(PART II.)
“That’s what I call hard luck,” said the doctor in charge. “Where are
you going to stop? You’d better go to the Central. There’s American
women down there.” He then gave me some quinine and bade me take care of
myself, after which I entered the cab and was driven to the Central
Hotel in Panama, where I engaged a room. It was up one flight and
overlooked the Cathedral Plaza. The furniture consisted of two broken
chairs, a broken table, a rickety desk of drawers, with pieces of string
attached for handles, and a mirror very dim from age. There was no rug
on the dirty floor, and there did not appear to be any means of lighting
the place. The walls and ceilings were festooned with cobwebs, and the
grime of many years completely covered the paint, which one might guess
had once been an unsightly green. There were two small beds in the room,
and on examining them I found them to be very clean. They were
incongruously draped within white net, such as is used by milliners.
The servant told me that the net was used to keep mosquitoes from biting
the sleepers. For this disreputable apartment, with two meals and a cup
of very bad coffee, I was to pay $5.00 gold per day. There was no bell
in the room, and no one looked in to see if I might need anything. When
I shut the door and put a chair against it I felt as much alone as if I
was on a desert island. There was a little balcony outside the door,
which looked out upon the street, and I sat on this the whole afternoon,
as the gloom and dampness of the room depressed me terribly. When night
came a negro brought me a candle stuck in an old black bottle. He also
brought my dinner, although I had intended to go into the dining-room,
which was well lighted, as I thought I might meet some American women
there.
Day after day I sat on my little balcony and looked upon the plaza. I
was too perturbed to read. Sometimes I went downstairs and entered the
peaceful Cathedral, where I knelt before graven images and offered up
Protestant prayers for my husband’s safe recovery and for my own peace
of mind. In the hotel dining-room I noticed some women whom I thought
might be Americans. They were bulging-browed, loud-voiced, unsocial to
one another, and unfriendly to me. They were well groomed, however, and
wore good jewels. Every day they rode horseback astride, and shouted to
one another in nasal tones, but all my efforts to get acquainted with
them were in vain. They looked at me as if to say: “Gee! but you do
represent the gloomy side of Panama.” I subsequently learned that these
women were the wives of contracting engineers and railroad men from the
Far West. They were the only women in evidence in Panama at that time. I
occasionally saw a sad-faced woman, carefully wrapped in a black shawl,
on her way to the Cathedral to pray; an occasional Sister of Charity and
negro workmen. The Panamanian ladies were in their camps in the country
and at Taboga Island, and if there were any in the city they were timid
about going into the streets, as Panama was filled to overflowing with
adventurers from all over the world, for it was the reconstruction
period, and the Isthmus was in a state of chaos. I had never seen such a
variety of men. There were men who rode fine horses, looking like
cavaliers of olden times. There were men who wore boots a la
Meddowbrook, and other toggery not unlike those of the Meddowbrook Hunt
Club. There were slick, fat, cheerful looking Chinamen who rode
horseback at breakneck speed in the early morning hours and in the late
hours of the afternoon. There were negroes of every hue, from
shiny-black to that peculiar red-brown shade that denotes the dividing
line. There were numbers of coaches drawn hither and thither filled to
overflowing with men, black, white and brown. I had been looking at them
from my balcony for several days, and at last I made up my mind to go
into the street among them. I would sally forth in the late hours of the
afternoon, and would usually walk to Ancon to make enquiries about my
husband, and, unless I happened to be fortunate enough to find a coach
that was not engaged, I walked back, “a foolhardy thing to do in those
days,” said the hotel clerk in tones which denoted that he considered me
very much under his protection. At first men leered at me, but after a
time they passed me with averted gaze. They not infrequently got out of
coaches and invited me to get in. They knew that the demand for coaches
was greater than the supply, and it became generally known that I was
alone and that my husband was ill in the Ancon Hospital. I soon began to
learn who were Americans, because, no matter how drunk they appeared to
be, whenever I met them on the streets of Panama they showed me some
courtesy, which plainly said: “We’re with you, and we feel sorry for
you.”
Negroes worked slowly in the streets under a broiling sun. They were
paving Panama’s streets with brick at this time. It seemed a hopeless
task, as viewed through a woman’s eyes. Mr. Durham had begun the work,
but made slow progress, because of the restrictions imposed upon him.
However, he must have been a man of courage to undertake such a work at
that time. Mr. J. G. Holcomb subsequently brought the work to a
successful completion. Something more impelling than a desire to earn
$6,000 or $7,000 a year must have prompted these men to undertake to
remodel the misshapen city of Panama, where the filth of three hundred
years had accumulated. When the work was about finished, Mr. Holcomb was
coolly discharged. The Panamanian Government, however, retained him, for
the Panamanians knew how much they were really indebted to him. Colombia
had never done anything for Panama, and most of the city’s streets were
mere zigzag mounds of unwholesome red clay. The common people had never
formed habits of cleanliness, and it was an interesting sight to see the
sanitary squad at work cleaning out their houses. I often paused in my
rambles to watch them. Two great wagons, containing barrels filled with
oil and disinfectants, were drawn up to the doors of the houses which
were to be cleaned. A rubber hose would be attached to the street
hydrant and, after the rooms were carefully prepared with disinfectants,
the water would be turned on and a number of men would proceed to scrub
the ceilings, walls and floors. Then the oil would be sprinkled upon the
spots outside which were thought might be breeding-places for
mosquitoes. That rubbish, which is so dear to the heart of every
housekeeper in the world, and which is to be found in a greater or less
degree in the house of the banker and laborer alike, when discovered in
the houses of the poor Panamanians, was confiscated by order of the head
of the sanitation department and conveyed outside of the city and
burned. In this way Panama was converted into the clean, well-ordered
city it is to-day, and to Colonel Gorgas is due the credit of having
made it so.
One afternoon while on my way to Ancon Hospital I met a man whom I had
known in Boston during my schooldays. He was then a manufacturer of
rubber goods, and apparently successful. Now he was a member of Colonel
Gorgas’ sanitary squad. He told me that two men had been taken from the
Central Hotel that morning, and it was found that they were suffering
from yellow fever. “You will not be allowed to stay there now,” he said.
“But what shall I do?” I exclaimed. “There is no other place to live.”
“I know a man named Martin Luther,” replied my informant. “Did you ever
hear of him? He’s from Boston. He used to be a labor agent, a milkman, a
real estate man, a street car conductor, a preacher, a theatrical
manager, and a walking delegate. Now he is superintendent of
construction at Ancon. He’ll fix you up all right. How would you like to
live in a tent among the boys on Ancon Hill?” “I should like it,” I
said, “but it would be a little irregular, wouldn’t it? A lone woman to
live in a tent among men?” “Oh, shucks! That’s the best place for you.
I’ll see Martin Luther about it this afternoon, and you’ll be moved
soon. Martin Luther has a tender heart, even if he does swear a blue
streak sometimes.”
Together we walked back to the hotel, to find the sanitary squad at work
cleaning out the house. When I entered my room I hardly knew it. It had
an odor redolent of disinfectants that delighted me. The walls and the
ceilings had been cleaned, and the color of the paint was quite visible.
The color had been thoroughly soaked with the disinfecting fluid, and,
sad to relate, the mirror was of no further use as a reflector of my
freckled beauty, for the last vestige of quicksilver had disappeared,
and only the glass remained, with its wooden back showing through it. I
began to like the place now, and I decided to go out on the morrow and
buy a new looking-glass. I decided, too, to unpack my books and
pictures, and I began to speculate on the coziness of my room when I
should have it furnished with my own belongings. The thought of it all
gave me the first comfortable feeling I had experienced since my arrival
at Panama. On the following morning I went out early and bought a pretty
tea set at a Chinese store, and I actually forgot my uneasiness of mind
in the thought of the pretty tea table I was to set up. On my return to
the hotel I was doomed to disappointment, for a communication awaited me
suggesting that I prepare to leave the hotel. But where am I to go? I
thought. I spent a disquieting afternoon speculating what was to become
of me. The hotel had been closed, and, as far as I knew, it was now
quite sanitary, so I wondered why I had been ordered to move in such a
peremptory manner. Late in the afternoon a cart came from the
construction department at Ancon for my trunks, and a negro handed me an
envelope, with “I. C. C.” on one of its corners. This startled me, it
had such an official appearance, so, with a beating heart and trembling
hand, I opened it and read as follows:
“Dear Madam: Give your trunks to this nigger. At eight o’clock
to-night a cock-eyed Dutchman, with bowlegs, will call for you. You
are to live in your husband’s tent, which has been remodeled for
you.
MARTIN LUTHER, Etc.”
On reading this I did not know whether to laugh or to cry. My anxiety
had been somewhat relieved, and presuming that the tent was among those
on Ancon Hill “among the boys,” I should be near to the hospital. Still
it seemed rather irregular for a lone woman to live among men, and in a
tent, I reflected. However, I sent the trunks away, and awaited the
arrival of the “cock-eyed Dutchman.”
My sense of the aesthetic was somewhat outraged that such a person
should be picked out to escort me from the hotel, especially as Panama
was filled to overflowing with stalwart Americans. At eight o’clock my
escort arrived, and did not present too bad an appearance. He was a
clean-looking little fellow with reddish hair, and rather a scholarly
type of face. He wore glasses, so that his eyes appeared to be straight,
but his legs might have been a little bit straighter. However, he was
very gallant, and we were soon on our way to Ancon. The tent was unlike
any other that I have seen, as it was hemmed in on all sides by mosquito
netting. It had a hardwood floor, and was comfortably furnished. It had
a tiny veranda, too, which commanded a fine view of the Pacific. On all
sides of me there were tents. The tent of Martin Luther was at the head
of the line, and I was quite taken with him, for he brought me a gun and
told me that the boys would be ready and willing to protect me with
their very lives. This I subsequently found to be quite true. The boys
were all Americans, and ranged in age from 29 to 50 years. The most of
them were veterans of the Spanish-American War, and had been knocking
about in the tropics since that interesting period, so they looked upon
a young white woman, clothed in white, as an ethereal being. My presence
among them must have imposed a strain, for they talked in lowered
voices, and even played poker in rather a silent manner. After a time
the strain became so great that the poker playing was done in the tent
that was farthest away from mine, and my evenings thereafter were very
lonely. I was the first woman that had ever lived on that part of the
hill; at least, that is what Maitland said. I made the acquaintance of
Maitland on the morning after my arrival on Ancon Hill. I awoke early,
feeling very hungry, and, looking out, saw, close to the wire netting,
an old black face. Never had there been a more welcome sight, as I had
no means of procuring breakfast.
“Good morning, mistress,” said the voice of Maitland; “I hope you slept
well.” “Good morning,” I returned, with more cordiality than one would
be likely to show under other circumstances. “My name is Maitland, an’
my business is to look after the tents for the boys, see that the
niggers don’t steal their clothes, an’ to keep the tents clean.” “Do you
ever have any spare time?” I asked. “Oh, yes, mistress, lots of it, an’
I’ll work for you if you will give me something to eat.” “But I am
suffering myself for something to eat,” I replied. “Well, that’s too
bad,” said Maitland, “but if you have some money, I’ll bring you some
beautiful breakfast from Eduardo’s, for they sho’ do cook things fine.”
So I gave him some money, and ordered hire, to bring two breakfasts. He
soon returned with the food, as disgusting a mess as was ever served to
a human being. I was unable to eat it, but Maitland sat on the doorstep
and devoured it with relish. He expressed some concern that I did not
eat, and made some practical suggestions. One was that I get coffee from
the Commission Commissary at Cristobal, and an oil stove in Panama.
Later he found a Jamaican woman, who cooked the meals for me. These he
would bring to the door, and I really enjoyed them. He helped me to
stain the floors and hang my pictures and flags, so, like Robinson
Crusoe and his man Friday, I settled down to the life with resignation,
and began to feel as much a part of it as if I had always lived this
way.
The tent was one of the most picturesque habitations in Panama, and
almost every day something new was added to its adornment. It had an old
brass lamp which had been brought from France, Second Empire style, very
beautiful to look at, but very useless as a bestower of light. I had an
old mahogany desk which had been in use in De Lesseps’ own home, in the
old French days. Some good engravings, relics of my palmy days in New
York, and some real Persian rugs and velvet portiers gave the place the
look of an Arab shiek. Every day I sat alone on the tiny veranda and
wrote or read. I never saw a woman, and the men passed the tent with
averted gaze. Martin Luther usually stopped for a moment to inquire if I
was all right, and if Maitland had been sober. If anything unusual
occurred he would shout it to me. In this way I kept a line on the world
outside of the tent. I seldom went to the city, but whenever I did go
Maitland walked behind me at a respectful distance. One morning I awoke
feeling faint and sick. I found that I had been bitten on my right foot
by some insect. I naturally concluded that it was a tarantula. As the
foot was terribly swollen, I called to Maitland, who came in breathless,
and declared that I had but a short time to live. “Go for a doctor,” I
gasped, and in my fright I began to feel the chill, cold hand of death
at my heart.
Maitland vanished, and soon returned with a little old man, who carried
a green carpet-bag that appeared to be filled with something heavy. The
little old man walked as if he was very tired, and as he knelt down
beside my chair he heaved a long, tired sigh. His hands were small, but
very much knotted, and his eyes were a pale, sad blue. He sat back upon
his heels and looked critically at the swollen foot, pinching it from
time to time, and sighing sadly.
“Was the lady bit by a tarantula, Doctor?” asked Maitland anxiously.
“Ah, yes,” sighed the little man, kindly stroking my foot.
“Then I shall not live much longer?” said I, with a choking lump in my
throat.
“You’ll live just twenty-four hours, unless you have your foot taken
off,” he uttered.
The sincerity of his tone convinced me that I must be near the end of my
life. I had always heard that the bite of a tarantula was fatal, so I
advised Maitland to go for Martin Luther. He would have me sent to the
hospital, and I would have my foot cut off. I wrote a few words of
farewell to friends and sat, frightened and still, while the doctor
bathed my foot with a concoction of stuff, the ingredients of which were
vinegar, ether, pickle and linseed oil.
“That will take the venom out of it,” said the doctor, with another
sigh, as he opened the bag and drew forth a number of old, rusty
instruments. These he wiped carefully on his old blue overalls.
Now Maitland returned with Martin Luther, who grinned as he beheld the
doctor at work on my foot.
“Well, I’ll be goldurned,” said he, throwing his hat upon the floor.
“What in thunder are you doing, Moll? For the love of Mike, don’t go to
poisoning her foot with that old rusty needle.”
“These instruments cost my father a small fortune.”
“Yes, a hundred years ago,” answered Martin Luther, with a disgusted
look.
“Tie up her foot, Moll, and we’ll send her to the hospital,” said Martin
Luther; “and you’d better be getting back on the job, or you’ll be
fired.”
“All right,” answered the little man, with a weary sigh, as he picked up
his green carpet-bag and bade me good morning. Meantime Maitland had
discovered that I had been bitten by a young scorpion.
“That ain’t anything,” said Martin Luther. “I get bit every night, and I
feel better for it. Moll would have cut your foot off if I hadn’t come.”
“Is he attached to the hospital?” I asked.
“Yes,” replied Martin Luther, with a chuckle, “he works for me in the
carpenter shop. He used to be a doctor, but he cut a feller’s toe off in
Cuba with one of them old rusty knives, and blood poison set in and the
feller died, so the medical society won’t let him doctor any more. He
made a mighty good carpenter, but the poor old devil has wheels.
Maitland, if you call that old guy again when any one is sick or hurt,
I’ll have you fired.”
“He cured me of that evil eye that the girl gave me that time, an’ he’s
the best doctor in the world,” said Maitland.
One morning it was announced that a new official had arrived to dwell in
one of the three real cottages on the hill. It was a short distance from
the line of tents. A barbed wire was the dividing line between the tent
ground and the aristocratic residential section. The residents of both
sections kept well within their respective bounds. The wife of the
official must have caught a glimpse of me in the distance on the day of
her arrival, for she wrote a note that night to Martin Luther, which
read something like this:
“Sir--You will please send to my house to-morrow morning the woman who
lives in the tent beside yours. I have not been used to black servants,
and I can’t bear to have them wait upon me. I will give her fifty cents,
gold, a day, and her meals, and she can have a room on my back veranda.
I shall need her at six o’clock in the morning. I hope her character is
good.”
This was kept from me, but a consultation was held, and one of the tent
dwellers, who had been a lawyer in the days before the Spanish-American
War, dictated a pungent letter to the wife of the official, which
enlightened her as to the respective classes to which both she and I
belonged. She was told in part that the woman in the tent was a graduate
of Wellesley College, and had never been obliged to even wait upon
herself.
The official and his lady were invited to come to my tent and to size me
up and see for themselves whether the woman in the tent was the sort of
a person who would make a fancy laundress or not.
On the morning following Mrs. Official paid me a visit, and not only
sized me up to her heart’s content, but asked me questions until I
thought myself on a witness stand on trial for my life. Then, after
offering to buy from me, at her own price, the pretty furnishings in the
tent, she departed, and I have never seen her since.
One morning news was brought to me that the little old doctor was
arrested and was sent to Chiriqui prison. Maitland burst out crying when
I asked him about it, and declared that, as there was a God, the doctor
would soon be again free to cure the evil and all the other ills to
which black humanity is heir.