A GALA DAY—COSTUMES—CINQ-CLOUS—BATTERIE D’ESNOTY—A CASSAVA
FARM—PANDEMONIUM—PREPARATION OF CASSAVA—A “CATCH”—COUNTRY
SCENES—FRESH ATMOSPHERE—A STORM—RAINBOWS—FOREST SCENES—TROPICAL
VEGETATION—NOON-DAY HALT.
On Sundays and gala days St. Pierre brightens up. The band plays in the
Savanna, and thither the inhabitants flock. In the matter of carriages
and horses, Rotten Row would certainly outvie this favourite drive, but
in brilliancy of colour the latter would carry the day. On ordinary
occasions the Creole woman is content with a simple long-flowing dress
of light material, but on state occasions her costume is bright and
picturesque. Then you see a bewildering display of silk or satin skirts,
short enough not to hide a daintily shod foot; embroidered bodices and
gauzy scarfs, a profusion of necklaces and bracelets, all of plain
gold—for precious stones are never worn—and jaunty turbans ornamented
with gold pins and brooches. But the most striking as well as the
commonest feature in the national costume of Martinique is the quaint
earrings—cinq-clous. These consist of five gold tubes welded together at
the sides into a circular form, not unlike the barrels of a revolver,
and vary in size from the dimensions of a toy pistol to those of a full
grown Colt’s. Many girls carry their entire future in their ears.
Those splendid beds of tulips were not in the Savanna when we last passed
through! As we approach, we see they are not composed of flowers, but are
merely gorgeous head-dresses. Another trait, and a charming one too, of
Martinique costume. Here you see no dyed feathers, or artificial flowers
and fruits, decorating the flashy hats and bonnets so dear to the negro
soul. Bright coloured foulards, twisted into various pyramidal, circular,
and oval shapes, crown every head with rainbow hues. There are ten
different ways of tying these kerchiefs, and the initiated can tell by
the twist whence the wearer comes.
Near the band is a motley group. Two or three old negresses dressed in
flowered chintz, and with trimly turned head-dresses gossip over the last
scandal; slowly sweeping along comes a majestic creature, her long white
dress hitched up on one side and displaying a foot neatly blacked by
nature; in that family coach are some white Creole ladies with charming
faces, and tastefully dressed in the latest Parisian fashion, while the
youngsters who force their bouquets on them are habited in little else
than “native” worth. The excitement is of the mildest kind, but enjoyment
is universal. Here and there some little maidens dance to the music, boys
run races, the elders give the prizes, handsome carriages and wretched
_fiacres_ continue their monotonous round, and meeting is so perpetual
that everybody smiles at everybody else, till at length the sun goes
down. Then the vehicles are turned towards home, dandies prance off on
their rocking horses, old ladies put up their umbrellas against the dew,
peasants take off their shoes preparatory to their homeward tramp, and
very soon the Savanna is deserted.
Wonderfully clear are the nights in Martinique. You see distinct shadows,
and on looking up for the moon you find they are cast by a star (Venus
probably) shining with a radiance of most remarkable power.
From the Batterie d’Esnoty you look down on a sparkling sea in which
every vessel stands out distinctly. You can almost count the piles of
merchandise and barrels on the wharf. It is so quiet that you can catch
the words of the song that the black crew are singing as they pull to
shore from some outlying ship, and their strange rising and falling to
each stroke is plainly visible. Suddenly a hideous bray rings out close
beside you. It comes from one of three buglers who make this their
starting point, and in turn repeat the discordant sounds until they reach
their distant barracks. This is the Martinique tattoo. The stranger in
St. Pierre will notice the quantity of thin white cakes about the size of
a cart wheel. These are made from cassava[19] which here, as in many of
the islands, and in parts of South America, affords the chief sustenance
of the poorer classes.
We drove out one day to a farm to witness its manufacture. We soon came
to fields covered with the plant, which grows to a height of about four
feet. In appearance it is a slender-knotted grey stem, with branches at
the top from which spring red stalks of broad digitated leaves. The root,
which is cylindrical and about a foot long, is a deadly poison in its
natural state, but by a simple process it is converted into nutritious
food. As we approached the wattled shed in which it was being prepared,
we heard sounds of a veritable pandemonium. On looking in, we saw thirty
or forty jet black Africans stripped to the skin and furiously grating
the white roots against a rough board, the meal falling into great tubs.
The exertion was apparently immense, as they steamed with perspiration,
and, as if the fumes of the poison got into their heads, they would every
now and then utter yells or bound into the air. To this wild scene there
was a musical accompaniment. The instruments consisted of tom-toms,
pipes, chac-chacs, and long bamboos, struck by pieces of wood, and a
strange concern made of cane-work, from which issued a grating sound by
drawing a stick quickly up and down. Music from such sources was not
likely to be of a high order, but it was conscientiously gone through at
all events. All that lungs could blow was blown; all that fists could
do to break a drum skin was done. White, eyes rolled, black lips blew,
and black fists struck. The “grater” sounded worse than the grating, and
the monotonous chant of one of the performers was more horrible than
the howls of the workers. Never had I heard a like “charivari.” “Ils
ont de la couleur,” said the pleased proprietor, as he rubbed his hand
and glanced at the rapidly filling tubs. The next operation is to get
rid of the poisonous juices. Here, as the factory was on a large scale,
the meal was put into a great sort of oven and the poison extracted by
heat or pressure. But the usual mode, and the one invariably applied by
the Indians of Guiana, where in after-days I many a time witnessed the
operation, is as follows: A long plaited tube—matapi—made of a certain
reed is filled with the grated meal; its upper end is fastened to a beam
so that its lower end, which possesses a loop-hole, hangs a few feet from
the ground. A pole is then passed through the loop and the shorter end
firmly fixed so that the longer, when pressed down, serves as a lever;
the elastic tube presses the meal together, and the poisonous juice
escapes through the interstices. The flour is then dried and sifted. When
required for use, a handful is baked over a fire on a flat plate, and in
a few minutes “cassava bread,” resembling an enormous oatmeal cake, is
ready. If required for a journey, it is thoroughly dried in the sun until
it is as hard as a nail, and will then last for months; if not properly
dried, it quickly gets mouldy and uneatable. Cassiripe, which is the
extracted poison-juice of cassava, is the foundation of the well-known
“pepper pot,” which is an “olla podrida” of meat and peppers cooked in
an earthen pot, and always on hand in the West Indies. Fortunately, the
deleterious principle of the juice is so volatile that it is entirely
dissipated by heat, and it then becomes a wholesome seasoning; and thus
the good is extracted from the evil in this strange blending of life and
death, as exhibited in the cassava root.
That evening, before we reached home, we witnessed a scene of excitement.
As we drove along the sea-shore there was a sudden rush of people to the
beach, boats were pushed hurriedly out, men jumped into the water and
swam out, women waded up to their knees and ran back again, and children
did their best to get drowned. Presently, a series of long nets formed
a semi-circle and enclosed a large shoal of sardines which had been the
cause of the uproar. Gradually the nets were drawn in, and so large was
the haul that in a few minutes five boats were filled with the little
silvery fish. Buckets, barrels, baskets, and cans were then put into
requisition, and, even after every article from the neighbouring cottages
that could hold a fish had done its duty, there were still sardines
enough left on the beach to have stocked a market.
Next morning I started for a ride across the island to Trinité, a
distance of about thirty miles. The scenery on the road had been so
extolled that I attributed enthusiastic descriptions of it to patriotism,
and was prepared for a disappointment. When I returned, I acknowledged it
was the most beautiful ride I had ever taken, and one whose like I should
probably never see again.
It was dawn when my mule drew up at the hotel door, and we were soon
clattering over the rough cobble stones which pave the narrow streets.
We passed the Promenade, which was deserted by all save a solitary
sentry, who slept in his box under the Palace of the Archbishop, and
then the road commenced to wind up the hill under whose shadow the town
lay, dark and quiet. Before we reached the top it was broad daylight,
the great crimson blossoms of the hybiscus and the fragile bells of the
abutilon, which we had left sleeping below, were now unfolded, and the
white flowers of the night cereus and of the ipomæa, had already drooped
and faded. For some distance beyond the summit the road is walled in
with sugar-cane, then bends inwards towards the mountains by a gentle
acclivity. Here and there, one passes a little _cabaret de ferme_, where
the market people are drinking coffee, or, more probably, rum.
Down in the valley lie cottages and farms, and the hill-sides are
flecked with groups of trees, whose light and dark green foliage is
very conspicuous. Fine mango trees are dotted about here and there, and
fringing rocky heights, or clustered in hollows, are aloes in various
stages of their growth; some fully flowered and rapidly collapsing,
others whose tall stalks are covered with fresh blooms, and more still
whose rich green expanding heart is suggestive of a thyrsus—“thro’ the
blooms of a garland the point of a spear.”
On approaching a small and picturesque village, cane culture is
superseded by cassava, and the country becomes more rugged and grander.
Cottages are perched upon jutting cliffs, and immediately above the road
is situated a delightfully quaint old church, which is reached by a
flight of rough stone steps. Near this, a large wooden cross overlooks
the valley. The view looking west is lovely. Afar off is the bright blue
sea, to which extend the mountain arms and the undulating hill spurs. The
valleys between are partly tilled and partly bush-covered, and the few
houses stand in garden patches high up on the hill slopes. Through the
central valley a twisting thread of green, darker than the surrounding
foliage, marks the course of a stream, and clumps of trees of a similar
contrasting hue, above and around us, show where orange groves and
mangoes lie amid the paler green of cane fields and bananas. Behind rise
the forest-clad peaks of the mountains, through which runs the road to
Trinité.
Up to this point we had enjoyed a very beautiful morning. Here spring was
in the air, and we had left hot summer below. There was such fulness of
life in the cool air that all nature seemed affected by it. The flowers
looked brighter, the birds sang sweeter, and even the running water
seemed to tinkle with a more silvery sound than in the valleys.
A simple circumstance, but one that impressed me very vividly, occurred
as I was looking over the blue shadowed valley. An old peasant woman,
very brown and wrinkled, laid a bunch of flowers on the cross, and as
she knelt at its foot an oriole flew on to one of its arms and poured
forth such a trill that it seemed as if the bird-voice was carrying aloft
her mumbled prayers. When she entered the church a few minutes later,
tears were in her eyes, but she looked so happy that I am sure the bird
had not sung in vain. The romance of the little episode was injured by
an unsentimental goat who completely demolished the flower-offering,
and then tried to butt some children who had done nothing to offend
it. They, however, did not seem to mind it, and laughed merrily at the
antics of the creature. These children’s voices were just what was wanted
to give a charming finish to the bright picture. What the flowers were
to the garden, the stream to the valley, the birds to the air, and the
sun’s rays to all, were the happy child-tones to the surrounding scene,
gladdening everything in accord with each, and freshening with rippling
music the fragrant uplands:
“Ah, what would the world be to us
If the children came no more?
We should dread the desert behind us
More than the dark before.”
I had hardly whispered these lines to my mule before the last two words
sounded ominous. The animal showed signs of uneasiness which could not
be attributed to the verse; for among his many faults a mule cannot be
accused of sentimentality, and he cares as little for poetry as he does
for a stick. He is so stubborn and self-willed, and yet carries it off
with such a nonchalant air, that there is no way of knowing what may be
passing in his mind, except by watching his restless ears. Fortunately,
these appendages are so expressive—more so in fact than some human
faces—that they explain his feelings and foretell his movements. On this
occasion they were suddenly pointed straight forward, and as suddenly
laid limp on his neck, then pricked again.
The air grew hot and still, a black mist was descending on us from the
now hidden mountains, and it was plain that a heavy storm was about to
break. On looking round, I saw a hand beckoning to me from a door, and
in a few minutes my mule was under cover, and I found myself in a clean
room drinking coffee with the kind hostess. Then the rain came down in
torrents, and held me prisoner for some time. Here I saw one of those
terrible snakes known as the “Fer-de-lance,” which had been killed not
long before on the road to Trinité by the old lady’s husband, who had
preserved it in a jar of spirits.
At the first lull we started again, and soon reached a stream spanned by
a stone bridge of a single arch. This we crossed, and in a few minutes
entered the forest ravine. Turning in the saddle, I was dazzled by a
brilliant rainbow, which in a broad band struck the bridge at a right
angle. It was so close that I could not resist the novelty of riding
back into the middle of it. Then it danced off up the deep bed of the
river, and before I re-entered the forest it had formed a bow, stretching
across the mountain sides like a grand triumphal arch. A last look from
the wooded portals revealed a bright blue sky and the sun shining over
the lowlands, whilst around us the rain still fell, and through the
dripping branches of the trees that met overhead only dull grey clouds
were visible. Here commenced a series of mountain pictures in bewildering
variety. For almost all the rest of the journey the path runs up and
down hill, with a deep ravine sometimes on one hand and sometimes on the
other. Through the ravine runs a stream, on the other side of which the
mountain rises in a grand and almost perpendicular wall. On the near side
the path is edged with banks which slope away to the higher hills, and
diversified with glens and hollows, and an occasional overhanging rock.
The vegetation is of the most luxuriant description, as numerous
waterfalls descend from both the mountain sides, here crossing the path
in a broad stream, and there trickling down in a slender thread, which
loses itself in thick ferns and grasses. Each turn in the road presents
some new combination of rock, tree, and falling water. You emerge from
an avenue of bamboos, to enter another arched over by the fronds of
magnificent tree-ferns. The latter grow everywhere; you look up at their
rough fibrous stems, and you look down into their very hearts. The
banks are covered with begonias and primulas; above these rise the dark
green blades of plantains, or dark green heliconias, with their red and
yellow flowers. Then come the great forest trees, such as the locust,
the angelim, the bois violon (fiddle wood), the bois immortelle, &c. Of
begonias I counted four varieties, one of which was sweet-scented. For
some time I searched, wondering whence the delicious fragrance—very like
that of the lily of the valley—came.
I had never heard of a sweet-scented begonia, but at last I discovered
one, and gathered a large bunch of the delicious blossoms. The flowers of
this variety were very small and of a pink colour, but the elephant-eared
leaves were as large as those of much finer flowering species. I regret
much that I did not endeavour to transplant some specimens, as I have
since heard that a scented begonia is unknown. The extraordinary
wealth of tropical vegetation was such that, in spite of heavy rain, I
constantly stood for many minutes lost in astonishment. And there was no
questioning the down-pour; sometimes a perfect stream would enter the
sensitive ears of the mule, and the poor animal would actually squeal and
kick, and then droop, until he presented a spectacle of abject misery.
Thoughts of fever hovered about me, but I had a change of clothes in my
saddle-bags, and even without it I doubt whether I could have hastened my
steps, so fascinating was the scenery.
Our progress had been so slow that it was noon before little more than
half the distance had been accomplished. Then a certain spot offered
such irresistible attractions for a halt that I picketed old Solomon—as
the mule had been named—under a hanging rock, and lunched. There could
not have been a prettier place, with its rich banks of flowers, feathery
bamboos, and silvery fall, trickling down through a fernery of frail,
shivering beauty. Across the wild ravine rose a perpendicular mass of
black rock, hung with long waving grasses and tufts of green. Large
trees clung to its side where there was, apparently, no root-hold, and
their branches were loaded with orchids and red-spiked bromelias. The
only sounds were the pattering of the raindrops and the murmur of the
rapids below, which foamed over the rough stones that were hidden by the
fringing arums, bamboos, and branching ferns.
Suddenly a whirring sound broke the silence, and I immediately saw a
“Purple Carib”[20] humming-bird, hovering over a flowering vine. It was
the first time I had ever seen one of this beautiful species alive, and
he seemed determined I should not forget him. After every plunge into a
flower, he retired to a favourite branch and preened his velvet black
feathers and shook his wings, until their metallic green and the deep
purple of the throat flashed again and again. His resting-place was a
magnolia tree—numbers of which line this woodland path—and the dark,
shining wet leaves formed a lovely frame for the dainty _oiseau-mouche_.
He looked like a living gem, set in green enamel, and diamond sprays. I
saw no other birds, and the silent woods raised in me a fancy to pull the
long bell-ropes hanging from the trees, and thus set the forest chiming.
I did so, and got nothing but a shower bath; and the falling leaves and
sticks stilled for a moment the melancholy croak of the frogs, in their
perpetual lament for the departed Indian race, “Ca-rib, Ca-rib.” Then I
saddled Solomon, and we resumed our journey.
There is little more to describe. Everywhere beautiful scenes, and
blending of loveliness and grandeur. Sometimes from the overhanging
cliffs a landslip, caused by the heavy rains, rendered the path—which,
with a very little trouble, might be made good enough for a
carriage—almost impassable; otherwise, the road is remarkably easy and
free from obstructions.
The finest view remains for the last. When the highest point to which
the road ascends is reached, a narrow ridge, with a deep ravine on each
side, commands a magnificent prospect over Trinité to the sea. Near
by are rocky gorges, mountain peaks, and half-hidden glades. The rank
vegetation forms green vistas above the descending terraces, and through
them shines the deep blue water, out of which rise the bold outlines of
Dominica on one side, and St. Lucia on the other. That these islands are
visible, I only know from hearsay, as mist and clouds enshrouded so much
of the landscape that I could only form an idea of what its beauty would
be on a clear day. In rain I went to Trinité and in rain I returned.
No feeling of ill-will towards the weather was felt by me, but rather
one of gratitude, as, had it not been for the rain, I might never have
torn myself from those enchanted grounds. It was my last and pleasantest
excursion in Martinique.