FUN ON SHORE.
In the latter part of the month of July, we succeeded in making a safe
entrance into the neutral port of Rio de Janeiro, after having captured
several more valuable prizes, and bringing two or three along with us.
There was a British man-o'-war, the Atalanta, in this port, when we
entered. She could have blown us out of water by one broadside of her
great guns, but, nevertheless, she respected the neutrality of the port,
and did not dare to molest us.
It may seem strange, from the manner in which Adolphus de Courcy had
been treated on board the Queer Fish, that he should regret leaving us.
But it is, nevertheless, a fact. When his freedom was given him, he
assembled the entire crew around him, thanked them for the jolly time
they had afforded him, and shook the captain warmly by the hand. He was
really an excellent-hearted fellow, and we gave him three hearty cheers
as he went over the ship's side to the boat which was to convey him and
his luggage to the British ship before-mentioned. And his sincerity was
not of a transient kind; for we afterward learned that he spoke well of
us to the officers of the Atalanta.
Going on shore, after a long voyage, is the sailor's paradise. I reckon
some of those old streets of Rio were glad enough when we disappeared;
for a noisier, wilder, more devil-may-care set of tars never raised a
rumpus in a seaport town than did we in Rio. We were allowed to go on
shore in squads alternately; and as many of the British sailors were
also, more or less, in the town, we had several collisions of a very
serious character, though the disturbances were usually speedily quelled
by the authorities.
The first disturbance of this kind that I was in happened a few days
after we entered the port. A large squad of us--perhaps twenty--had gone
on shore, but Tony Trybrace and I had somehow got separated from our
companions. We were both of us somewhat in liquor, and had a
hankering--a usual one under the circumstances--to have something more
to drink. So we entered a queer sort of Spanish gin-shop, and, not
understanding the lingo very fluently, proceeded to help ourselves--of
course with the intention of paying our way.
In the course of this proceeding, Tony was rudely thrust back from the
counter by the proprietor of the place, a wiry Brazilian, and, at the
same time, admonished by a torrent of invectives in the unknown lingo.
It is poor policy to treat a drunken man rudely, unless you are a
policeman. A sailor, especially, will bear but little handling. Tony
staggered back a moment, but, the next, the Brazilian was lying on the
floor from a terrific blow between the eyes. Just at this moment,
several English sailors entered the room, and, seeing that we were
Americans, of course took the landlord's part. The latter was but little
hurt and soon got up, muttering a great string of oaths, the usual
consolation of the Spaniard, but, this time, in a much lower voice, and
taking care to be out of the reach of Tony's powerful fist.
"Hit's ha hawful mean shame for to see ha poor cuss treated hin that
'ere way," mused one of the Englishmen to his comrades, in a tone so
loud that it was evidently meant for our special benefit.
"That's so! Shiver my timbers eff I would stand it eff I was the Spanish
cuss," was the elegant rejoinder.
"Whoever don't like it, can take it up whenever he wants," bluntly
interposed Tony.
"His that 'ere remark hintended for me?" asked the first speaker.
"Well, it is," said Tony, "and so is this 'ere."
And before I could guess his intention, or move an inch to hinder it,
down went the cockney before the same stanch fist of the Yankee sailor.
The rest of the Britishers immediately sprung forward to avenge their
comrade's fall; and, as I couldn't stand by and see little Tony
overpowered, I also went in. There were ten of them, at least, and we
were soon on the verge of destruction, when our cries for help reached
the ears of friends outside, and in dashed Old Nick and Bluefish, at the
head of a dozen or more of our lads, when the way that the Britishers
and that entire gin-shop was cleaned out was a caution. Three policemen
now dropped in, but we _dropped_ them in as summary a way as the rest of
them, and made our escape up the street.
This may be a rude picture, but it is one of truth, and I merely give it
as a sample of sailors' life ashore in foreign parts.
But there were other scenes in our Brazilian experience that were much
more novel and satisfactory than the foregoing. The town itself--or,
rather, city; for it is a large place--is full of interest to the
foreigner.
The men are mostly very homely, the women very pretty. The higher
classes make a great display in a worldly way. I have seen as elegant
"turn-outs" here, as in other parts of the globe. The ladies--some of
them--are attired with unparalleled magnificence. You know it is a
country of diamonds. The ladies sport a good many of them, but they have
another kind of ornament which, perhaps, will be new to most of you.
This is a peculiar kind of _firefly_ which the ladies wear in their
hair. I have seen them fastened among the black locks of a Brazilian
belle at night-time, when the effect was striking in the extreme.
Gambling is very prevalent among the people.
Even the lowest classes are infatuated with their favorite game of
_monte_. They play the clothes off their backs, and would play the hair
off their heads, if they wore wigs. They are great lovers of spicy food,
like all the rest of the South Americans, as well as the Mexicans. The
amount of red peppers which a genuine Spanish-American will consume at
one sitting would make a Yankee sneeze for the balance of his lifetime.
They stew it and fry it and broil it, and eat it as we do tomatoes.
When I was in Mexico, the body of a Mexican, who had died of exposure,
remained all night exposed on the mountains, where the wolves are as
thick as grasshoppers, and we found the body next morning untouched. I
verily believe that he was so excessively peppery that the wolves
couldn't find palate or stomach for him.
Another favorite article of food is the inevitable _tortillo_. This is
almost identical with what our hunters and soldiers call slapjacks. It
is a sort of pancake in a modified form, and goes very well on a hungry
stomach.
There are also many lamentable things to witness in Brazil. The
condition of the slaves is wretched in the extreme. Never--except,
perhaps, it was in the Isle of France--did I witness the yoke of slavery
fit the neck of the poor negro so gallingly as at Rio; and I was told
that the condition of the slaves further up the country--especially in
the diamond districts--was even more deplorable.
But my intention is to devote myself mainly to the fun we had, so we
will quit this distressing subject for a livelier theme.
One of the greatest attractions which Rio afforded us was the inevitable
bull-fight. Great preparations had been making for one of these
performances before we arrived. Of course, as soon as we got wind of it
on board the Queer Fish, every man was wild to see the show. The dear
little captain wished to oblige us all; but, as all could not go, it was
decided who should, by lots. It was my fortune to be one of the lucky
ones.
So, on an exceedingly bright morning in the month of July, we--about
twenty of us--landed at Rio to see the bull-fight. The affair was to
take place at a distance of several miles from the city, and we had
taken the precaution, several days beforehand, of securing conveyances.
These were nothing to boast of. They consisted of one barouche, an
old-fashioned transportation wagon, and a light, rickety affair, with
shafts about fifteen feet long, which is of very frequent use in Spanish
countries (_vide_ Havana).
We made some wry faces at seeing these turn-outs, but the horses
attached to them looked spry, and we were resolved to make the best of
the bargain. We were soon seated, or, rather, _heaped_ upon the sorry
vehicles, the drivers cracked their long whips, and away we went through
the narrow streets of Rio, singing songs, yelling discordantly, and
getting outside of a large amount of bad alcohol.
At length we reached the plains back of the city--the pampas--the broad,
glorious, rolling pampas; and we could see the inclosure where the
bull-fight was to take place, together with the flag-decorated,
red-roofed buildings surrounding it. A vast concourse had preceded us
there, but we had secured seats beforehand, and had no difficulty in
reaching our places. Those Brazilians in our immediate vicinity must
have remembered for a long time the crowd of Yankee privateersmen. These
Spanish people have ways and manners very singular to a foreigner. While
we were waiting for the bulls, all the ladies amused themselves with
smoking their universal cigarettos and fanning themselves. They never
stop smoking, save, perhaps, to make and light a new cigar, and it has
often been a matter of reflection to me, how they could keep up that
everlasting fanning of their pretty faces. They never stop. The fan
keeps moving incessantly. They must be very powerful in the right arm. I
am sure it would make me, or any other strong man, very tired to swing
one of those fans for half an hour, yet these pretty ladies keep it up
continually and never seem fatigued.
While waiting for the bulls, the men either talk to the ladies or play
_monte_ among themselves. They frequently quarrel during their games,
talk very boisterously, lay their hands on their knives, and look very
savage. But gaming quarrels among them very seldom go any further.
We had plenty of time to observe all these things, as we were fully half
an hour before the time, as was almost everybody else. We spent a
portion of our time in eating Brazil-nuts, oranges, bananas and other
fruit, with now and then a cheer or two for the Queer Fish and the flag
that flew at her peak. The native policemen would bob up and down about
us, endeavoring to maintain better order, but not liking to arrest any
individual one of us, while they did not dare to attempt a whole arrest.
All this weary interval of waiting an American caterer would have filled
up with strains of music; but not until almost at the moment of the
commencement of the performance, did the Brazilian musicians (wretched
ones) discourse their strains.
At last, however, the band pealed out, and the performers came running
into the ring. The fighters of the bull, on this occasion, were of two
classes. One class consisted of men, dressed in tights and spangles,
after the manner of our circus actors. These men bore red scarfs or
flags, wherewith to blind the beast, while each of them carried a number
of little darts at his belt. The darts were a sort of fireworks, one of
the various modes adopted for the torture and goading of the bulls. The
other class consisted of the _matadores_, whose duties are of a more
sanguinary nature than their brothers of the arena. Most of them on this
occasion were mounted, and armed with spears, but the most famous were
on foot, armed simply with a long, sheathless rapier. These latter are
in a bull-fighting country about the same as first-class theatrical
performers are in America and England. They become very famous when
successful, and star it through the country in the same way as our
actors. The main office of the star _matadore_ is to give the finishing
blow to the bull--the hight of the accomplishment being in the art of
killing at a single, graceful thrust of the sword.
When the performers had taken their positions, a signal from the major
domo caused the opening of a suspicious-looking door at the upper end of
the arena, and out bounded an enormous black bull, with a bellowing
noise, and lashing his sides furiously with his tail.
The game now commenced in earnest.
The ball was opened by one of the horsemen couching his spear and
rushing in to the attack. But, quick as a wink, and as lively as a cat,
the bull leaped on one side, avoided the thrust, and ripped up the
_matadore's_ steed, killing him instantly. The poor bull-fighter was
hurled high in the air, and fell to the ground. I looked to see him
destroyed instantly. But now the flag-bearers rushed in, flinging their
red scarfs over the animal's horns, and engaging his attention until
their discomfited comrade recovered, and was enabled to limp out of the
ring. The other horsemen, three in number, now spurred forward, and
succeeded in inflicting several painful wounds.
Infuriated with agony, the bull rushed at them blindly, this way and
that; but they glided away from him, and inflicted new wounds.
At last the flagmen (I forget what the Spanish name for them is) rushed
in and flung their little darts into the animal's side. The torch was
applied immediately afterward, and the bull was transformed into an
enormous fiery porcupine, and a very frightful-looking figure he cut.
Although considerably enfeebled by loss of blood, the ungovernable fury
of the bull sustained him for another assault, when he gored another
horse and tossed the rider almost to the top of the pavilion. But now
the master of ceremonies gave the signal, and one of the pedestrian
_matadores_ stepped out, sword in hand.
There were three of these men. They had remained standing motionless in
a very nonchalant way, waiting for the signal of the _coup de grace_.
The one who now stepped out to the task, was a lithe, handsome fellow.
With a light bound, he sprung at the side of the bull, avoided the
side-sweep of his angry horn, and plunged his weapon in the animal's
neck.
A storm of hisses burst from the audience, for the blow was not the
death-blow; and the _matadore_ recovered his sword and returned to his
former position; for one of the rules of the bull-fight is that the blow
which is intended to be final must not be repeated, if it be
unsuccessful.
And now, at another signal from the major domo, an old _matadore_, who
had stood gravely in front of us throughout the entire performance, now
advanced easily toward the bull, who made a staggering charge upon him.
But he easily evaded the charge, gained the animal's side, and drove in
his thin sword to the hilt, right behind the shoulder-blade. This time
it was the _coup de grace_. The bull stumbled forward, and then fell to
the ground dead, while a thundering cheer greeted the successful
_matadore_, who bowed carelessly, as if he was used to it, wiped his
sword, and quietly resumed his former position.
Now the supernumeraries entered the ring, with a wagon, to remove the
dead bull and horses and other _débris_.
Several other bulls, more or less formidable, were disposed of in rapid
succession.
But the greatest bull was reserved for the _finale_. A hum went through
the audience as he sprung into the arena. I think I never saw a nobler
animal than this bull. He was of a bright bay, and as glossy as the
costliest satin. His eyes were brilliant and large. The strength as
displayed in the splendid limbs and glorious neck was prodigious. All
"our crowd" sent up a rousing cheer as soon as this animal made its
appearance.
Well, the usual performance was gone through with at first. The horsemen
charged; one of the horses was killed; the flag-bearers charged, and one
of them was killed. The fireworks had become exhausted: so _that_ part
of the show--a very disgusting part to me, I must say--had to be
skipped. The master of ceremonies seemed loth to give the signal for the
death of this noble beast. And while he was deliberating, the bull made
a sudden and most effective charge upon all the horsemen and flagmen,
who were very injudiciously, all grouped together. The result was that
the horses were immediately overthrown and disabled, one of the flagmen
was immediately killed, and another one badly hurt, while one of the
three _matadores_,[1] who had been in the group, was tossed high into
the air and, by the rules of the arena, was out of the fight, on
account of his having left his proper position at the edge of the ring.
There were now, literally, as the only remaining fighters, two
_matadores_ or swordsmen. One of these, at the sign from the master of
ceremonies--which was now very hastily given--rushed in to the attack.
But his blow was a bad one. The old _matadore_--the one who had finished
up the the first bull so nicely, was now the only one left, and he,
without losing a particle of his composure, went in with a confident
air.
But he made a mistake, just as he reached the animal's side, and had his
arm paralyzed by hitting a horn with his crazy-bone, and away flew his
sword out of his hand. The next instant, he was tossed sky-high and Mr.
Bull had it all his own way.
A murmur of horror ran through the audience, for it seemed that now, as
every one of the fighters was either prostrate or weaponless, there
would be a great carnage. Even the hitherto imperturbable major domo
lost his presence of mind and turned as pale as death.
At this momentous juncture, old Bluefish, to our unmitigated
astonishment, started up with a wild whoop.
"I'll spike him! I'll spike him! Smash my top-lights, if I don't spike
him!" he shouted.
And, before we could guess his intention, he had leaped the railing, and
was in the ring. Snatching up the sword of one of the fallen
_matadores_, he made at the bull. The latter charged him, with a roar
that shook the pavilion to its center. But the sturdy old sailor leaped
on one side, got in his blow, and drove it in behind the shoulder, the
weapon rapping up against the skin, close to the hilt. The magnificent
beast tottered forward an instant, and then dropped to the earth, stone
dead.
Cheer after cheer greeted the brave deed of the Yankee tar.
"Bravo! bravo! Americano! Americano!" echoed from the crowd of
Brazilians.
"I told yer I'd spike him!" was the simple and only self-comment of
Bluefish, as he returned to our midst.
We were proud enough of him, you may be sure. But we were prouder still,
when, as we were going out with the throng, the band struck up "Hail
Columbia." The master of ceremonies had ordered it as a compliment to
us.