate, can not be kept long without
spoiling. The light from these fires caught on the heavy foliage of the
shore, and revealing the groups of half-naked women and children, helped
to make up a scene which it is difficult to paint in words, but which can
never be forgotten by one who has witnessed it.
It was past midnight before the boats all returned to the shore; and then
commenced the drying of the fish. Over all the fires, just out of reach
of the flames, were raised frame-works of canes, like gridirons, on which
the fish, thinly sliced lengthwise, and rubbed with salt, were laid. They
were repeatedly turned, so that, with the salt, smoke and heat, they were
so far cured in the morning, as to require no further attention than a
day or two of exposure to the sun. Our Jew-fish was thus prepared, and
afterward stood us in good stead, much resembling smoked salmon, but less
salt. While Antonio superintended this operation, I cooked the head and
shoulders of the big fish in the sand, after the manner I have already
described, and achieved a signal success, inasmuch as the dish was well
seasoned with “hunger sauce.”