Spanish race. The second, Juan Crispin Bega, belonged to the lowest
class, almost entirely of negro blood. He was a strong, jovial fellow,
and took such good care of some of our small articles as to relieve
us from all further trouble about them. This propensity is common to
all of his caste on the Isthmus. In addition to these, a third man was
given to us, with the assurance that he would work his passage; but
just as we were leaving, we learned that he was a runaway soldier, who
had been taken up for theft and was released on paying some sub-alcalde
three bottles of liquor, promising to quit the place at once. We were
scarcely out of sight of the town before he demanded five dollars a day
for his labor. We refused, and he stopped working. Upon our threatening
to set him ashore in the jungle, he took up the paddle, but used it
so awkwardly and perversely that our other men lost all patience. We
were obliged, however, to wait until we could reach Gatun, ten miles
distant, before settling matters. Juan struck up “Oh Susanna!” which he
sang to a most ludicrous imitation of the words, and I lay back under
the palm-leaves, looking out of the stern of the canoe on the forests
of the Chagres River.
There is nothing in the world comparable to these forests. The river,
broad, and with a swift current of the sweetest water I ever drank,
winds between walls of foliage that rise from its very surface. From
the rank jungle of canes and gigantic lilies, and the thickets of
strange shrubs that line the water, rise the trunks of the mango, the
ceiba, the cocoa, the sycamore and the superb palm. Plantains take root
in the banks, hiding the soil with their leaves, shaken and split into
immense plumes by the wind and rain. The zapote, with a fruit the size
of a man’s head, the gourd tree, and other vegetable wonders, attract
the eye on all sides. Blossoms of crimson, purple and yellow, of a
form and magnitude unknown in the North, are mingled with the leaves,
and flocks of paroquets and brilliant butterflies circle through the
air like blossoms blown away. Every turn of the stream only disclosed
another and more magnificent vista of leaf, bough and blossom. All
outline of the landscape is lost under this deluge of vegetation. No
trace of the soil is to be seen; lowland and highland are the same; a
mountain is but a higher swell of the mass of verdure. As on the ocean,
you have a sense rather than a perception of beauty. The sharp, clear
lines of our scenery at home are here wanting. What shape the land
would be if cleared, you cannot tell.
In the afternoon we reached Gatun, a small village of bamboo huts,
thatched with palm-leaves, on the right bank of the river. We ejected
our worthless passenger on landing, notwithstanding his passive
resistance, and engaged a new boatman in his place, at $8. I shall
never forget the forlorn look of the man as he sat on the bank beside
his bag of rice, as the rain began to fall. Ambrosio took us to one
of the huts and engaged hammocks for the night. Two wooden drums,
beaten by boys, in another part of the village, gave signs of a coming
fandango, and, as it was Sunday night, all the natives were out in
their best dresses. They are a very cleanly people, bathing daily, and
changing their dresses as often as they are soiled. The children have
their heads shaved from the crown to the neck, and as they go about
naked, with abdomens unnaturally distended, from an exclusive vegetable
diet, are odd figures enough. They have bright black eyes, and are
quick and intelligent in their speech and motions.
The inside of our hut was but a single room, in which all the household
operations were carried on. A notched pole, serving as a ladder, led
to a sleeping loft, under the pyramidal roof of thatch. Here a number
of the emigrants who arrived late were stowed away on a rattling floor
of cane, covered with hides. After a supper of pork and coffee, I made
my day’s notes by the light of a miserable starveling candle, stuck in
an empty bottle, but had not written far before my paper was covered
with fleas. The owner of the hut swung my hammock meanwhile, and I
turned in, to secure it for the night. To lie there was one thing, to
sleep another. A dozen natives crowded round the table, drinking their
aguardiente and disputing vehemently; the cooking fire was on one side
of me, and everyone that passed to and fro was sure to give me a thump,
while my weight swung the hammock so low, that all the dogs on the
premises were constantly rubbing their backs under me.
Our men were to have started at midnight, but it was two hours later
before we could rouse and muster them together. We went silently and
rapidly up the river till sunrise, when we reached a cluster of huts
called Dos Hermanos (Two Brothers). There had been only a slight shower
since we started; but the clouds began to gather heavily, and by the
time we had gained the ranche of Palo Matida a sudden cold wind came
over the forests, and the air was at once darkened. We sprang ashore
and barely reached the hut, a few paces off, when the rain broke over
us, as if the sky had caved in. The rain drove into one side of the
cabin and out the other, but we wrapped ourselves in India-rubber cloth
and kept out the wet and chilling air. During the whole day the river
rose rapidly and we were obliged to hug the bank closely, running under
the boughs of trees and drawing ourselves up the rapids by those that
hung low.
I crept out of the snug nest where we were all stowed as closely as
three unfledged sparrows, and took my seat between Juan and Ambrosio,
protected from the rain by an India-rubber poncho. The clothing of
our men was likewise waterproof, but without seam or fold. It gave no
hindrance to the free play of their muscles, as they deftly and rapidly
plied the broad paddles. Juan kept time to the Ethiopian melodies he
had picked up from the emigrants, looking round from time to time with
a grin of satisfaction at his skill. I preferred, however, hearing
the native songs, which the boatmen sing with a melancholy drawl
on the final syllable of every line, giving the music a peculiar
but not unpleasant effect, when heard at a little distance. Singing
begets thirst, and perhaps Juan sang the more that he might have a
more frequent claim on the brandy. The bottle was then produced and
each swallowed a mouthful, after which he dipped his cocoa shell in
the river and took a long draught. This is a universal custom among
the boatmen, and the traveler is obliged to supply them. As a class,
they are faithful, hard-working and grateful for kindness. They have
faults, the worst of which are tardiness, and a propensity to filch
small articles; but good treatment wins upon them in almost every case.
Juan said to me in the beginning “_soy tu amigo yo_,” (_Americanice_:
I am thy friend, _well_ I am,) but when he asked me, in turn, for
every article of clothing I wore, I began to think his friendship not
the most disinterested. Ambrosio told me that they would serve no one
well who treated them badly. “If the Americans are good, we are good;
if they abuse us, we are bad. We are black, but _muchos caballeros_”
(very much of gentlemen), said he. Many blustering fellows, with their
belts stuck full of pistols and bowie-knives, which they draw on all
occasions, but take good care not to use, have brought reproach on the
country by their silly conduct. It is no bravery to put a revolver to
the head of an unarmed and ignorant native, and the boatmen have sense
enough to be no longer terrified by it.
We stopped the second night at Peña Blanca (the White Rock), where I
slept in the loft of a hut, on the floor, in the midst of the family
and six other travelers. We started at sunrise, hoping to reach Gorgona
the same night, but ran upon a sunken log and were detained some time.
Ambrosio finally released us by jumping into the river and swimming
ashore with a rope in his teeth. We passed the ranches of Agua Salud,
Varro Colorado and Palanquilla, and shortly after were overtaken by a
storm on the river. We could hear the rush and roar of the rain, as
it came towards us like the trampling of myriad feet on the leaves.
Shooting under a broad sycamore we made fast to the boughs, covered
ourselves with India-rubber, and lay under our cool, rustling thatch of
palm, until the storm had passed over.
The character of the scenery changed somewhat as we advanced. The air
was purer, and the banks more bold and steep. The country showed more
signs of cultivation, and in many places the forest had been lopped
away to make room for fields of maize, plantain and rice. But the
vegetation was still that of the tropics and many were the long and
lonely reaches of the river, where we glided between piled masses of
bloom and greenery.
We stopped four hours short of Gorgona, at the hacienda of San Pablo,
the residence of Padre Dutaris, curé of all the interior. Ambrosio
took us to his house by a path across a rolling, open savanna, dotted
by palms and acacias of immense size. Herds of cattle and horses
were grazing on the short, thick-leaved grass, and appeared to be
in excellent condition. The padre owns a large tract of land, with
a thousand head of stock, and his ranche commands a beautiful view
up and down the river. Ambrosio was acquainted with his wife, and by
recommending us as _buenos caballeros_, procured us a splendid supper
of fowls, eggs, rice boiled in cocoa milk, and chocolate, with baked
plantains for bread. The padre was absent at the time, but his son
Felipe, a boy of twelve years old, assisted in doing the honors with
wonderful grace and self-possession. His tawny skin was as soft as
velvet, and his black eyes sparkled like jewels. He sat in the hammock
with me, leaning over my shoulder as I noted down the day’s doings, and
when I had done, wrote his name in my book, in an elegant hand. I slept
soundly in the midst of an uproar, and only awoke at four o’clock next
morning, to hurry our men in leaving for Gorgona.
The current was very strong and in some places it was almost impossible
to make headway. Our boatmen worked hard, and by dint of strong poling
managed to jump through most difficult places. Their naked, sinewy
forms, bathed in sweat, shone like polished bronze. Ambrosio was soon
exhausted, and lay down; but Miguel, our _corps de reserve_, put his
agile spirit into the work and flung himself upon the pole with such
vigor that all the muscles of his body quivered as the boat shot ahead
and relaxed them. About half-way to Gorgona we rounded the foot of
Monte Carabali, a bold peak clothed with forests and crowned with a
single splendid palm. This hill is the only one in the province from
which both oceans may be seen at once.
As we neared Gorgona, our men began repeating the ominous words:
“_Cruces--mucha colera_.” We had, in fact, already heard of the
prevalence of cholera there, but doubted, none the less, their wish
to shorten the journey. On climbing the bank to the village, I called
immediately at the store of Mr. Miller, the only American resident,
who informed me that several passengers by the Falcon had already
left for Panama, the route being reported passable. In the door of
the alcalde’s house, near at hand, I met Mr. Powers, who had left New
York a short time previous to my departure, and was about starting for
Panama on foot, mules being very scarce. While we were deliberating
whether to go on to Cruces, Ambrosio beckoned me into an adjoining hut.
The owner, a very venerable and dignified native, received me swinging
in his hammock. He had six horses which he would furnish us the next
morning, at $10 the head for riding animals, and $6 for each 100 lbs.
of freight. The bargain was instantly concluded.
As we were leaving Gorgona, our party was joined by a long
Mississippian, whose face struck me at the first glance as being
peculiarly cadaverous. He attached himself to us without the least
ceremony, leaving his own party behind. We had not ridden far before
he told us he had felt symptoms of cholera during the night, and was
growing worse. We insisted on his returning to Gorgona at once, but
he refused, saying he was “bound to go through.” At the first ranche
on the road we found another traveler, lying on the ground in a state
of entire prostration. He was attended by a friend, who seemed on the
point of taking the epidemic, from his very fears. The sight of this
case no doubt operated on the Mississippian, for he soon became so
racked with pain as to keep his seat with great difficulty. We were
alarmed; it was impossible to stop in the swampy forest, and equally
impossible to leave him, now that all his dependence was on us. The
only thing resembling medicine in our possession, was a bottle of
claret. It was an unusual remedy for cholera, but he insisted on
drinking it.
After urging forward our weary beasts till late in the afternoon,
we were told that Panama was four hours further. We pitied the poor
horses, but ourselves more, and determined to push ahead. After a
repetition of all our worst experience, we finally struck the remains
of the paved road constructed by the buccaneers when they held Panama.
I now looked eagerly forward for the Pacific, but every ridge showed
another in advance, and it grew dark with a rain coming up. Our horses
avoided the hard pavement and took by-paths through thickets higher
than our heads. The cholera-stricken emigrant, nothing helped by the
claret he drank, implored us, amid his groans, to hasten forward. We
were far in advance of our Indian guide and lost the way more than
once in the darkness. At last he overtook us, washed his feet in a
mudhole, and put on a pair of pantaloons. This was a welcome sign to
us, and in fact, we soon after smelt the salt air of the Pacific, and
could distinguish huts on either side of the road. These gave place to
stone houses and massive ruined edifices, overgrown with vegetation. We
passed a plaza and magnificent church, rode down an open space fronting
the bay, under a heavy gateway, across another plaza and through two
or three narrow streets, hailed by Americans all the way with: “Are
you the Falcon’s passengers?” “From Gorgona?” “From Cruces?” till our
guide brought us up at the Hotel Americano.
Thus terminated my five days’ journey across the Isthmus--decidedly
more novel, grotesque and adventurous than any trip of similar length
in the world. It was rough enough, but had nothing that I could exactly
call hardship, so much was the fatigue balanced by the enjoyment of
unsurpassed scenery and a continual sensation of novelty. In spite of
the many dolorous accounts which have been sent from the Isthmus, there
is nothing, at the worst season, to deter any one from the journey.
II
HO! FOR SAN FRANCISCO
There were about seven hundred emigrants waiting for passage, when I
reached Panama. All the tickets the steamer could possibly receive had
been issued and so great was the anxiety to get on, that double price,
$600, was frequently paid for a ticket to San Francisco. A few days
before we came, there was a most violent excitement on the subject,
and as the only way to terminate the dispute, it was finally agreed
to dispose by lot of all the tickets for sale. The emigrants were all
numbered, and those with tickets for sailing vessels or other steamers
excluded. The remainder then drew, there being fifty-two tickets to
near three hundred passengers. The disappointed candidates, for the
most part, took passage in sailing vessels, with a prospect of seventy
days’ voyage before them. A few months previous, when three thousand
persons were waiting on the Isthmus, several small companies started
in the log canoes of the natives, thinking to reach San Francisco in
them! After a voyage of forty days, during which they went no further
than the Island of Quibo, at the mouth of the Gulf, nearly all of them
returned; the rest have not since been heard of.
The passengers were engaged in embarking all the afternoon of the
second day after my arrival. The steamer came up to within a mile and
a half of the town, and numbers of canoes plied between her and the
sea-gateway. Native porters crowded about the hotels, clamoring for
luggage, which they carried down to the shore under so fervent a heat
that I was obliged to hoist my umbrella. One of the boatmen lifted
me over the swells for the sake of a _medio_, and I was soon gliding
out along the edge of the breakers, startling the pelicans that flew
in long lines over the water. I was well satisfied to leave Panama at
the time; the cholera, which had already carried off one-fourth of the
native population, was making havoc among the Americans, and several of
the Falcon’s passengers lay at the point of death.
A voyage from Panama to San Francisco in the year 1849 can hardly
be compared to sea-life in any other part of the world or at any
previous period. Our vessel was crowded fore and aft: exercise was
rendered quite impossible and sleep was each night a new experiment,
for the success of which we were truly grateful. We were roused at
daylight by the movements on deck, if not earlier, by the breaking of
a hammock-rope and the thump and yell of the unlucky sleeper. Coffee
was served in the cabin; but, as many of the passengers imagined
that, because they had paid a high price for their tickets, they were
conscientiously obligated to drink three cups, the late-comers got a
very scanty allowance. The breakfast hour was nine, and the table was
obliged to be fully set twice. At the first tingle of the bell, all
hands started as if a shot had exploded among them; conversation was
broken off in the middle of a word; the deck was instantly cleared,
and the passengers, tumbling pell-mell down the cabin-stairs, found
every seat taken by others who had probably been sitting in them for
half an hour. The bell, however, had an equally convulsive effect upon
these. There was a confused grabbing motion for a few seconds, and
lo! the plates were cleared. While about half the passengers had all
their breakfast piled at once upon their plates, the other half were
regaled by a “plentiful lack.” The second table was but a repetition
of these scenes, which dinner--our only additional meal--renewed in
the afternoon. Among our company of two hundred and fifty, there were,
of course, many gentlemen of marked refinement and intelligence from
various parts of the Union. I believe the controlling portion of the
California emigration is intelligent, orderly and peaceable; yet I
never witnessed so many disgusting exhibitions of the lowest passions
of humanity, as during the voyage. At sea or among the mountains, men
completely lose the little arts of dissimulation they practise in
society. They show in their true light, and very often, alas! in a
light little calculated to encourage the enthusiastic believer in the
speedy perfection of our race.
* * * * *
“There is California!” was the cry next morning at sunrise. “Where?”
“Off the starboard bow.” I rose on my bunk in one of the deck
state-rooms, and looking out of the window, watched the purple
mountains of the Peninsula, as they rose in the fresh, inspiring air.
We were opposite its southern extremity, and I scanned the brown and
sterile coast with a glass, searching for anything like vegetation. The
whole country appeared to be a mass of nearly naked rock, nourishing
only a few cacti and some stunted shrubs. At the extreme end of the
Peninsula the valley of San José opens inland between two ranges of
lofty granite mountains. Its beautiful green level, several miles in
width, stretched back as far as the eye could reach. The town lies near
the sea; it is noted for the siege sustained by Lieut. Haywood and a
small body of American troops during the war. Lying deep amid the most
frightfully barren and rugged mountains I ever saw, the valley of San
José which is watered by a small river, might be made a paradise. In
spite of the forbidding appearance of the coast, a more peculiar and
interesting picture than it gave can hardly be found on the Pacific.
Cape San Lucas, which we passed toward evening, is a bold bluff of
native granite, broken into isolated rocks at its points, which present
the appearance of three distinct and perfectly-formed pyramids. The
white, glistening rock is pierced at its base by hollow caverns and
arches, some of which are fifteen or twenty feet high, giving glimpses
of the ocean beyond.... In a few minutes after our gun was fired, we
could see horsemen coming down from San Diego at full gallop, one of
whom carried behind him a lady in graceful riding costume. In the first
boat were Colonel Weller, U. S. Boundary Commissioner, and Major Hill,
of the Army. Then followed a number of men, lank and brown “as is the
ribbed sea-sand”--men with long hair and beards, and faces from which
the rigid expression of suffering was scarcely relaxed. They were the
first of the overland emigrants by the Gila route, who had reached San
Diego a few days before. Their clothes were in tatters, their boots,
in many cases, replaced by moccasins, and, except their rifles and
some small packages rolled in deerskin, they had nothing left of the
abundant stores with which they left home.
We hove anchor in half an hour, and again rounded Point Loma, our
number increased by more than fifty passengers.
The emigrants we took on board at San Diego were objects of general
interest. The stories of their adventures by the way sounded more
marvellous than anything I had heard or read since my boyish
acquaintance with Robinson Crusoe, Captain Cook and John Ledyard.
Taking them as the average experience of the thirty thousand emigrants
who last year crossed the Plains, this California Crusade will more
than equal the great military expeditions of the Middle Ages in
magnitude, peril and adventure. The amount of suffering which must have
been endured in the savage mountain passes and herbless deserts of the
interior, cannot be told in words. Some had come by way of Santa Fé and
along the savage hills of the Gila; some, starting from Red River, had
crossed the Great Stake Desert and taken the road from Paso del Norte
to Tucson in Arizona; some had passed through Mexico and after spending
one hundred and four days at sea, run into San Diego and given up their
vessel; some had landed, weary with a seven months’ passage around Cape
Horn, and some, finally, had reached the place on foot, after walking
the whole length of the Californian Peninsula.
We were within sight of the Coast Range of California all day, after
passing Cape Conception. Their sides are spotted with timber, which
in the narrow valleys sloping down to the sea appeared to be of large
growth. From their unvarying yellow hue, we took them to be mountains
of sand, but they were in reality covered with natural harvests of wild
oats, as I afterwards learned, on traveling into the interior. A keen,
bracing wind at night kept down the fog, and although the thermometer
fell to 52°, causing a general shiver on board, I walked the deck a
long time, noting the extraordinary brilliancy of the stars in the pure
air. The mood of our passengers changed very visibly as we approached
the close of the voyage; their exhilarant anticipations left them,
and were succeeded by a reaction of feeling that almost amounted to
despondency. The return to laborious life after a short exemption from
its cares, as in the case of travel, is always attended with some such
feeling, but among the California emigrants it was intensified by the
uncertainty of their venture in a region where all the ordinary rules
of trade and enterprise would be at fault.
When I went on deck in the clear dawn we were rounding Point Pinos
into the harbor of Monterey. As we drew near, the white, scattered
dwellings of the town, situated on a gentle slope, behind which
extended on all sides the celebrated Pine Forest, became visible in the
grey light. A handsome fort, on an eminence near the sea, returned our
salute. The town is larger than I expected to find it, and from the
water has the air of a large New-England village, barring the _adobe_
houses. As we were preparing to leave, the sun rose over the mountains,
covering the air with gold brighter than ever was scratched up on the
Sacramento. The picturesque houses of Monterey, the pine woods behind
and the hills above them, glowed like an illuminated painting, till a
fog-curtain which met us at the mouth of the harbor dropped down upon
the water and hid them all from sight.
* * * * *