SABA—CRATER COLONIES—ST. EUSTATIUS—ST. KITTS—BRIMSTONE
HILL—MOUNT MISERY—AN ATMOSPHERE—BASSETERRE—CROWN COLONY
SYSTEM—THE NARROWS—NEVIS—REDONDO—MONTSERRAT—ANTIGUA—ITS HARBOUR
BY MOONLIGHT—GUADELOUPE—MARIEGALANTE—DOMINICA—CARIBS—ISLAND
SCENERY—ROSEAU—FROGS.
The meeting of the steamers at St. Thomas brings together a varied
company, and those on board the ‘Tiber’ formed no exception to the rule,
clergymen, colonial officials, military officers, planters, engineers,
commercial travellers, tourists, only a few of each denomination
certainly, but those few all the more prepared to enjoy sea-life by
having superior cabin accommodation.
Passengers just from England were of course well-acquainted with one
another after a two weeks’ voyage, and of the others even the most frigid
had thawed out before we passed Saba. Strange little island! only a
volcanic cone rising directly from the water. We glided by so close that
we seemed to hear the lap of the waves as they gently kissed its rocky
base, but no harbour, no habitation was visible. It must be an active
volcano, for near the summit a faint blue smoke curled upwards and joined
the floating clouds. No; that smoke is raised by human hands, for the
crater out of which it ascends is the home of a small colony. A mixed
population of Dutch and negroes live there, raise fruit and vegetables,
and build boats it is said, though timber must be getting scarce in spite
of the trees that we see edging the crater’s rim.
Some years previously I had visited a crater colony in beautiful
Apolima—one of the South Sea Islands; there the whole of the interior had
sunk, and we paddled through a narrow opening into a lovely bay, on whose
bank stood the village. But here there was no ingress, save by a rocky
staircase leading to the interior. I should much like to have gained an
insight into the life of the inhabitants, who may, indeed, be said to
“live with a volcano under their feet,” but time and opportunity were
wanting, and in a very short time we had lost sight of the green nest in
rough and rugged Saba.
Then another volcanic island, St. Eustatius, appeared. The northern end
is broken and rocky, with here and there a ravine filled with trees, then
a stretch of land leading up to the crater. Unlike its sister isle, it is
the outside which is green and cultivated, and houses dot the scene. It
is picturesque, and, before we are tired of looking at it, it fades like
a dissolving view, and, ere the accompanying music has had time to change
from a Dutch to an English tune, we are coasting along St. Kitts.
Now we begin to realize the fact that we are in the West Indies. The
long promontory, which slopes up to the chain of hills intersecting
the island, is fresh and green with sugar-cane; tall factory-chimneys
and planters’ houses are scattered about, and the soft beauty of the
cultivated land contrasts with the bold mountain heights which shoot up
in culminating masses towards the centre.
Near the shore stands a lonely rock, huge and precipitous as if flung
from the summit of Mount Misery, which, in the distant background, towers
above it to a height of nearly 4,000 feet. Brimstone Hill, as this
imposing pile of igneous rock is called, is accessible only from one
side; formerly it was the seat of the garrison and was fortified, the
fortifications being still visible.
Further on, a shapely mount, flat-tipped and wooded, raises itself above
a black ravine cut deep into the lower hills, which are cultivated in
many parts to their tops. A white cloud floats across the volcanic
chasm over which Mount Misery frowns, leaving the summit crag bare and
distinct, and, for the first time since we entered the West Indies,
atmosphere lends its charm to perspective.
Hitherto the clearness of the atmosphere had brought the island views
strangely close, without a distance, and with a monotone of tint most
unpaintable, but here there was cloud and mist enough to have satisfied
Corot himself. It was pleasant to feel that there was a beyond that we
could clothe with our own fanciful colours, and that our gaze did not
enfold the entire landscape.
Basseterre, the capital, where we stopped for an hour, looked very bright
and sunny. Red roofs, peering out of thick green foliage, a gleam of
white among the palm trees, and a picturesque church-tower, formed the
foreground to a valley of rustling cane, extending the circle of hills,
whose links are here of a less elevation than in the other parts of the
chain. To us, it looked a quiet, fertile little place, and, no doubt,
uncommonly dull. Of its native products we only saw some very good white
grapes, and some very indifferent cigars which were brought for sale.
St. Kitts is the only one of the Leeward[11] Islands that can be said to
pay its way; the others seem to retrograde year by year. Now, however,
that the constitution of the islands has been changed to the Crown Colony
system, an improvement may be expected, and the same progress looked
forward to as in the Windward group.
From Basseterre, the hill chain runs in a south-easterly direction in
a series of low ridges covered with scrub mimosa, dwindling away until
they reach the “Narrows,” as the two-mile stretch of sea is called which
separates Nevis from St. Kitts. A shallow dangerous passage is this,
full of shoals and hidden reefs, and almost in its midst rises a sharp
triangular rock.
Across the “Narrows,” a long low plain slopes up to a single cone, whose
summit for ever sleeps in mist and clouds. Much bush covers the lower
lands, but windmills here and there show that some cultivation is carried
on, and light-green patches of cane are seen divided by rows of cocoa-nut
palms, which, in their blighted state, alas! have more the appearance
of feather dusters. A dreamy-looking little island is this Nevis, whose
chief interest to a stranger lies in the fact that here Nelson lived
after his marriage with Mrs. Nisbet for a few quiet years.
We sped along swiftly past the graceful southern slope of old “Ben”—as
the volcanic cone might be called—but he would not deign to lift his
fleecy cap to us, the shifty clouds merely paling or growing blacker,
until they were lost to view. The steep and picturesque “Redondo” next
claimed our attention. It is only a cavernous rock rising out of the
waves, and sea-birds are its sole inhabitants. From it the eye wanders
off to the more distant island of Montserrat, whose bold headland stands
out in relief against the thickly wooded gorges which traverse the broken
uplands. In the centre, a three-headed mountain range, like a crouching
Cerberus, guards the fruitful lemon groves and plantations that lie far
below. How pleasant it would be to spend a few days on each of these West
Indian islands! to visit their _souffrières_, their mountain forests,
their wild hills, and their cultivated estates! but, at present, to set
one’s foot on land necessitates a two weeks’ sojourn. Such being the
case, and with Roraima ever beckoning me on, I had determined to halt
only at Martinique and Trinidad before reaching British Guiana, and
therefore glimpses—sometimes near and sometimes far—were all I could
expect of the Antilles.
It was night before we reached Antigua, but a full moon rendered the
coast scene as clear as day, and added romantic effect to the lovely
harbour. A bay within a bay, a semi-circle of wooded hills and ravines, a
few white houses, lava cliffs which almost meet at the narrow entrance,
and a rampart-crowned rock were the principal points in the picture. The
basin in which the vessel lay moored by hawsers seemed but another sky,
the stars scarcely quivering in the still deep water; and, as the moon’s
rays silvered the sharp-leaved aloes, or touched with a bright gleam the
angled fort, here softening the rough-edged tufa, and there defining
more clearly the outlines of the palm groups, the whole scene wore a
delightful aspect of unreality, which was heightened by the extreme
quiet, broken only by an occasional plash of oars.
From Antigua we crossed over to Guadeloupe, whose broad and irregular
heights were hidden by clouds; as it was night when we coasted along, we
saw little except cliffs, green pasture land, and ravines leading up into
the heart of the mountains. Next morning we sighted Mariegalante, far
away on our port side, and then, in broad daylight, for several hours,
beautiful Dominica sat to us for her picture. Up to this time the various
island scenes had been pretty, but could not have been called grand, but
now the first glance raised our expectations to a high pitch. Nor were we
disappointed, for a more lovely island, a finer combination of grandeur
and quiet beauty, could hardly be found in the West Indies.
Towards the north, the waves beat against a rock-bound shore, above which
rise wooded hills, increasing in size until they join the seamed and
contorted mountains. Here, in a retired village, dwell the Carib Indians,
once the owners of the island. Reduced to a few score in numbers, these
relics of a great tribe live peacefully under their own king, intermarry,
hold but little intercourse with strangers, and seldom appear in the
capital, Roseau, except now and then to sell their beautifully woven
basket-work. On the western side, along which we coast, the sea-board
extends further back; there is not much cultivation, but in the bush
clearings are a few cane-fields, and beyond, out of the green sloping
lawns, spring many hills, some bare and craggy, others cultivated to
the summit. Behind, rise the great mountains in a thousand fantastic
shapes, here buried in forest, there frowning black and barren over
some tree-filled gorge. Everywhere there is a romantic mingling of hill
and valley, mountain and gorge. Lifting clouds reveal wooded eminences
crowning steep precipices, from whose feet the green sward stretches
down in waves to the white beach, and, as the silver veil floats higher
and higher, still loftier ridges are unbared, where the pale green of
the sugar-cane is plainly distinguished against the dark setting of the
forest background. So high and steep are the hills on which many of these
cane-fields are perched that the crop, when cut, has to be let down in
bundles by ropes.
At Roseau, where we stopped for an hour, we were gladdened by the sight
of a river in which many washerwomen were at work. The scene was very
pleasing; in the midst of palms and verdure, stood a pretty church
and old grey and white houses with deep verandahs; on the right was
Government House, with diminutive fortifications, on the left, the land
rolled up in cultivated terraces, and a magnificent ravine behind the
town ran deep into the cloud-capped mountains.
If Dominica is celebrated for anything, it is for its frogs, some of
which are of enormous size. A curry of frogs’ legs is a very delicate
dish, and we were in great hopes that some _grenouilles_ would have been
brought on board alive, but they only brought the large _crapauds_,
stuffed and varnished. A basketful of them, together with some huge
beetles, was quickly disposed of, but a promised cargo of live ones never
arrived. Roseau appeared to be an interesting place to pass a few days
in, but we were assured by those who knew, that the accommodation was
bad in the extreme, that there were no roads in the island, that it was
difficult to obtain riding animals, and that, if we wanted to carry away
a pleasant memory of our English isle, we had better be contented with
its view from the sea.
So we sail on. Still the same fair scenery; mountains gathered up “like a
woven garment, and shaken into deep falling folds,” here a velvet slope,
there a gigantic rib, sharp but forest-covered, or a bare perpendicular
cliff with its feet bathed by the sea. Now a farm nestling in some
winding glen, overshadowed by brown-red rocks tipped with cane, and again
a narrow fissure feathered with evergreen foliage, and opening into a
deep bowl full of close and thick vegetation. Clouds rest on the mountain
sides, or hanging above cast fitful shadows on upland and valley; a
hundred varying shades give colour to the landscape, and, over all, the
blue sky, in perfect harmony with the green tints of earth, blends with
the sparkling sea into one bright frame for the beautiful island.
The land ends abruptly in a mass of grey rock, sparsely clad, which juts
out into the sea. On its summit stands a cross. Passing this corner, we
see palm-covered slopes and gentle depressions, then a high needle-like
cone with perpendicular sides rising from the ocean, and, beyond, the
southern extremity of the central mountain range. Soon after, Dominica
fades from us in mist and rain.