TO SANTA CRUZ—BASSIN—A DOG-HOUSE—FRUIT STEALING—“THIBET”
TREES—GREEN HERONS—PRETTY SCENERY—WEST END—SANTA
CRUZ v. ST. THOMAS—CENTRAL ROAD—STEAM PLOUGH—A
CENTRAL FACTORY—OPPOSITION—WAGES—CHILDREN—HOME
AGAIN—RE-EMBARKATION—OFFICIAL DELAY.
Santa Cruz is situated about forty miles south of St. Thomas. To reach
it, it is necessary to take the Government mail-schooner, which makes the
passage generally in about six hours, though, with contrary winds, it has
been known to take days, and even weeks. Nine o’clock in the evening was
the hour for sailing, and precisely at that time we stepped on board.
“Passports, gentlemen!” was the greeting we received. “What! passports
to go from one Danish island to another!” We had none, so it was finally
settled that we should pay the price of them—thirty-two cents. each—to
the Commissioner of Police, who was expected on board to see his
mother-in-law off. Ten o’clock came, and no sign of either Commissioner
or his mother-in-law. The breeze was falling, and we began to doubt
whether we should be able to get outside the harbour, but at half-past
ten they appeared, and in a few minutes we were beating out.
When we gained the open sea, the north-east trade wind blew fresh and
strong, so that by four a.m. next morning we had passed through the
narrow reef-passage, and had anchored in a picturesque bay at the fort
of Bassin (Christianstœd), the capital of the island. The scene differed
widely from that of St. Thomas. From the white beach backwards, acres of
sugar-cane extended over the level land and swept up over the undulating
hills and across to the mountain background in a waving mass of green,
broken here and there by long lines of cocoa-nut palms, windmills, the
white buildings of the planters, and the cottages of their labourers.
The town looked antiquated, but clean, and with ample foliage.
Originally, the island was covered with forest, but the French burnt it,
and now it appears like one vast sugar plantation. But the loss of its
forests may prove in time the ruin of the island. Formerly its rain-fall
was abundant, and its productiveness enormous. Now years of drought
follow in quick succession, and it is said that the barren belt beginning
at the sea-beach in parts of the island is annually spreading inland.
Ruin is following closely in the path of the forest destroyer.
In former years Bassin was a place of great resort, but now visitors
are scarce, and the wretched building near the wharf, although it still
bears the name of hotel, is closed and receives no guests. We had been
recommended to take rooms at the Widow Brady’s. This we did, and had no
cause to regret it. The widow herself met us before we reached her house.
It was only a short distance, but, before we had accomplished it, we knew
all the gossip of the island, the sugar prospect, the history of the
poor deceased, and had received a general sketch of past events, with a
few prophetic remarks concerning the future. A refreshing bath made up
for a sleepless night on the schooner, whose night accommodation—unless
you preferred to stifle below—consisted of a few rabbit-hutches, or
dog-houses, as they are called, with a mattress spread on the floor.
After our bath we started on a tour of inspection.
It did not require many minutes to find out that the sleepy old town was
not a success as regards its buildings, and that Santa Cruz rum was its
chief article of commerce, but its gardens and trees were delightful.
There were sapodillas, fine, lofty trees, with clusters of leaves and
brown fruit, avocados, trees of the mess-apple, sour-sop, and other
insipid fruits; then there were mangoes, tamarinds, and guava bushes,
overrun with bright convolvuluses, and still more brilliant ipomæas;
roses, jessamine, and honeysuckle grew most luxuriantly, but they were
overmatched in profusion, if not in fragrance, by the Mexican wreath
plant, with pretty pink flowers like clusters of coral, and by the
quiscualis, whose sweet jessamine-like flowers—white, pink, and red on
the same stalk—peeped out in hundreds from their glossy green hiding
places.
A pleasing feature in this island is the number of good roads which run
in all directions. On one of these we drove over to Friderichstœd, or
West End, as it is called. I do not know why the latter name should be
used, but I suppose for the same reason that Christianstœd is called
Bassin, and Charlotte Amalia, St. Thomas. During the drive, we saw
to perfection that system of cultivation which commencing in this
island continues all through the West Indies, with the exception now of
Trinidad,—namely, the systematic neglect of all other products for one,
and that one—sugar. There comes a drought, a deluge, or a blight, and
great is the outcry of planters, who have nothing else to fall back upon.
Here, outside the town, even the fruit trees had been cut down, because,
as long as fruit is on a tree, the labourers instead of working will lie
down and pick and eat. The same complaint exists everywhere against the
fruit-loving workmen, whether native or imported, and it is said that the
only way of stopping the evil is the ruthless cutting down of the trees.
Our road ran through a sea of cane, or an occasional acre of Guinea grass
in different stages of ripeness, crossed at intervals by long rows of
cocoa-nut palms, whose beauty was diminished by a blight which seems to
have prevailed in all the West Indian Islands. Fortunately, it had not
touched the mountain-cabbage palms, which rose straight and majestic, and
with the greenest of plums, beside their faded brethren. These trees,
although beautiful to look at, did not afford much shade, and as the
sun was intensely hot, it was a relief occasionally to rest under the
“Thibet,” whose long brown pods made a strange rustling sound as they
were shaken by the breeze. The branches and mimosa-like leaves of this
tree make nutritious food for cattle, and it is therefore especially
valuable in dry seasons. Now the planters were especially jubilant, as
there had been an abundant fall of rain, and the prospect of good crops
was cheering, after six or seven bad years. Rivulets trickled past us,
and in the marshy ground small green herons peered at us inquiringly or
plunged their bills into the soft earth.
As we approached the western side the scenery improved; high hills rose
up on either side, and below us ran a mountain stream in a dell rich
with mango and bread-fruit[6] trees, and gaily decked with heliconias,
yellow cedar bush, and the crimson flowers of the “Pride of Barbadoes.”
On the high points of land, windmills stretch out their long arms, or,
armless, resembled Martello towers guarding the cane valleys beneath.
In the valleys, the smoke issuing from the tall chimneys showed that
sugar-making was in progress, and at one of the plantations the owner
kindly asked us in. Here they were ploughing, or placing the cane slips
on the ridges ready for planting, there they were hoeing, and in another
place, cutting the ripe cane or carrying it to the mill. The various
processes were shown and explained to us, and then our host refreshed us
with cane juice in different stages, from “sling,” which was served in
large jugs, to the material beverage—rum—which, as real old Santa Cruz,
was drunk as a liqueur. We both agreed afterwards, that “sling” was the
most unpleasant beverage we had ever tasted. The dwelling house was well
situated for business and pleasure, as from one window the owner could
overlook his workpeople on the plantation, and from the other he often
shot the little Santa Cruz deer, which abound in the low underbrush of
the uncultivated parts.
After a short visit we took our leave, and continued our drive. At
length, the hills were left behind, and before us lay a flat rich
country—cane-laden of course—stretching to the sea. In the fine
roadstead, only two or three vessels lay at anchor, and we at once
exclaimed that surely this ought to be the converging point for trade
with the West Indies; that instead of the small town of Friderichstœd
there were capabilities for a city. We were ignorant perhaps, but we
could not understand what advantages St. Thomas possessed over this
pretty island. True, its geographical position is not equal to that of
St. Thomas, but the very few extra hours taken to reach it would be
compensated for by its superior land facilities and its healthiness.
Possibly, shipowners and merchants at home may say, what is health in
comparison with three hours’ extra fuel? but those who live out here,
and those who travel in ships, may reverse the saying. Would hurricanes
in the commodious roadstead be more dangerous than in the harbour of St.
Thomas? Well! in 1867, a tidal wave at the latter place destroyed an
immense amount of property and lives, and swamped the shipping, and to
the present time particular prayers are offered in the churches at the
beginning and end of the hurricane season. It is said that, in a sanitary
point of view, St. Thomas is very different from what it was years ago,
but of the two islands we certainly preferred Santa Cruz.
Towards evening, after we had paid a very pleasant visit to Major M—,
one of the principal planters in the Island—we drove back to Bassin by
the central road, which was straight and flat in comparison with that of
the morning. As before, cane and palms surrounded us, but many of the
cocoa-nut trees had been robbed of their beauty and were headless; and,
as the fresh breeze swept over the land, their bent shafts resembled the
bare poles of a stricken ship scudding along through a waving green sea.
At the corners of the different plantations by the roadside, were small
white-domed buildings like Eastern sepulchres; these were watch houses,
necessary to prevent stray passers-by from cutting the juicy cane. A
steam plough next claimed our attention, and after that a Moravian[7]
Church; then darkness closed in, and before long we were home again.
Another of our drives was to the new “Central Factory,” about which Santa
Cruz was then very much disturbed and divided into two factions. By a
“Central Factory,” the functions of the cane producer and the sugar-maker
are divided, just as those of the wheat farmer and the miller. All the
planter has to do is to grow the cane and take it when cut to the nearest
dépôt belonging to the “Central Factory,” and then his duty is finished.
The complaints against the one being erected in this island were
many; among them, it was said that the Government—it was a Government
project—had forced the planters into joining the Company, most of
the estates being in debt to the Government, owing to a series of bad
years; that the planters had their own machinery and could make larger
profits by manufacturing sugar themselves; that there was not enough
sugar on the island to make so large a factory pay; that small farms
and sub-lettings would spring up among the black population (which was
already fast superseding the white), which would withdraw labour from the
large estates and deteriorate agriculture. The “piping” was also objected
to; miles of this had been laid down to convey the juice from the five
dépôts to the Central House; up hill and down hill ran this piping, and
its opponents declared that the means (pressure) adopted for its utility
could never succeed. Nor was the price to be paid by the Company, viz.,
the value of five and a half pounds of sugar for one hundred pounds of
cane, considered sufficient, and altogether so disheartened were the
opponents that some of them who had one hundred shares in the Factory,
and had paid up a half, were ready to give away the remaining fifty to
anyone who would take them up. Whether the project has proved successful
or not, I have never heard. To our eyes, the chief drawback seemed to be
in the great cost of the buildings and machinery, which were on a far too
magnificent a scale for the small island.
A cause of failure in the West India Islands has been the superabundance
of central factories; where one would have been sufficient for the
neighbourhood, three and four have been erected, to the detriment of
all.[8] In Martinique, for example, there are no less than thirteen,
and out of these only six are profitable. Wages in Santa Cruz could
not be considered excessive, the average for the negro labourers being
ten cents per diem, with bread, sugar, and rum thrown in. But poverty
was not noticeable, as it was at St. Thomas, and the number of plump,
healthy-looking children was remarkable; when we wanted some memento to
take away with us, and asked if they made nothing peculiar to the island,
the answer might have been that given by an old lady at Martinique to a
similar question:—“Rien que les enfants, Monsieur, en voulez-vous?”
The vast preponderance of the black population over the white ought
to be a subject of deep consideration to the island planters, and to
us it appeared, from the rumours of discontent and negro outbreaks,
that the very existence of the white property-owners was in danger.[9]
Home we went by the beach, where the fresh-smelling seaweed lay in
great banks, and near us was a wonderfully bright colouring of green,
blue, and yellow, as the still water lay over deep or shallow shoals,
enclosed within circling coral reef, white with the foaming waves of the
blue-black sea beyond.
When we re-embarked on the schooner for St. Thomas, we were delayed for
more than three hours, which we knew would seriously imperil our chances
of getting anything to eat on our arrival at the hotel. This time the
delay was caused by the mail, and when it did arrive it consisted of one
skinny bag, apparently containing one letter. Fresh passports to take
us back! truly there must be “something rotten in the state of Denmark.”
We lost our dinner by just half-an-hour, but were compensated in some
degree by the arrival of our respective steamers, which were to sail on
the following day. We had therefore to forego the pleasures of a shark
hunt,[10] which had been arranged for us, and in a few hours the doctor
was on his way to America, and I was bound South.