(PART I.)
Nine years have passed since the ship which brought me from New York to
Panama pulled out of its dock at the foot of Twenty-seventh Street. It
was a bitter cold day in February and the great “Iron City” appeared
very grey and forbidding as I took a last look at it before going below.
A glance at my fellow passengers revealed to me a motley crowd. A number
of tourists were on board bound for West Indian ports, for at that time
none of them would have dreamed of stopping off at Panama, and among
them were to be found the young and handsome, the old and ugly, the
lame, the halt and the blind. There were more than a hundred artisans
and clerks bound for the Panama Canal. There were several trained nurses
for the American hospitals on the Canal Zone, several mining engineers
who were on their way to New Mexico, to Peru, and a millionaire, also
from New Mexico, who, to use his own words, “owned the whole engineering
outfit.” There was also a well-known United States Army surgeon, his
wife, and the wives of several doctors who were already on the Isthmus.
In addition, there were several newspaper men, three San Blas Indians, a
general, an admiral, a Panamanian, who subsequently became President of
Panama, and lastly myself.
As my readers may imagine, the passengers were more or less divided. The
medical ladies felt themselves of such high degree in the profession as
to positively refuse to occupy state-rooms in that part of the ship
where the nurses had been assigned. They refused to eat at the same
table with them, and never, by any chance, would they sit in company.
The general and the admiral were the most democratic persons on board,
and divided their time equally among us all. It was a delightful trip.
Every night we assembled in the waist of the ship and danced to the
music of two violins under rhythm of the waves.
The general and the admiral looked on approvingly and forgot their
dignity to so great an extent as to keep time to the music with their
feet, as on-lookers are apt to do in forgetfulness when they are lifted
above their every-day surroundings by strains of sweet music. The poor
surgeon looked longingly toward the way we made merry, but he was too
hemmed in by conventionalities to join us, and he feared his
thin-voiced little wife, who was, as Charles Dickens would say, in an
interesting condition, and who ruled him with a rod of iron. The ladies
of his atmosphere lowered their eyes in token of disapproval whenever he
happened to venture in our midst, and on us they bestowed black looks.
But we didn’t care; we had music, good fellowship, laughter, love and
tropical moonlight, and, being a mixed assembly, we were carrying out to
the letter that spirit of delightful democracy which is the proudest
boast of the good old U. S. A.
But I digress. As I said before, we danced, and once the surgeon, his
wife being seasick, made a break and danced with us. He was a good
dancer, and, tell it not in Gath, he tried to flirt a little, but “we”
were as much afraid of the thin voice of his little wife as were the
good doctors themselves. “We” started with fear when “we” heard her
calling him. Every girl on board was engaged in a delightful flirtation,
and one young girl--a nurse--was engaged in good faith to the
millionaire. They were to be married at Panama as soon as they landed,
and she was going on with him to Peru. She now became a person of
consequence, because she had captured the only millionaire on board.
Even the medical ladies began to look upon her as a possible person, and
the proudest one among them, an F. F. V. deigned to converse with her,
remarking that she thought she had met her before somewhere; that she
must have come of a good family, etc.
All too soon the delightful trip was about to end. We were in Colon
harbor. Already a line of cocoanut palms had burst upon our view, and
the captain said that the pretty town in the distance was Cristobal.
Every one was shaking hands preparatory to going ashore. It was about
three o’clock in the afternoon and the last train had gone to Panama, so
we were obliged to spend the night at a Colon hotel.
I shall never forget with what feelings of disgust I went up the dirty
stairs to the bedroom which had been assigned to three of the nurses and
myself. There were broad verandas, around the hotel, and they were
littered with all kind of rubbish. The walls and floor of the bedroom
were bare and dingy, but the beds really looked clean. We did not sleep
that night because of the noise in the room next to ours. A disreputable
character occupied it, and she spent the night in a drunken revel with
some friends. In the morning I caught a glimpse of her, and I was amazed
to see that she was a notorious character who had been tried for bigamy,
she having married two young men, sons of wealthy parents, within the
space of a few months.
The New York yellow journals had featured her scandalous behavior, and
she finally dropped out of sight. On seeing her, a gloom settled on my
very soul, and a feeling of loathing for Colon came into my mind.
I was glad when the train which was to take us to Panama pulled out of
the station. As it sped on, we were charmed with the wild beauty of the
country. The luxurious tropical verdure was truly delightful, and helped
to cheer us after our depressing experience of the night before.
The train was dirty and the service bad. The conductor came and set down
beside me with the ease and freedom of a dear brother. He asked me
questions about myself and talked freely of his own past as follows:
“I came from the Far West, and I ain’t ever intending to go back. I been
a conductor on a railroad for nigh on fifteen years, an’ I tell you
what, I been a high flyer. I stole $30,000, killed a man who robbed me
of my girl, an’ then just lit out. Panama ain’t got no terrors for me,”
he continued, “though I will say that it is the doggondest place for
crooks that I ever struck.”
He chewed tobacco vigorously, and he spat through the open window in a
noisy sort of a way that was as amusing as it was disgusting.
“I’d like to marry a good, nice girl from the States,” he went on, “but
good ones from there is goldarned scarce. Some of the boys is taken up
with wenches, but I’m kind of particular about myself. Though I ain’t
been no saint, the woman I marry’ll have to be purty free from the dark
spots on her soul, an’ her skin’ll be white if I have me eyesight. I’m
gittin’ $211 a month, an’ the system is so goldurned bad that a feller
could knock down twice as much as that. I do want to be honest, but with
a system like this it’s purty hard fer a feller to be strictly on the
square.”
I looked into his face as he said this, and I was impressed with its
honesty. He had rather a likeable personality, and his kindly blue eyes
would have a tendency to inspire one with confidence. He had a strong
face, too--a face that might belong to one’s most respected friend--and
yet I felt my flesh creep at the thought that he was a self-confessed
thief and murderer. After a pause he resumed:
“All the folks that come in on this train’ll be measured for their
coffins as soon as they land at Panama. Folks is dyin’ like sheep here
now with yellow fever, and the place ain’t fit for Americans to live
in.”
“Only a few persons have died from yellow fever,” I corrected.
“Is that so?” he retorted. “Folks that jest land think they know it
all.”
At this juncture he was called by a collector, who appeared much
perturbed, and I concluded that something had gone wrong.
“Wal, let them rip; ain’t there a policeman out there?” The man looked
disgusted and went out grumbling.
The conductor restated himself, took a new chew of tobacco, and said:
“If I had no more brains than a collector I’d go to live in Panama, git
measured for me coffin, take yellow fever an’ die.”
This speech sent a shiver through me, as we were nearing Panama, and my
husband already lived there.
“The architect of the Canal Zone died yesterday, and the chief of the
Panama police died a few days ago,” went on my tormentor. “It ain’t no
place for ladies, an’ I wonder that the government lets them land. We’ll
be there in five minutes now. I’d be glad to see you again; an’, say! if
ever you go broke let me know an’ I’ll be Johnny-on-the-spot with some
dinero for you, fer I ain’t the kind of a man that’ud let a lady go
broke. Not with the lax system of the Panama railroad,” he concluded,
with a crackling sort of laugh that was truly funny.
We were at the station now. The nurses were being helped into omnibuses;
the medical ladies were helped into waiting victorias, which were drawn
by handsome black horses, and in a few minutes I, of all the new
arrivals, stood on the station platform alone. There was no one to meet
me. A lump gathered in my throat and my heart beat loudly. There were
negroes hurrying to and fro, but not a white person to be seen anywhere.
Finally I was approached by a young man, evidently a Panamanian, who
took off his hat and respectfully asked me if I would like him to get a
coach for me. “I do not know where I am to go,” I said simply. “I
expected my husband would meet me.”
“He must be ill,” said the young man, after a pause, “else he would not
have had you wait for him. It will be better for you to take a coach and
ride to the hospital at Ancon. The doctor at the gatehouse will know
whether your husband is sick or not.”
“Perhaps I ought to wait here a little longer,” I replied. “He might
have been detained.”
“It is hardly likely that he would have let anything except sickness
detain him,” said the young man. “You really must take a coach, because
there are rough Americans about who would not hesitate to insult you.”
“I do not fear them,” I said, “I am an American myself.”
“Ah, yes,” he replied, “but the Americans I know about Panama are not of
your class. They are here in great numbers, and they are very rough and
vulgar.”
I felt resentful, but at the same time grateful to him for his courtesy,
and I allowed him to call a coach and help me in. When I got to the
gatehouse of Ancon Hospital I was told that my husband had been admitted
to the yellow fever ward the night before. There were several men
suspected of having yellow fever, and he was among them. I was told that
it would be impossible to see him, as he was very ill and would not
recognize me.