[Illustration]
We were not many days in exhausting the resources of the Towkas village,
in the way of adventures; and, one sunny afternoon, packed our little
boat, and, bidding our entertainers good-by, paddled down the river,
on our voyage to Sandy Bay—next to Bluefields, the principal Sambo
establishment on the coast. Our course lay, a second time, through Wava
Lagoon, which connects, by a narrow and intricate channel or creek, with
a larger lagoon to the northward, called Duckwarra. The night was quiet
and beautiful—the crescent moon filling the air with a subdued and dreamy
light, soothing and slumbrous, and so blending the real with the ideal
that I sometimes imagine it might all have been a dream! My companions,
if they did not share the influences of the night, at least respected my
silence, and we glided on and on, without a sound save the steady dip of
the paddles, and the gentle ripple of the water, which closed in mimic
whirlpools on our track.
When morning broke, we had already entered Duckwarra Lagoon, the
largest we had encountered since leaving Pearl-Cay. It had the same
appearance with all the others, and, having nothing to detain us, we
steered directly across, only stopping near noon on one of the numerous
islets, to cook our breakfast, and escape the midday heats. This islet
was, perhaps, two hundred yards across, and elevated in the centre some
fifteen or twenty feet above the water. Near the apex were growing a
number of ancient palms, and, strolling up to them, I found at their
roots a small elevation, or tumulus, perhaps fifteen feet in diameter
at the base, and five or six feet high. Its regularity arrested my
attention, and led me to believe that it was artificial. I called to
Antonio, who at once pronounced it a burying-place of the “Antiguos.”
I proposed opening it, but my companions seemed loth to disturb the
resting-place of the dead. However, finding that I had commenced the
work without them, they joined me, and with our machetes and paddles,
we rapidly removed the earth. Near the original surface of the ground,
we came to some bones, but they were so much decayed that they crumbled
beneath the fingers. Uncovering them further, we found at the head of the
skeleton a rude vase, which was got out without much damage. Carefully
removing the earth from the interior I found that it contained a number
of chalcedonic pebbles, pierced as if for beads, a couple of arrow-heads
of similar material, and a small ornament of thin, plate gold, rudely
representing a human figure, as shown in the accompanying engraving,
which is of the size of the original. At the feet of the skeleton we
also discovered another small vase of coarse pottery, which, however,
contained no relics. Antonio seemed much interested in the little golden
image, but finally, after minute examination, returned it to me, saying,
that although his own people in Yucatan often buried beneath tumuli, and
had golden idols which they placed with the dead, yet, in workmanship,
they were unlike the one we had discovered.
[Illustration]
“Ah!” he continued, his eyes lighting with unusual fire, “you should see
the works of our ancestors! They were gods, those ancient, holy men!
Their temples were built for them by _Kabul_, the Lord of the Powerful
Hand, who set the seal of his bloody palm upon them all! You shall go
with me to the sacred lake of the Itzaes, where our people are gathered
to receive the directions of the Lord of Teaching, whose name is _Votan
Balam_, who led our fathers thither, and who has promised to rescue them
from their afflictions!”
He stopped suddenly, as if alarmed at what he had said, kissed his
talisman, and relapsed again into the quiet, mild-eyed Indian boy,
submissively awaiting my orders.
We left Duckwarra Lagoon by a creek connecting it with Sandy Bay Lagoon,
and on the second afternoon from Wava River, arrived at the Sambo
settlement, which is on its southern shore, about eight miles from the
sea. It stands upon the edge of a savannah, that rises to the southward
and eastward, forming, toward the sea, a series of bluffs, the principal
of which is called Bragman’s Bluff, and is the most considerable landmark
on the coast.
The town has something the appearance of Bluefields, and contains perhaps
five hundred inhabitants, who affect “English fashion” in dress and modes
of living. That is to say, many of them wear English hats, even when
destitute of every other article of clothing, except the _tournou_, or
breech-cloth. These hats are of styles running back for thirty years,
and, moreover, crushed into a variety of shapes which are infinitely
ludicrous, especially when the wearers affect gravity or dignity. A naked
man cannot make himself absolutely ridiculous, for nature never exposes
her creations to humiliation; but the attempts at art, in making up the
man on the Mosquito Shore, I must confess, were melancholy failures.
Before we got to the village, the beating of drums, and the occasional
firing off of muskets, announced that some kind of a feast or celebration
was going on. As we approached nearer I saw the English flag displayed
upon a tall bamboo, planted in the centre of a group of huts. I saw also
a couple of boats, of European construction, drawn up on the beach,
from which I inferred that there must be a trading vessel on the coast,
and that I was just in time to witness one of the orgies which always
follow upon such an event. I had had some misgivings as to the probable
reception we should meet, in case the news of our affair with the
Quamwatlas had reached here, and felt not a little reassured when I saw
indications of the presence of foreigners.
The people were all so absorbed with their festivities that our approach
was not noticed; but when we got close to the shore, I fired off both
barrels of my gun by way of salute. An instant after, a number of men
came out from among the huts, and hurried down to the beach. Meantime I
had got out my “King-paper,” and leaped ashore.
The crowd that huddled around me would have put Falstaff’s tatterdemalion
army to shame. The most conspicuous character among them wore a red check
shirt, none of the cleanest, and a threadbare undress coat of a British
general, but had neither shoes nor breeches. Nor was he equally favored
with Captain Drummer in respect of a hat. Instead of a venerable chapeau,
like that worn by the captain with so much dignity, he had an ancient
bell-crowned “tile,” which had once been white, but was now of equivocal
color, and which, apparently from having been repeatedly used as a seat,
was crushed up bellows’ fashion, and cocked forward in a most absurd
manner.
The wearer of this imposing garb had already reached the stage of “big
drunk,” and his English, none of the best at any time, was now of a very
uncertain character. He staggered up, as if to embrace me, slapping
his breast with one hand, and druling out “I General Slam—General
Peter Slam!” I avoided the intended honor by stepping on one side, the
consequence of which was, that if the General had not been caught by
Antonio, he certainly would have plunged into the lagoon.
I made a marked display of my “King-paper,” and commenced to read it
to the General, but he motioned me to put it up, saying, “All good!
very great good! I Peter Slam, General!” Meantime the spectators were
reinforced from the village, and drums were sent for. They were of
English make, and of the biggest. General Slam then insisted on escorting
me up from the beach, “English gentleman fashion!” and taking my arm in
his unsteady grasp, he headed the procession, with a desperate attempt
at steadiness, but nevertheless swaying from side to side, after the
immemorial practice of drunken men.
The General was clearly the magnate of Sandy Bay, (called by the Sambos
_Sanaby_,) and when we reached the centre of the village, where the feast
was going on, we were saluted by a “hurrah!” given “English fashion.”
Here I noticed a big canoe full of _mishla_, around which the drinking
and dancing was uninterrupted. General Slam took me at once to his own
house or hut, where the traders in whose honor the feast was got up, were
quartered. I found there the captain and clerk, and two of the crew
of the “London Belle,” a trading vessel which had recently arrived at
Cape Gracias, from Jamaica. There was also an Englishman, named H——, who
lived at the Cape, and who seemed to hold here a corresponding position
with Mr. Bell in Bluefields. They were all reclining on crickeries, or
in hammocks, and appeared to be on terms of easy familiarity with a
number of very sleek young girls, in whose laps they were resting their
heads, and whose principal occupation, in the intervals of not over
delicate dalliance, was that of passing round glasses of a kind of punch,
compounded of Jamaica rum, the juice of the sugar-cane, and a variety of
crushed fruits.
[Illustration: GENERAL PETER SLAM.]
The whole party was what is technically called “half-seas-over,” and
welcomed me with that large liberality which is inseparable from that
condition. The general was slapped on the back, and told to “bring in
more girls, you bloody rascal, no skulking now!” Whereupon his hat was
facetiously crushed down over his eyes by each one of his guests in
succession, and he was kicked out of the door by the English captain, a
rough brute of a man, who only meant to be playful.
I had barely time to observe that General Slam’s house was not entirely
without evidences of civilization. Upon one side was a folding table,
and ship’s sideboard, or locker, both probably from some wreck. In the
latter were a quantity of tumblers, decanters, plates, and other articles
of Christian use; and on the walls hung a few rude lithographs, gaudily
colored. Among them—strange juxtaposition!—was a picture of Washington.
My survey was interrupted by a great tumult near the hut, and a moment
after, half a dozen Sambos, reeking with their filthy _mishla_, staggered
in at the door, dragging after them a full-blooded Indian, quite naked,
and his body bleeding in several places, from blows and scratches
received at the hands of his savage assailants. The Sambos pushed him
toward the English captain, ejaculating, “Him! him!” while the Indian
himself stood in perfect silence, his thin lips compressed, and his eyes
fixed on the captain. The conduct of the latter was in keeping with that
of the drunken wretches who had dragged the Indian to the hut, and who,
vociferating some unintelligible jargon, were brandishing their clubs
over his head, and occasionally hitting viciously with them at his feet.
“That’s the bloody villain, is it!” said the captain, leaping from his
crickery, and striking the Indian a terrible blow in the face, which
felled him to the ground. “I’ll learn him proper respect for the King!”
This act was followed by stamping his foot heavily on the fallen and
apparently insensible Indian.
The entire proceeding was to me inexplicable; but this last brutality
roused my indignation. I grasped the captain by the collar of his coat,
and hurled him across the hut. “Do you pretend to be an Englishman,”
I said, “and yet set such an example to these savages? What has this
Indian done?” “I’ll let you know what he has done,” he shrieked, rather
than spoke, in a wild paroxysm of rage; and, grasping a knife from the
table, he drove at me, with all his force. Maddened and drunk as he was,
I had only to step aside to avoid the blow. Missing his mark, he stumbled
over the fallen Indian, and fell upon the knife, which pierced through
and through his left arm, just below the shoulder. Quick as lightning
the Indian leaped forward, tore the knife from the wound, and in another
instant would have driven it to the captain’s heart, had I not arrested
his arm. He glanced up in my face, dropped the knife, and folding his
arms, stood erect and silent.
The captain’s companions, with the exception of Mr. H., were much
inclined to be belligerent, but the revolver in my belt inspired them
with a wholesome discretion.
Meantime, the captain’s wound had been bound up, and the Indian had
withdrawn. The Sambos had retreated the instant I had interposed against
the violence of the trader.
The occasion of this brutal assault was simply this. The Sambos, living
on the coast, effectually cut off the Indians from the sea, and,
availing themselves of their position, and the advantage of firearms,
make exactions of various kinds from them. Thus, if the Indians go off
to the cays for turtles, they require from them a certain proportion of
the shells, which is called the “king’s portion.” But as the Jamaica
traders always keep the king and chiefs in debt to them, the shells thus
collected go directly into their hands. In fact, it is only through the
means which they afford, and often by their direct interference, that
the nominal authority of the so-called king is kept up. It was alleged
that the Indian whom the captain had abused, and who was a very expert
fisherman, had not made a fair return; and his want of “proper respect
for the king,” it turned out, consisted in not having a sufficient
quantity of shells to satisfy the cupidity of the trader!
After this occurrence at General Slam’s house, I did not find it
agreeable to stay there longer, and, accordingly, strolled off in the
village. The festival had now become uproarious. Around the _mishla_
canoe was a motley assemblage of men, women, and children; some with red
caps and frocks, others strutting about with half a shirt, and others
entirely naked. A number of men with pipes and drums kept up an incessant
noise, while others, with muskets, which they filled with powder almost
to the muzzle, fired occasional volleys, when all joined in a general
_hurrah_, “English fashion.”
At a little distance was built up a rude fence of palm-branches and
pine-boughs, behind which there was a crowd of men laughing and shouting
in a most convulsive manner. I walked forward, and saw that only males
were admitted behind the screen of boughs. Here, in the midst of a
large circle of spectators, were two men, dressed in an extraordinary
manner, and performing the most absurd antics. Around their necks each
had a sort of wooden collar, whence depended a fringe of palm-leaves,
hanging nearly to their feet. Their headdresses terminated in a tall,
thin strip of wood, painted in imitation of the beak of a saw-fish,
while their faces were daubed with various colors, so as completely to
change the expression of the features. In each hand they had a gourd
containing pebbles, with which they marked time in their dances. These
were entirely peculiar, and certainly very comical. First they approached
each other, and bent down their tall head-pieces with the utmost gravity,
by way of salute; then sidled off like crabs, singing a couplet which
had both rhythm and rhyme, but, so far as I could discover, no sense. As
interpreted to me, afterward, by Mr. H——, it ran thus:—
“Shovel-nosed shark,
Grandmother, grandmother!
Shovel-nosed shark,
Grandmother!”
When the performers got tired, their places were taken by others, who
exhausted their ingenuity in devising grotesque and ludicrous variations.
When evening came, fires of pine wood were lighted in all directions, and
the drinking and dancing went on, growing noisier and more outrageous
as the night advanced. Many got dead drunk, and were carried off by the
women. Others quarreled, but the women, with wise foresight, had carried
off and hidden all their weapons, and thus obliged them to settle their
disputes with their fists, “English fashion.” To me, these boxing bouts
were exceedingly amusing. Instead of parrying each others’ strokes, they
literally exchanged them. First one would deliver his blow, and then
stand still and take that of his opponent, blow for blow, until both
became satisfied. Then they would take a drink of _mishla_ together,
“English fashion,” and become friends again.
[Illustration: SUKIA OF SANDY BAY.]
During the whole of the evening I found myself closely watched by a
hideous old woman, who moved around among the revelers like a ghoul.
Everybody made way for her when she approached, and none ventured
to speak with her. There was something almost fascinating in her
repulsiveness. Her hair was long and matted, and her shriveled skin
appeared to adhere like that of a mummy to her bones; for she was
emaciated to the last degree. The nails of her fingers were long and
black, and caused her hands to look like the claws of some unclean bird.
Her eyes were bloodshot, but bright and intense, and were constantly
fixed upon me, like those of some wild beast on its prey. Wherever I
moved she followed, even behind the screen concealing the masked dancers,
where no other woman was admitted.
I lingered among the revelers until their antics ceased to be amusing,
and became simply brutal. Both sexes finally gave themselves up to the
grossest and most shameless debauchery, such as I have never heard
ascribed to the most bestial of savages.
Disgusted and sickened, I turned away, and went down to the shore,
preferring, after what had occurred at Slam’s house, to sleep in my boat,
to trusting myself in the power of the wounded trader. So we pushed
off a few hundred feet from the shore, and anchored for the night. I
wrapped myself in my blanket, and, notwithstanding the noisy revels in
the village, savage laughter and angry shouts, the beating of drums and
firing of guns, I was soon asleep.
It was past midnight; the moon had gone down, the fires of the village
were burning low, and the dancers, stupified and exhausted, only broke
out in occasional spasmodic shrieks, when I was awakened by Antonio, who
placed his finger on my lips in token of silence. I nevertheless started
up in something of alarm, for the image of the skinny old hag, who had
tracked me with her snaky eyes all the evening, had disturbed my dreams.
To my surprise I found the Indian, whom I had rescued from the drunken
violence of the trader, crouching in the bottom of the boat. He had
already explained to Antonio, through the Poyer, that we were in great
danger; that the old woman who had haunted me was a powerful _Sukia_,
whose commands were always implicitly obeyed by the superstitious Sambos.
Instigated by the discomfited trader, she had demanded our death, and
even now her followers were planning the means to accomplish it. Our
safety, he urged, depended upon our immediate departure, and then, as if
relieved of a burden, he slipped quietly overboard, and swam toward the
shore.
I was nothing loth to leave Sandy Bay, and we lost no time in getting up
the large stone which served us for an anchor, and taking our departure.
By morning we were clear of the lagoon, and in the channel leading from
it to Wano Sound, lying about fifteen miles to the northward of Sandy
Bay, and half that distance from Cape Gracias. We reached the sound
about ten o’clock in the morning, and stopped for breakfast on a narrow
sand-spit, where a few trees on the shore gave shade and fuel. The day
was excessively hot, and we waited for the evening before pursuing our
voyage. During the afternoon, however, we were joined by Mr. H., who had
got wind of the designs of the trader, and attempted to warn us, but
found that we had gone. Indignant at his treachery, he had abandoned the
brutal captain, and determined to return to the Cape.
He explained to me that our danger had been greater than we had supposed.
The old _Sukia_ woman possessed more power over the Sambos than king or
chief, and her commands were never disputed or neglected. The grandfather
of the present king, he said, had been killed by her order, as had also
his great aunt; and although the immediate perpetrators of the deed had
been executed, yet the king had not dared to bring the dreaded _Sukia_
to justice. She had, however, been obliged to leave Cape Gracias, lest,
during the visit of some English vessel of war, she should be punished
for complicity in the murder of a couple of Englishmen, named Collins
and Pollard, who had been slaughtered some years before, while turtling
on the cays off the coast. Another reason for her departure had been
the advent of a more powerful and less malignant _Sukia_ woman, who, he
assured me, was gifted with prophecy, and a knowledge of things past
and to come. He represented her as young, living in a very mysterious
manner, far up the Cape River, among the mountains. None knew who she
was, nor whence she came, nor had he seen her more than once, although
he had consulted her by proxy on several occasions. I was amused at the
gravity with which he recounted instances of her power over disease
and her knowledge of events, and could not help thinking, that he had
resided so long on the coast as to get infected with the superstitions
of the people. There was, however, no mistaking his earnestness, and I
consequently abstained from ridiculing his stories. “You shall see and
hear for yourself,” he added, “and then you will be better able to judge
if I am a child to be deceived by the silly juggles of an Indian woman.
These people have inherited from their ancestors many mysterious and
wonderful powers; and even the inferior order of _Sukias_ can defy the
poison of snakes, and the effects of fire. Flames and the bullets of guns
are impotent against them.”
I found H. a man of no inconsiderable intelligence, and he gave me much
information about the coast and its inhabitants, and, altogether, before
embarking we had become fast friends, and I had accepted an invitation to
make his house my home during my stay at the Cape.
I have several times alluded to the filthy _mishla_ drink, which is the
universal appliance of the Sambos for getting up the “big drunk.” I never
witnessed the disgusting process of its preparation, but it has been
graphically described by Roberts, who was a trader on the coast, and who,
twenty years before, had been a witness of the “rise and progress” of a
grand debauch at Sandy Bay.
“Preparations were going on for a grand feast and _mishla_ drink. For
this purpose the whole population was employed—most of them being engaged
in collecting pineapples, plantains, and cassava for their favorite
liquor. The expressed juice of the pine-apple alone is a pleasant and
agreeable beverage. The _mishla_ from the plantain and banana, is also
both pleasant and nutritive; that from the cassava and maize is more
intoxicating, but its preparation is a process exceedingly disgusting.
The root of the cassava, after being peeled and mashed, is boiled to the
same consistence as when it is used for food. It is then taken from the
fire, and allowed to cool. The pots are now surrounded by all the women,
old and young, who, being provided with large calabashes, commence an
attack upon the cassava, which they chew to the consistence of a thick
paste, and then put their mouthsful into the bowls, until the latter
are filled. These are then emptied into a canoe which is drawn up for
the purpose, until it is about one third filled. Other cassava is then
taken, bruised in a kind of wooden mortar, until it is reduced to the
consistence of dough, when it is diluted with cold water, to which is
added a quantity of Indian corn, partly boiled and masticated, and then
all is poured into the canoe, which is filled with water, and the mixture
afterward frequently stirred with a paddle. In the course of a few hours
it reaches a high and abominable state of fermentation. The liquor, it
may be observed, is more or less esteemed, according to the health, age,
and constitution of the masticators. And when the chiefs give a private
_mishla_ drink, they confine the mastication to their own wives and young
girls.”
After fermentation, the _mishla_ has a cream-like appearance, and is to
the highest degree intoxicating. The drinking never ceases, so long as
a drop can be squeezed from the festering dregs that remain, after the
liquid is exhausted.