THE BRIDGE OF THE WORLD
Although Morgan rose to fame in Jamaica, yet in the island he is
unhonored and unsung; and it was across leagues of heaving sea and
along the shores of the Spanish Main that his marvelous, execrable
enterprises were carried out. In order to follow in his wake I was
compelled to bid farewell to my men and the stanch little Vigilant and
continue my way by steamer.
It was with deep regret that I parted with faithful Sam, hideous-faced
Trouble, dignified Joseph, and all the other care-free, happy-go-lucky
black and brown members of my crew, for we had got along famously
together and they seemed more like old friends than employees. But I
knew that sooner or later I should see them all again: in the West
Indies one is ever meeting old friends and acquaintances, and as Jules,
the half-Carib Dominican, expressed it when he said good-bye, “Morne
pas ka encountre; moune ka encountre tojou. [Only mountains never meet;
people always meet again.]”
Out of the harbor the Vigilant sailed, past sleepy Port Royal at the
tip of the Palisados and, heading eastward, bore off toward the distant
Virgins. Outward after her forged the big steamer and, swinging her
sharp prow westward, surged onward toward Central America, over the
same course that Sir Henry sailed as with his crew of ruffians he swept
down upon Porto Bello. Standing at the steamer’s taffrail, I watched
the little schooner heeling to the breeze. Wider and wider spread the
stretch of heaving blue between us, until, like the flash of a
sea-gull’s wings, her white sails twinkled upon the horizon and were
gone.
I was on deck at daybreak the following morning, gazing through my
glasses at the gray and lofty peak of Old Providence,—the St. Catherine
that Mansvelt had thought to make a pirate kingdom and which Morgan
later had sacked and pillaged on his way to Panama.
In those days Old Providence was an important stronghold, a miniature
Gibraltar guarding the approaches to the coast and ever heavily
fortified and garrisoned. But to-day it is a forlorn and all but
deserted spot, the home of fisherfolk and a few farmers who cultivate
their precarious crops upon the rugged hillsides, and of so little
worth that Panama left it in the undisputed possession of Colombia when
she gained her independence. Passing the sea-girt volcanic isle to-day,
one marvels that the pirates ever should have wasted ammunition and
lives upon it; but to them it was a strategic point, and could they
have but held it, the fate of Central America might have been very
different. Instead of a series of small republics, the land from Mexico
to Colombia might now be a colony of Britain.
Beyond Old Providence the wide, unbroken sea stretched away to the
horizon, until at last dim mountains, the tip of the Andes, rose before
our bows, and clearer and ever clearer grew the land, the coast of the
Spanish Main. Rising in green hills from the water, it swept inward, an
undulating sea of verdure, to the cloud-draped blue peaks: a vast,
untamed wilderness with no vestige of settlement or civilization,
until, as the hills became lower and the mountain ranges more distant,
we passed the half-hidden entrance to Porto Bello and far ahead saw the
smoke-pall and the low land that marked Colon and the entrance to the
Panama Canal.
Past the lofty wireless towers, the huge hangars, and the white
buildings of Coco Solo, past the great Hotel Washington, past the vast
breakwater we steamed, and, gliding through the narrow entrance between
the two long ridges of rock and concrete that protect—or, rather, are
supposed to protect—the harbor, entered the waters of the Zone, where
our steamer was warped into the huge concrete-and-steel piers at
Cristobal.
How old Morgan and his fellow buccaneers would stare and rub their eyes
could they but glimpse this terminus of the great ditch that links the
two oceans, with its puffing locomotives, its row of huge docks, its
scores of mighty steamships, and its innumerable honking motor-cars! It
was a morass in their day, and for nearly two centuries thereafter; for
Colon was built upon a swamp and enjoys the distinction of being one of
the few towns, if not the only town, constructed in order to establish
a starting-place for a railway, instead of the railway being built to
accommodate a town. Originally the place was called Aspinwall, in honor
of the projector of the trans-isthmian railroad, and there resulted a
ludicrous state of affairs, a petty squabble between two nations that
probably has no equal.
Although the Americans who built the town called it Aspinwall, the
Colombians had their own ideas on the subject, and to perpetuate the
name of the great discoverer they christened it Colon. The United
States Government then took a hand and, refusing to recognize any such
town as Colon, declined to deliver mail addressed thereto. But that was
a game which two could play, and the Colombians promptly refused to
accept or deliver mail addressed to Aspinwall. As in most cases,
possession was nine points of the law, and as the binomial port was
unquestionably on Colombian territory, the United States at last backed
down and grudgingly agreed that “Colon” it should remain.
Colon is a far from interesting city, but it is clean and sanitary and
no longer the sordid, disease-ridden, filthy hole that it was in
pre-canal days. Moreover, despite the lurid tales of fiction-writers,
Colon is as orderly and law-abiding as any port, and while it possesses
an inordinate number of cheap cabarets and cheaper bar-rooms, and is
frequented by hundreds of Uncle Sam’s sailors nightly, not to mention a
multitude of seamen, canal-zone employees, and natives, yet serious
crimes are rare and vice hides itself in out-of-the-way streets in a
restricted district. But Colon’s reputation as the “wickedest city in
America” has not long been a thing of the past. Five years ago both
Colon and Panama were such hotbeds of iniquity that the commanding
general of the United States forces on the isthmus was compelled to
issue a general order prohibiting sailors and soldiers from entering
Panamanian territory.
As a result of this order, Panama was compelled to clean up its two
chief towns, for without the patronage of the Americans they would have
been in sore straits, and while the Government was slow about it (for
the average Panamanian is far from squeamish in regard to either
physical or moral filth), the herculean task was at last accomplished
and our men of the army and navy were once more permitted to roam
through the streets and frequent the resorts of the Panamanian towns.
Little need be said of Colon, or of Cristobal, the spick-and-span
little American town on the zone side of the railway which forms the
boundary between American and Panamanian territory, or—what is of more
importance to the majority of visitors—the boundary between a very dry
and a very wet land.
Neither possesses any historical associations, and neither had been
dreamed of in the days of the buccaneers. But near at hand, a scant
twenty-five miles down the coast and easily accessible by motor-boat,
is the ancient stronghold of Porto Bello, the grim old citadel that
defied Drake, the treasure-house that fell to Morgan and his men, the
Atlantic terminus of the celebrated Gold Road.
Within the vaults of Porto Bello have been stored countless millions of
treasure. To this port, winding their way through the jungles, along
the roughly paved road from Panama, came the long mule-trains, laden
with the riches of the despoiled Incas; with the output of the
marvelous mines of Darien and Veraguas; with the gems and jewels of
Aztec kings and princes; with bullion and plate; with the treasures of
the Indies. With jangling bells the gaily caparisoned mules trotted
over the rough cobbles, splashed through the rivers, and plunged up the
steep slopes; with cracking whips and hoarse shouts the sandaled
drivers ran beside them, in picturesque Spanish cursing their beasts
and urging them forward; chained together in groups, the bronze-skinned
Indian and ebon-hued African slaves stumbled along, groaning, footsore,
bleeding from the lash; while leading the way and bringing up the rear
were the mail-clad soldiery, the plumed officers, the proud hidalgos
and such well-to-do travelers as saw fit to travel from ocean to ocean
across this Bridge of the World.
Long centuries have passed since the last treasure-train wound its slow
way across the isthmus by the Gold Road. Huge trees have sprung from
between its cobbles and have spread their vast network of branches
above the spots where fever-stricken slaves dropped dying under the
hoofs of the gold-laden mules. The forest has obliterated the once
broad way; the jungle has hidden with its impenetrable curtain long
stretches of the celebrated highroad; steeply arched bridges have
crumbled into the tumbling rivers, and wayside stopping-places, where
the long mule-teams halted for rest and refreshment, are mere mounds of
giant ferns and huge-leafed plants. But still, so the natives say,
ghostly figures may sometimes be seen traversing the highway. Through
the silence of the midnight jungle come the tinkle of mule-bells and
the clatter of hoofs on stone; weird lights flicker and dance between
the trees, and the screams of mortals in agony and the groans of the
dying make one’s blood run cold. No natives willingly go near the old
road after nightfall, for to them it is accursed, a way paved with dead
men’s bones, a trail of blood and death; and piously they cross
themselves and speak in hushed and fearful voices at mention of it.
No one can say how many millions in gold and silver and jewels have
been carried over this forest road from Panama to Porto Bello. For
years it was the only route from the Pacific to the Atlantic, or vice
versa, and over it flowed all the treasures that the ruthless Dons
wrested from the New World; over it passed thousands of hardy Spaniards
who sought to win fortune and fame from the new-found lands, and who
left their bones in morass, jungle, and sea, from California to
Patagonia.
Rich indeed were the pickings to be had in those days, and the loot of
Inca and Aztec, of Toltec and Maya, the output of countless mines, and
fortunes in pearls from the outlying isles were carried over the Gold
Road and stored in the vaults of Porto Bello to await the plate-fleet
with its convoys which was to bear the stupendous treasure across the
sea to Spain.
A tempting spot to rob was Porto Bello, a vast coffer fairly bursting
with riches, and many an avaricious buccaneer sighed regretfully as he
cast covetous eyes toward the town and thought of the incalculable
wealth that reposed in safety behind the grim walls and bristling guns
of San Jerome Castle, on the heights above the quiet harbor.
But San Jerome had been built with all the art and skill of the best
Spanish engineers; it had been devised to guard the treasures of New
Spain, and to guard them well. No ship could enter the port without
passing under its guns; no man could approach by land without exposing
himself to the ever-watchful sentries and a withering fire of musketry
and cannon. It was not only a castle and a group of forts but a citadel
as well—a vast pile of massive walls, of moats and battlements, of out
jutting sentry-boxes—and ever garrisoned with a thousand men or more.
It was thought impregnable, beyond the possibility of capture; the Dons
believed the riches within were as safe as though in the treasury of
Madrid itself. But the very year that the fortifications were completed
William Parker with two hundred rough-and-tumble pirates took the place
by storm, burned a part of the town, and got safely away with a
tremendous amount of booty.
Alarmed and chagrined to think that the hated British had cracked the
vault they had thought so safe, the Spanish had the castle strengthened
and enlarged; more heavy guns were mounted and the garrison increased,
and the Dons again breathed freely. For sixty years and six the
treasure lay safe; the mighty walls resisted all assaults; the cannon
roared defiance, and above the battlements Spain’s banner of blood and
gold defied the world.
And then, like a bolt from a clear sky, came Morgan. With a fleet of
nine ships and a scant five hundred men he landed on a wild,
uninhabited stretch of coast and marched on the town at dead of night.
Guided by an Englishman who had been a captive in Porto Bello, his
forces approached the castle and a few men were sent forward, to steal
silently upon the outermost sentry. Leaping on the unsuspecting
Spaniard, they bore him to earth ere he could utter a sound, and,
binding and gagging him, took him to Morgan. At threat of death by
torture the poor fellow gave what information he could of the citadel
and its garrison, and promised as well to follow out the orders of the
pirates. Creeping like shadows under the walls of an outlying fort, the
buccaneers posted themselves with weapons ready and ordered their
prisoner to call out to his fellow soldiers, advising them to
surrender, as an overwhelming force was about to attack.
In reply, the garrison at once began firing into the darkness, and with
wild shouts and yells the pirates rushed this outer fort and, aided by
the darkness and the terror which they always inspired, soon took the
place. Having once threatened to destroy all within if they refused to
surrender, Morgan was as good as his word. Herding the defenseless
soldiers and officers in a single room, he set fire to the magazine,
blowing the prisoners and the fort to atoms. The shouts, shots, and
explosion had aroused the city and the other forts, and, believing that
a tremendous force of the enemy must be upon them, the inhabitants
became panic-stricken, rushing hither and thither, throwing their
valuables into wells and cisterns, striving to escape to the near-by
forest, and utterly demoralized. As a result, there was little
resistance, and, slashing and shooting their way through the wild-eyed
throngs, the pirates dashed to the cloisters in the town and, battering
in the doors, made prisoners of the priests and nuns.
Meanwhile the governor, unable to rally the townspeople, retreated to
the main fort, San Jerome, [9] and from this point maintained an
incessant fusillade upon the pirates. Unable to approach closely, the
buccaneers sought what shelter they could find, and, being accomplished
marksmen, picked off the Spanish gunners each time they attempted to
recharge their cannon. For hours,—from daybreak until noon,—the
conflict raged, and for a time it seemed doubtful which side would be
the victors. Several times the pirates took their lives in their hands
and, dashing under the walls, attempted to start fires at the castle’s
doors, but each time they left dead and dying behind as the Dons threw
bombs and blazing pitch upon them from the parapets. Finding they were
making no headway, even Morgan himself began to despair, and with ready
devilishness he proceeded to carry out a scheme of such downright
villainy that it could have been born only in the mind of a monster.
Hastily constructing a number of broad ladders, he notified the
governor that unless the place were surrendered, he would force the
nuns and monks to place the ladders and scale the walls. He knew full
well that the Dons would hesitate to shoot down the holy men and women.
But the governor of Porto Bello was a man of no ordinary courage and
determination, and replied that never would he surrender as long as he
remained alive. Thereupon the nuns and monks were dragged forward and,
prodded and flogged, were forced to lift the ladders, place them
against the walls, and form a screen for the pirates swarming in their
rear.
Praying and crossing themselves, beseeching the governor to surrender,
the monks in blood-stained cassocks, the white-faced nuns with garments
stripped from their quivering bodies, swollen and bruised from cruel
blows, lifted the heavy ladders only to fall dead and wounded by scores
from the shots of their own countrymen. But others were forced forward,
until at last the ladders were in place and, with pistols and cutlasses
drawn, the buccaneers swarmed up the walls. Heedless of the fire from
above, shouting, swearing, and ever pressing on, they gained the
parapet and like fiends incarnate leaped among the Spaniards, cutting
and hacking, shooting and stabbing, and so terrorizing the soldiers by
their onrush that many threw down their arms and fled.
Presently only the governor remained, fighting alone, his back to a
wall, his sword flashing, his dark eyes gleaming defiance, his gray
beard streaked with blood. Amazed at his courage, appreciating his
bravery, the buccaneers offered him quarter, and even his own wife and
daughters pleaded with him to surrender. But the old hidalgo would have
none of this, and defiantly he shouted that he would die as a valiant
soldier rather than be hanged as a coward. Over and over again the
pirates, at Morgan’s orders, strove to rush the old man and make him
prisoner, but each time his flashing sword formed a circle of death
beyond which none could pass until he fell, shot down by the pirate
chieftain.
Porto Bello was now in the buccaneers’ hands. Herding the people,
wounded and well alike, into cells where, as Esquemelling says, “to the
intent their own complaints might be the cure of their hurts for no
other was afforded them,” they were left under guard while the victors
fell to eating and drinking. Soon the majority were outrageously drunk,
and had the Dons rallied and attacked they might have retaken the
place, for, again to quote Esquemelling, who was an eye-witness, “if
there had been found fifty courageous men they might easily have taken
the city and killed all the pirates.”
For several days thereafter Porto Bello was such a scene of debauchery,
of inhumanity, of agony and suffering as the sun has seldom looked
upon. The buccaneers went about looting and ravishing, and, realizing
that much of the treasure had been hidden, they tortured the prisoners
to compel them to divulge the hiding-places. Every devilish device of
the Inquisition, and worse, was brought into play. Men and women were
broken on the wheel and torn on the rack; they were spitted and roasted
over fires, quartered and hacked to bits, flayed alive, blinded, dipped
in boiling pitch, subjected to unspeakable agonies before their loved
ones’ eyes, until, satiated with bloodshed, convinced that every
centavo had been found, the pirates desisted. For fifteen awful days
they remained in the stricken town, dying like rats of fever and
excesses, daily casting scores of festering corpses into the sea, but
so drunk with victory that no heed was given to their own losses or to
the threats of an overwhelming force approaching from Panama.
Then, realizing that he must leave, Morgan demanded that the stricken
inhabitants pay a ransom for the deliverance of the city, and,
ambushing the approaching Spanish troops, he drove them back along the
Gold Road. Knowing that his threats to burn the town and to massacre
the few remaining inhabitants would be carried out if the ransom were
not paid, the people scraped from hiding-places the sum of one hundred
thousand pieces of eight, and turned them over to the ruthless
conqueror. Rarely did Harry Morgan break his word to an enemy (which
was about his only redeeming trait), and so, the ransom being paid, he
prepared to evacuate the town with all the treasure he had won, which
amounted to more than a quarter of a million dollars in cash and as
much more in merchandise—truly, a rich haul!
But before he departed there entered into this awful tragedy a bit of
that humor that ever was cropping up with Morgan. Marveling how any one
could have taken Porto Bello with its supposedly impregnable forts, its
mighty guns, and its horde of soldiery,—to say nothing of its citizens,
who were reputed to be brave fighters,—the Viceroy of Panama despatched
a messenger to the pirate, begging him to “send him some small pattern
of those arms wherewith he had taken with such violence so great a
city.” Courteously (now that hostilities were over and the ransom paid)
Sir Henry received the messenger, entertained him,—with stolen wine and
looted provender, of course,—and sent him back to the viceroy bearing a
pistol and a handful of bullets along with a message to the effect that
he “desired the viceroy to accept that slender pattern of the arms
wherewith he had taken Porto Bello and keep them for a twelvemonth;
after which time he promised to come to Panama and fetch them away.”
We can readily imagine with what thanksgiving the harried, tortured,
robbed inhabitants of Porto Bello saw the last of the pirates leave,
and watched the sails of their ships as they sank from sight below the
horizon. But never again would they trust to the old forts to safeguard
their treasure. As a result of Morgan’s raid the Gold Road was
abandoned between Porto Bello and Las Cruces on the Chagres. The mighty
fortress of San Lorenzo at the river’s mouth was strengthened, and the
treasure bound for Spain was brought via land and the Chagres River to
the ships lying in safety under the guns of San Lorenzo.
But Porto Bello remained; its forts stand, and to-day one may wander
about old Fort San Jerome. The ruins are in a good state of
preservation, the chapel, the house of the valiant old governor, the
cloisters from which the nuns and monks were dragged to form a human
shield for the pirates, the massive treasury, and the huge barracks
still stand; and one may yet trace the outlines and foundations of the
old town.
Nearly as strong to-day as in the time of Morgan is old San Jerome,
with its massive walls, its lantern-shaped sentry-boxes, the deeply
carved coats of arms above its portals, its embrasures, and its
battlements; but the modern Porto Bello is merely a native village of
squalid huts and unkempt streets. Its glories have long since departed;
the Gold Road is no more. Once the most fabulously rich of New-World
cities, the third greatest stronghold of Spain on the Spanish Main, and
the storehouse for millions, Porto Bello is to-day almost forgotten and
unknown.
The splendid harbor that once sheltered pennant-gay galleons and proud
frigates now gleams beneath the sun with only the humble fishing-boats
and dugout canoes to ripple its blue surface. Over the spot where Drake
lies fathoms deep beneath the sea, the speeding keels of steamships
pass unheedingly. Where the white-faced friars reared the ladders under
a storm of bullets, tangled lianas and broad-leafed vines drape the
gray walls. Gay flowering shrubs hide the scars of battle and the
rusting cannon on the slope up which the pirates stormed, and lizards
sun themselves upon the spot where the proud and valiant governor sold
his life so dearly.
Peaceful and calm is Porto Bello above its lovely bay. The age-gray
fort is set in entrancing scenery, and it is hard indeed to realize
that it was once the scene of bloodshed and carnage, that the green
hills have echoed to the roar of cannon and the shrieks of the dying,
that here, upon these very stones, Don and Briton, soldier and pirate
struggled in mortal combat.