and hot haste. To us at home, who live and feel our life every day, the
manufacture of endless baby-linen and the packing of mountains of
clothes does not give an idea of much pleasurable excitement; but at San
José, where there was scarcely motion enough in existence to prevent its
waters from becoming foul with stagnation, this packing of baby-linen
was delightful, and for a month or so the days went by with happy wings.
But by degrees reports began to reach both Arkwright and his wife as to
this new route, which made them uneasy. The wet season had been
prolonged, and even though they might not be deluged by rain themselves,
the path would be in such a state of mud as to render the labour
incessant. One or two people declared that the road was unfit at any
time for a woman,--and then the river would be much swollen. These
tidings did not reach Arkwright and his wife together, or at any rate
not till late amidst their preparations, or a change might still have
been made. As it was, after all her entreaties, Mrs. Arkwright did not
like to ask him again to alter his plans; and he, having altered them
once, was averse to change them again. So things went on till the mules
and the boats had been hired, and things had gone so far that no change
could then be made without much cost and trouble.
During the last ten days of their sojourn at San José, Mrs. Arkwright
had lost all that appearance of joy which had cheered up her sweet face
during the last few months. Terror at that terrible journey obliterated
in her mind all the happiness which had arisen from the hope of being
soon at home. She was thoroughly cowed by the danger to be encountered,
and would gladly have gone down to Punt’ Arenas, had it been now
possible that she could so arrange it. It rained, and rained, and still
rained, when there was now only a week from the time they started. Oh!
if they could only wait for another month! But this she said to no one.
After what had passed between her and her husband, she had not the heart
to say such words to him. Arkwright himself was a man not given to much
talking, a silent thoughtful man, stern withal in his outward bearing,
but tender-hearted and loving in his nature. The sweet young wife who
had left all, and come with him out to that dull distant place, was very
dear to him,--dearer than she herself was aware, and in these days he
was thinking much of her coming troubles. Why had he given way to her
foolish prayers? Ah, why indeed?
And thus the last few days of their sojourn in San José passed away from
them. Once or twice during these days she did speak out, expressing her
fears. Her feelings were too much for her, and she could not restrain
herself. “Poor mamma,” she said, “I shall never see her!” And then
again, “Harry, I know I shall never reach home alive.”
“Fanny, my darling, that is nonsense.” But in order that his spoken word
might not sound stern to her, he took her in his arms and kissed her.
“You must behave well, Fanny,” he said to her the day before they
started. Though her heart was then very low within her, she promised him
that she would do her best, and then she made a great resolution. Though
she should be dying on the road, she would not complain beyond the
absolute necessity of her nature. She fully recognised his thoughtful
tender kindness, for though he thus cautioned her, he never told her
that the dangers which she feared were the result of her own choice. He
never threw in her teeth those prayers which she had made, in yielding
to which he knew that he had been weak.
Then came the morning of their departure. The party of travellers
consisted of four besides the baby. There was Mr. Arkwright, his wife,
and an English nurse, who was going to England with them, and her
brother, Abel King, who was to accompany them as far as the Serapiqui
River. When they had reached that, the real labour of the journey would
be over. They had eight mules; four for the four travellers, one for
the baby, a spare mule laden simply with blankets, so that Mrs.
Arkwright might change in order that she should not be fatigued by the
fatigue of her beast, and two for their luggage. The heavier portion of
their baggage had already been sent off by Punt’ Arenas, and would meet
them at the other side of the Isthmus of Panamá.
For the last four days the rain had ceased,--had ceased at any rate at
San José. Those who knew the country well, would know that it might
still be raining over those vast forests; but now as the matter was
settled, they would hope for the best. On that morning on which they
started the sun shone fairly, and they accepted this as an omen of good.
Baby seemed to lay comfortably on her pile of blankets on the mule’s
back, and the face of the tall Indian guide who took his place at that
mule’s head pleased the anxious mother.
“Not leave him ever,” he said in Spanish, laying his hand on the cord
which was fastened to the beast’s head; and not for one moment did he
leave his charge, though the labour of sticking close to him was very
great.
They had four attendants or guides, all of whom made the journey on
foot. That they were all men of mixed race was probable; but three of
them would have been called Spaniards, Spaniards, that is, of Costa
Rica, and the other would be called an Indian. One of the Spaniards was
the leader, or chief man of the party, but the others seemed to stand on
an equal footing with each other; and indeed the place of greatest care
had been given to the Indian.
For the first four or five miles their route lay along the high road
which leads from San José to Punt’ Arenas, and so far a group of
acquaintances followed them, all mounted on mules. Here, where the ways
forked, their road leading through the great forests to the Atlantic,
they separated, and many tears were shed on each side. What might be the
future life of the Arkwrights had not been absolutely fixed, but there
was a strong hope on their part that they might never be forced to
return to Costa Rica. Those from whom they now parted had not seemed to
be dear to them in any especial degree while they all lived together in
the same small town, seeing each other day by day; but now,--now that
they might never meet again, a certain love sprang up for the old
familiar faces, and women kissed each other who hitherto had hardly
cared to enter each other’s houses.
And then the party of the Arkwrights again started, and its steady work
began. In the whole of the first day the way beneath their feet was
tolerably good, and the weather continued fine. It was one long gradual
ascent from the plain where the roads parted, but there was no real
labour in travelling. Mrs. Arkwright rode beside her baby’s mule, at the
head of which the Indian always walked, and the two men went together in
front. The husband had found that his wife would prefer this, as long as
the road allowed of such an arrangement. Her heart was too full to admit
of much speaking, and so they went on in silence.
The first night was passed in a hut by the roadside, which seemed to be
deserted,--a hut or rancho as it is called in that country. Their food
they had, of course, brought with them; and here, by common consent,
they endeavoured in some sort to make themselves merry.
“Fanny,” Arkwright said to her, “it is not so bad after all; eh, my
darling?”
“No,” she answered; “only that the mule tires one so. Will all the days
be as long as that?”
He had not the heart to tell her that as regarded hours of work, that
first day must of necessity be the shortest. They had risen to a
considerable altitude, and the night was very cold; but baby was
enveloped among a pile of coloured blankets, and things did not go very
badly with them; only this, that when Fanny Arkwright rose from her hard
bed, her limbs were more weary and much more stiff than they had been
when Arkwright had lifted her from her mule.
On the second morning they mounted before the day had quite broken, in
order that they might breakfast on the summit of the ridge which
separates the two oceans. At this spot the good road comes to an end,
and the forest track begins; and here also, they would, in truth, enter
the forest, though their path had for some time been among straggling
trees and bushes. And now, again, they rode two and two, up to this
place of halting, Arkwright and Ring well knowing that from hence their
labours would in truth commence.
Poor Mrs. Arkwright, when she reached this resting-place, would fain
have remained there for the rest of the day. One word, in her low,
plaintive voice, she said, asking whether they might not sleep in the
large shed which stands there. But this was manifestly impossible. At
such a pace they would never reach Greytown; and she spoke no further
word when he told her that they must go on.
At about noon that day the file of travellers formed itself into the
line which it afterwards kept during the whole of the journey, and then
started by the narrow-path into the forest. First walked the leader of
the guides, then another man following him; Abel Ring came next, and
behind him the maid-servant; then the baby’s mule, with the Indian ever
at its head; close at his heels followed Mrs. Arkwright, so that the
mother’s eye might be always on her child; and after her her husband;
then another guide on foot completed the number of the travellers. In
this way they went on and on, day after day, till they reached the banks
of the Serapiqui, never once varying their places in the procession. As
they started in the morning, so they went on, till their noon-day’s
rest, and so again they made their evening march. In that journey there
was no idea of variety, no searching after the pleasures of scenery, no
attempts at conversation with any object of interest or amusement. What
words were spoken were those simply needful, or produced by sympathy for
suffering. So they journeyed, always in the same places, with one
exception. They began their work with two guides leading them, but
before the first day was over one of them had fallen back to the side of
Mrs. Arkwright, for she was unable to sit on her mule without support.
Their daily work was divided into two stages, so as to give some hours
for rest in the middle of the day. It had been arranged that the
distance for each day should not be long,--should be very short as was
thought by them all when they talked it over at San José; but now the
hours which they passed in the saddle seemed to be endless. Their
descent began from that ridge of which I have spoken, and they had no
sooner turned their faces down upon the mountain slopes looking towards
the Atlantic, than that passage of mud began to which there was no
cessation till they found themselves on the banks of the Serapiqui
river. I doubt whether it be possible to convey in words an adequate
idea of the labour of riding over such a path. It is not that any active
exertion is necessary,--that there is anything which requires doing. The
traveller has before him the simple task of sitting on his mule from
hour to hour, and of seeing that his knees do not get themselves jammed
against the trees; but at every step the beast he rides has to drag his
legs out from the deep clinging mud, and the body of the rider never
knows one moment of ease. Why the mules do not die on the road, I cannot
say. They live through it, and do not appear to suffer. They have their
own way in everything, for no exertion on the rider’s part will make
them walk either faster or slower than is their wont.
On the day on which they entered the forest,--that being the second of
their journey,--Mrs. Arkwright had asked for mercy, for permission to
escape that second stage. On the next she allowed herself to be lifted
into her saddle after her mid-day rest without a word. She had tried to
sleep, but in vain; and had sat within a little hut, looking out upon
the desolate scene before her, with her baby in her lap. She had this
one comfort, that of all the travellers, she, the baby, suffered the
least. They had now left the high grounds, and the heat was becoming
great, though not as yet intense. And then, the Indian guide, looking
out slowly over the forest, saw that the rain was not yet over. He spoke
a word or two to one of his companions in a low voice and in a patois
which Mrs. Arkwright did not understand, and then going after the
husband, told him that the heavens were threatening.
“We have only two leagues,” said Arkwright, “and it may perhaps hold
up.”
“It will begin in an hour,” said the Indian, “and the two leagues are
four hours.”
“And to-morrow,” asked Arkwright.
“To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow it will still rain,” said the
guide, looking as he spoke up over the huge primeval forest.
“Then we had better start at once,” said Arkwright, “before the first
falling drops frighten the women.” So the mules were brought out, and he
lifted his uncomplaining wife on to the blankets which formed her
pillion. The file again formed itself, and slowly they wound their way
out from the small enclosure by which the hut was surrounded;--out from
the enclosure on to a rough scrap of undrained pasture ground from which
the trees had been cleared. In a few minutes they were once more
struggling through the mud.
The name of the spot which our travellers had just left is Carablanco.
There they found a woman living all alone. Her husband was away, she
told them, at San José, but would be back to her when the dry weather
came, to look up the young cattle which were straying in the forest.
What a life for a woman! Nevertheless, in talking with Mrs. Arkwright
she made no complaint of her own lot, but had done what little she could
to comfort the poor lady who was so little able to bear the fatigues of
her journey.
“Is the road very bad?” Mrs. Arkwright asked her in a whisper.
“Ah, yes; it is a bad road.”
“And when shall we be at the river?”
“It took me four days,” said the woman.
“Then I shall never see my mother again,” and as she spoke Mrs.
Arkwright pressed her baby to her bosom. Immediately after that her
husband came in, and they started.
Their path now led away across the slope of a mountain which seemed to
fall from the very top of that central ridge in an unbroken descent down
to the valley at its foot. Hitherto, since they had entered the forest,
they had had nothing before their eyes but the trees and bushes which
grew close around them. But now a prospect of unrivalled grandeur was
opened before them, if only had they been able to enjoy it. At the
bottom of the valley ran a river, which, so great was the depth, looked
like a moving silver cord; and on the other side of this there arose
another mountain, steep but unbroken like that which they were
passing,--unbroken, so that the eye could stretch from the river up to
the very summit. Not a spot on that mountain side or on their side
either was left uncovered by thick forest, which had stood there
untouched by man since nature first produced it.
But all this was nothing to our travellers, nor was the clang of the
macaws anything, or the roaring of the little congo ape. Nothing was
gained by them from beautiful scenery, nor was there any fear from the
beasts of prey. The immediate pain of each step of the journey drove all
other feelings from them, and their thoughts were bounded by an intense
desire for the evening halt.
And then, as the guide had prophesied, the rain began. At first it came
in such small soft drops that it was found to be refreshing, but the
clouds soon gathered and poured forth their collected waters as though
it had not rained for months among those mountains. Not that it came in
big drops, or with the violence which wind can give it, beating hither
and thither, breaking branches from the trees, and rising up again as it
pattered against the ground. There was no violence in the rain. It fell
softly in a long, continuous, noiseless stream, sinking into everything
that it touched, converting the deep rich earth on all sides into mud.
Not a word was said by any of them as it came on. The Indian covered the
baby with her blanket, closer than she was covered before, and the guide
who walked by Mrs. Arkwright’s side drew her cloak around her knees.
But such efforts were in vain. There is a rain that will penetrate
everything, and such was the rain which fell upon them now.
Nevertheless, as I have said, hardly a word was spoken. The poor woman,
finding that the heat of her cloak increased her sufferings, threw it
open again.
“Fanny,” said her husband, “you had better let him protect you as well
as he can.”
She answered him merely by an impatient wave of her hand, intending to
signify that she could not speak, but that in this matter she must have
her way.
After that her husband made no further attempt to control her. He could
see, however, that ever and again she would have slipped forward from
her mule, and fallen, had not the man by her side steadied her with his
hand. At every tree he protected her knees and feet, though there was
hardly room for him to move between the beast and the bank against which
he was thrust.
And then, at last, that day’s work was also over, and Fanny Arkwright
slipped from her pillion down into her husband’s arms at the door of
another rancho in the forest. Here there lived a large family adding
from year to year to the patch of ground which they had rescued from the
wood, and valiantly doing their part in the extension of civilisation.
Our party was but a few steps from the door when they left their mules,
but Mrs. Arkwright did not now as heretofore hasten to receive her baby
in her arms. When placed upon the ground, she still leaned against the
mule, and her husband saw that he must carry her into the hut. This he
did, and then, wet, mud-laden, dishevelled as she was, she laid herself
down upon the planks that were to form her bed, and there stretched out
her arms for her infant. On that evening they undressed and tended her
like a child; and then when she was alone with her husband, she repeated
to him her sad foreboding.
“Harry,” she said, “I shall never see my mother again.”
“Oh, yes, Fanny, you will see her and talk over all these troubles with
pleasure. It is very bad, I know; but we shall live through it yet.”
“You will, of course; and you will take baby home to her.”
“And face her without you! No, my darling. Three more days’ riding, or
rather two and a half, will bring us to the river, and then your trouble
will be over. All will be easy after that.”
“Ah, Harry, you do not know.”
“I do know that it is very bad, my girl, but you must cheer up. We shall
be laughing at all this in a month’s time.”
On the following morning she allowed herself to be lifted up, speaking
no word of remonstrance. Indeed she was like a child in their hands,
having dropped all the dignity and authority of a woman’s demeanour. It
rained again during the whole of this day, and the heat was becoming
oppressive as every hour they were descending nearer and nearer to the
sea level. During this first stage hardly a word was spoken by any one;
but when she was again taken from her mule she was in tears. The poor
servant-girl, too, was almost prostrate with fatigue, and absolutely
unable to wait upon her mistress, or even to do anything for herself.
Nevertheless they did make the second stage, seeing that their mid-day
resting place had been under the trees of the forest. Had there been any
hut there, they would have remained for the night.
On the following day they rested altogether, though the place at which
they remained had but few attractions. It was another forest hut
inhabited by an old Spanish couple who were by no means willing to give
them room, although they paid for their accommodation at exorbitant
rates. It is one singularity of places strange and out of the way like
such forest tracks as these, that money in small sums is hardly valued.
Dollars there were not appreciated as sixpences are in this rich
country. But there they stayed for a day, and the guides employed
themselves in making a litter with long poles so that they might carry
Mrs. Arkwright over a portion of the ground. Poor fellows! When once she
had thus changed her mode of conveyance, she never again was lifted on
to the mule.
There was strong reason against this day’s delay. They were to go down
the Serapiqui along with the post, which would overtake them on its
banks. But if the post should pass them before they got there, it could
not wait; and then they would be deprived of the best canoe on the
water. Then also it was possible, if they encountered further delay,
that the steamer might sail from Greytown without them, and a month’s
residence at that frightful place be thus made necessary.
The day’s rest apparently did little to relieve Mrs. Arkwright’s
sufferings. On the following day she allowed herself to be put upon the
mule, but after the first hour the beasts were stopped and she was taken
off it. During that hour they had travelled hardly over half a league.
At that time she so sobbed and moaned that Arkwright absolutely feared
that she would perish in the forest, and he implored the guides to use
the poles which they had prepared. She had declared to him over and over
again that she felt sure that she should die, and, half-delirious with
weariness and suffering, had begged him to leave her at the last hut.
They had not yet come to the flat ground over which a litter might be
carried with comparative ease; but nevertheless the men yielded, and she
was placed in a recumbent position upon blankets, supported by boughs of
trees. In this way she went through that day with somewhat less of
suffering than before, and without that necessity for self-exertion
which had been worse to her than any suffering.
There were places between that and the river at which one would have
said that it was impossible that a litter should be carried, or even
impossible that a mule should walk with a load on his back. But still
they went on, and the men carried their burden without complaining. Not
a word was said about money, or extra pay;--not a word, at least by
them; and when Arkwright was profuse in his offer, their leader told him
that they would not have done it for money. But for the poor suffering
Señora they would make exertions which no money would have bought from
them.
On the next day about noon the post did pass them, consisting of three
strong men carrying great weights on their backs, suspended by bands
from their foreheads. They travelled much quicker than our friends, and
would reach the banks of the river that evening. In their ordinary
course they would start down the river close upon daybreak on the
following day; but, after some consultation with the guides, they agreed
to wait till noon. Poor Mrs. Arkwright knew nothing of hours or of any
such arrangements now, but her husband greatly doubted their power of
catching this mail despatch. However, it did not much depend on their
exertions that afternoon. Their resting-place was marked out for them,
and they could not go beyond it, unless indeed they could make the whole
journey, which was impossible.
But towards evening matters seemed to improve with them. They had now
got on to ground which was more open, and the men who carried the litter
could walk with greater ease. Mrs. Arkwright also complained less, and
when they reached their resting-place on that night, said nothing of a
wish to be left there to her fate. This was a place called Padregal, a
cacao plantation, which had been cleared in the forest with much labour.
There was a house here containing three rooms, and some forty or fifty
acres round it had been stripped of the forest trees. But nevertheless
the adventure had not been a prosperous one, for the place was at that
time deserted. There were the cacao plants, but there was no one to pick
the cacao. There was a certain melancholy beauty about the place. A few
grand trees had been left standing near the house, and the grass around
was rich and park-like. But it was deserted, and nothing was heard but
the roaring of the congos. Ah me! Indeed it was a melancholy place as it
was seen by some of that party afterwards.
On the following morning they were astir very early, and Mrs. Arkwright
was so much better that she offered to sit again upon her mule. The men,
however, declared that they would finish their task, and she was placed
again upon the litter. And then with slow and weary step they did make
their way to the river bank. It was not yet noon when they saw the mud
fort which stands there, and as they drew into the enclosure round a
small house which stands close by the river side, they saw the three
postmen still busy about their packages.