THE CASTLE OF GOLD
So marvelously rich was Panama, so vast were the quantities of gold
wrested from the Indians and from the mines, that the Spaniards called
the isthmus Castillo del Oro or Golden Castle. For years the precious
metal flowed in a steady stream from the mines of Veraguas and of
Darien, and rapidly accounts of these riches spread until Panama became
known as the greatest gold-producing country in the world at that time.
Hence the name “Costa Rica” then applied to all the country from
Honduras to Darien. The quarter of a million dollars that Morgan looted
from Porto Bello was but a drop in the bucket compared with the annual
output of Panamanian mines.
No one can say how much gold was taken from the mines of Darien and
Veraguas by the Dons, for most of the records, if any existed,
disappeared with the burning of Old Panama; and others have been lost
or destroyed in the revolutions and disturbances since then. But here
and there, in the musty files of sleepy, half-forgotten old towns that
once were great and prosperous cities of the gold districts, one may
find stray bits of information which throw some light on the gold
output of Panama’s mines in early days.
Thus, in Veraguas we learn, from papers still preserved in Santiago,
that it was customary for the Crown to receive a royalty of five per
cent. or a quinto of all gold exported from the province. We also find
from the age-yellowed treasury bills that in one year the Crown
received over twenty thousand castellanos as its share of Veraguas
gold. In other words, considerably over two tons of the yellow metal,
or about two million dollars’ worth of gold, were annually exported
from this one district! And this was only a fraction of the total
amount mined. That which went into private pockets, that which was
expended for supplies, transportation, et cetera, that which went to
the Church did not enter into these figures at all. Going further into
the records, we learn that in 1570 over two thousand slaves were
employed in the Veraguas gold-mines, and contemporary writers state
that a placer that did not yield at least a castellano of gold to a
“common kneading-trough” was not considered worth working.
And Veraguas was not the only gold-producing district, by any means.
The mines of Chiriqui produced stupendous quantities; the mines of
Darien were world-famed; there were mines in the present province of
Cocle, in Los Santos, and in many other districts; and the total value
produced staggers the imagination. It is stated in official documents
that one small private mine produced enough gold in one year to build
the college in Panama, a church, and several lordly mansions, and
provided a comfortable fortune for the owner in addition! Moreover,
incalculable sums were taken from the Indians and from the prehistoric
graves.
No wonder, then, that Panama was the richest and most prosperous of
Spain’s possessions in the New World; for in addition to its own wealth
it was the receiving and shipping point for all the treasures from
ports of Mexico, Central and South America on the Pacific, and the East
Indies.
Besides all this, its wealth in cattle was enormous; vast quantities of
valuable woods, dyes, and medicinal plants were obtained from the
forests; the yield of pearls from the Pearl Islands and the waters of
Panama Bay was worth a king’s ransom yearly, and the fertile lands
produced great crops of sugar, tobacco, coffee, and cacao.
This being the case, we naturally wonder why Panama has fallen to its
present state; why not a single mine is being worked to-day; why the
“Castle of Gold” has become an insignificant republic perpetually
bordering on bankruptcy; why it has fallen from its former proud estate
as the richest country in the New World to a poverty-stricken land that
would find it impossible to make both ends meet if it were not for the
revenue it derives from the canal and trade with Zone employees, the
army and navy, and the annual influx of tourists.
First and most important of all in the cessation of Panama’s gold
output was the fact that the Spaniards worked their mines by slave
labor, usually making use of the native Indians. These often rebelled,
and when opportunity offered massacred their cruel masters, destroyed
the workings, and concealed or obliterated the approaches, so that the
mines were lost. The negro and Moorish slaves brought in, ran away,
became allies of the buccaneers and the Indians, led a wild bush life,
and were a constant menace to the outlying settlements. Still later,
with the emancipation of the slaves, many mines could not be worked at
a profit and were abandoned, while in numerous cases the incredibly
rich placers, which were mere pockets, were worked out and exhausted.
Revolutions, rebellions, and wars did their part as well. The cattle
ranges were deserted, outlying estates were destroyed, unprotected
settlements were abandoned, and the jungle took possession of fields
and lands.
But all this took many years. Even as late as 1850 virtually all the
commerce of the isthmus was paid for in raw Panamanian gold, and such
tumble-down, half-deserted interior towns as Santiago de Veraguas, Las
Minas, San Francisco, and a score of others were busy, populous centers
of wealth, fashion, and commerce.
And all the former prosperity of the country might have been won back
and Panama might still be a rich and thriving country, had it not been
for its people.
The old Dons, despite their ruthlessness, and their insatiable lust for
gold, were daring, indomitable men. No hardship was too great for them
to endure if there were riches to be won or new lands to conquer. No
undertaking was too difficult, no dangers could deter them; even death
mattered little, and, fighting the savages as they went, they overran
the land, established towns, discovered mines, cultivated the soil,
built cities, and endured every privation in building up the wealth and
prosperity of the Castillo del Oro.
But not so their descendants, the decadent people that have inherited
the land which once was the brightest and richest jewel of all the
colonies of the Spanish Crown. With very few exceptions the Panamanians
are of a mongrel breed—a mixture of the Spaniard, the negro, and the
Indian, with all of the worst and few of the best qualities of the
three. Add to this a goodly sprinkling of Chinese blood, a dash of that
of the old Moorish slaves, a seasoning of all the races of Europe which
have passed across the isthmus during four hundred years, and we have
the Panamanian of to-day. A few old families there are, to be sure, in
whose veins the blood of the Castilian conquistadors runs fairly
unmixed, and in certain outlying villages in the interior the people
pride themselves on their pure Spanish descent. But the average
Panamanian is the product of a melting-pot wherein the blood of a dozen
races has been blended. Moreover, the blood has been of a far from
desirable kind. It is the blood of adventurers, of soldiers of fortune,
of remittance men, of those who have sought refuge where no extradition
treaties were in force; the blood of gamblers and seamen, of
down-trodden slaves and cowed and beaten Indians—the heritage of that
vast horde that passed over the Bridge of the World from the days of
Balboa to the building of the canal.
In the various portions of the republic the Panamanian varies somewhat,
but only in the matter of blood, not in character. In the northern and
western provinces he is mainly of Spanish and Indian extraction; in the
Darien district and the east he is largely African, and in the cities
he is a combination of everything—a hodgepodge of races, of colors, and
of ancestry such as can be found on few spots on earth. But, whatever
his blood, the character, temperament, and point of view of the
Panamanian are virtually the same everywhere. He is conceited,
arrogant, lazy, and weak in physique. For centuries the people have
been content to live from the traffic across the isthmus, to cull a
livelihood from those who passed from ocean to ocean, and to neglect
their country’s resources. In the interior they have degenerated into
listless, abjectly poor, hook-worm-infested, undernourished,
unspeakably miserable creatures whose lives are as aimless as the
scrawny, tick-ridden cattle, and whose intellects are scarcely greater
than those of the beasts about them. In the cities the common people
are hardly superior, as far as physical or moral conditions are
concerned, and they are absolutely lacking in initiative, foresight, or
ambition, save in playing politics or in securing a soft government
job.
Of course there are exceptions. There are many decent, intelligent,
progressive, up-to-date and industrious men who have the interests and
the good of their country at heart; men who are honest and advanced in
their ideas and who would be a credit to any land. But these are a
woeful minority. And, moreover, even the best of the Panamanians are
neither builders, creators, manufacturers, masters of industry—or even
good business men. What few industries there are in Panama are run by
Americans; all the leading stores are in the hands of foreigners and
Hebrews. Chinese and East Indians control the bulk of the smaller
shops, and even the coal-black negroes from the British and French West
Indies outdo the native Panamanians as far as business ability and
progressiveness are concerned.
Is it any wonder, then, that Panama is undeveloped, largely unsettled,
backward, and poverty-stricken? Were it not for the canal and the
Americans, the country would have been ruined long ago. The towns were
pest-holes until our engineers stepped in and sanitized them. The
country was always in debt until an American fiscal agent took charge
of Panamanian finances and checked the wholesale robbery among the
officials. Panama’s income is almost entirely derived from Americans
and the canal, and without our aid and support the people could not
even have won their independence or have maintained it afterward.
But there is not the least gratitude for what we have done. There is no
more self-sufficient, egotistical, conceited man on earth than the
average Panamanian; and while he is wise enough to know on which side
his bread is buttered, he detests the Americans from the bottom of his
heart, and particularly resents the fact that under American
supervision the treasury cannot be looted at will by every political
hanger-on, grafter, and protégé of the officials.
The stranger does not at first realize the true condition of affairs in
the country, and is prone to take the Panamanians at their own
valuation; for they are smooth talkers and prate loudly of their
enlightenment, their progress, and their appreciation of the Americans.
But, like all Latin Americans, they are born diplomats, and laud
America publicly and curse her privately. Indeed, were it not for the
ever-present power of Uncle Sam, the lives and property of Americans
would be worth nothing in the republic; and, even as it is, crimes
against Americans are whitewashed whenever possible.
Do not think from the above that the Panamanian is totally lacking in
good qualities or redeeming features. He is intensely patriotic, he is
fond of music and art, he is outwardly a polished gentleman, and while,
as a rule, he has a streak of yellow in his make-up, yet individuals
have shown time and time again that they possess a high degree of
courage and self-sacrifice. On the whole, however, after one knows the
Panamanians and has lived among them, one is rather sorry that Morgan
did not make a clean job of it and wipe out all the inhabitants of Old
Panama when he had the chance, or that old Mansvelt did not hold St.
Catherine and from that vantage-point subdue the isthmus and add it to
Britain’s domains.
Panama is as rich, as fertile, and as fair a country as in the days of
its greatest prosperity—an almost virgin land of limitless forests,
stupendous mountains, vast rolling plains, great rivers, luxuriant
valleys, high table-lands, and untrodden wildernesses.
One may cross the isthmus by railway trains hauled by oil-burning
locomotives or may steam through the canal on huge liners. One may
whirl about Colon or Panama in motor-cars or may ride on trolleys. One
may live luxuriously in the palatial Tivoli or Washington Hotel, and
may find every convenience and comfort of New York in the shops; and
from morn to night one hears the bustle and the hum of modern progress
and activity. And yet, within a few hours of all this, within a hundred
and fifty miles of the teeming towns and the up-to-date Zone, is a vast
unknown territory, a land that the foot of no white man has ever trod,
a district wherein dwell Indians as primitive as those who gazed in
wonder at the ships of Columbus.
And, oddly enough, it was in this district, in Darien, that the first
Spanish settlement was made on the isthmus. It was across this wild and
untamed land that Balboa made his slow and difficult way to look upon
the Pacific, and it was through the Darien jungles that Sharp and
Dampier and their fellow buccaneers forced their way from the Atlantic
to the Pacific on that marvelous “dangerous voyage.”
Darien has changed little since then. The jungles are as impenetrable
as when the first Dons and the later buccaneers slashed through the
tangle of creepers and vines. Within the forests dwell the same Indians
as those Balboa fought and the same tribes that aided the pirates to
attack the hated Spaniards. One may still find the Chokois garbed only
in breech-cloths and wearing the strange wooden crowns described by
Ringrose and Dampier. One may still see the Kunas wearing the palm-wood
combs and the golden nose-rings that attracted the buccaneers’
attention and curiosity. And, just as in the days of Ringrose and his
fellows, there are friendly or “tame” red men and wild Indians, or
bravos, in Darien. As ever, the brown-skinned Chokois are friendly and
peaceable, although as primitive as at the time of Balboa’s expedition,
while the yellow-skinned Kunas are as implacable, as aloof, and as
unapproachable as when they tore the cruel Lolonais limb from limb.
But in addition to these wild tribesmen, who never permit a white man
or a strange red man within their territory, there are also “tame,” or,
as the Panamanians say, “mansos” Kunas, descendants of those who helped
and guided the buccaneers across the isthmus and were ever the allies
of the pirates—or, for that matter, any enemies of the hated Dons.
Wonderful tales are told in Panama and Colon of the wild Kunas, or, as
the people call them, “San Blas” Indians, of the forbidden district. It
is said that they either kill whoever enters their land, or else slice
off the soles of one’s feet and then turn one loose in the jungle; and
the Panamanians, as well as the Chokois, are in deadly fear of them. As
a matter of fact, while the Kunas do prevent strangers from entering
the territory they control, which extends from the upper Chukunaque to
the headwaters of the Bayano River, yet I doubt very much if they ever
kill or even maltreat a white man. Personally I have gone into their
forbidden district for a short distance, and have dwelt among the wild
Kunas for a fortnight, and I was treated well and made many friends
among them. But the bravos have seen the results of contact with
civilized or supposedly civilized man, and they have no intention of
permitting the native rubber-gatherers or gold-seekers to secure a
foothold in their country. And when one has seen what association with
other races does to the red men, one cannot blame the Kunas if they
adopt stern measures to keep their tribe pure and undefiled.
Inhabitants of this same Darien are the true San Blas Indians, who have
ever been confused with the Kunas, but are quite distinct—a peaceable,
friendly tribe dwelling on the Atlantic coast and the neighboring
islets. In the old days they were sworn friends of the pirates, and
rendered every British freebooter inestimable aid, from the time of
Drake to that of Patterson. As sailors they are unexcelled, and many
buccaneer ships dropped anchor off the San Blas isles and picked up the
stocky brown Indians to act as pilots on their forays up and down the
coasts.
The buccaneers treated the Indians fairly wherever they met them,
although no doubt their attitude toward the red men was due to selfish
motives rather than to any sense of humanity or decency. They well knew
how the Indians were treated by the Spaniards; they knew that by
treating them kindly and fairly they could win their confidence and
friendship and thus enlist them as allies against the Dons; and, most
of all, they were compelled to depend upon them very largely for food.
But, whatever the reason, they never molested or disturbed the
aborigines. Even when, as often happened, the Indians of some hitherto
untouched locality attacked them, the buccaneers never retaliated.
Instead, they endeavored to mollify the savages, made overtures of
friendship, gave them presents, or, if they found it impossible to make
peace with them, left the spot and the natives to themselves. In all
their records there is not a single instance of the pirates’
maltreating or killing Indians except on occasions when the Dons had
Indian friends who took part in battles against the buccaneers or in
case of those who were the Spaniards’ servants.
As a result, the corsairs always were welcomed to the Indian villages;
they always found refuge there in time of need; and the Indians gladly
supplied them with game, grain, and vegetables, and even with canoes
and guides. Indeed, without the guides and the craft supplied by the
Kunas and Chokois, Sharp’s “dangerous voyage” could never have been
accomplished, for it would have been out of the question for the
buccaneers to cross the isthmus, to gain the Pacific, and to attack the
Spanish fleet.
But even with the Indians’ help the feat was marvelous. When one
attempts to follow their route to-day and sees the country through
which they traveled, one realizes the odds against them. So dense is
the jungle that in many places it is impossible to proceed a yard
without cutting a way through the tangle of lianas, thorny bush, spiny
palms, poisonous plants, and tangled, razor-edged saw-grass. There are
deep, swift rivers, precipitous mountain sides, impassable ravines; and
yet through this wilderness these daring men forced a way led by their
Indian friends—and got through safely.
It is bad enough to cross Darien afoot in the dry season, with every
convenience, but the pirates, three hundred strong, undertook the
journey in the rainy season, April, and for provisions had only “four
cakes of bread” apiece, while their equipment consisted of a fusee, a
pistol, and a hanger each. In order that there might be no mistake and
their fellows be taken for enemies, the company was divided into seven
parties, each carrying a flag of a distinguishing color. With six
Indians as guides the three hundred and twenty-seven men set forth.
Through the jungle and up the mountains they toiled, fording or
swimming the streams, often crossing the same river a dozen times,
beset by noxious insects, filled with superstitious fears of monstrous
fabulous beasts, constantly drenched with rain but never halting, never
hesitating. Here and there they came to Indian villages which,
according to descriptions by Ringrose and Dampier, were exactly like
those one finds in Darien to-day, and everywhere the friendly Indians
supplied them with plantains, cassava, corn, and game. At last, without
the loss of a man, and with fifty Indians who had joined the
expedition, they reached the Santa Maria (now Tuira) River and embarked
in sixty-eight canoes supplied by the Indians.
But Ringrose says:
If we had been tired whilst traveling by land before, certainly we
were in a worse condition in our canoes. For at a distance of every
stone’s cast we were constrained to get out of our boats and haul
them over sand or rocks or over trees that lay across and filled up
the river, yea, several times over the very points of land itself.
All of which very vividly and precisely describes the conditions one
meets when traveling in Darien to-day, as I know from personal
experience.
And when at last they gained the broader reaches of the river and swept
down upon the little frontier town of El Real de Santa Maria, and with
fifty men took the fort despite its garrison of two hundred and sixty
men (with a loss among the pirates of only one killed and two wounded),
they found to their chagrin that they were just too late. Only three
days previously the accumulated treasure from the Caña mine—over three
hundred pounds of gold ingots—had been taken by ship to Panama, and El
Real was as bare as old Mother Hubbard’s cupboard.
But the pirates had no mind to return empty-handed. The treasure had
gone to Panama, and other riches were there, too, no doubt. So,
tumbling into the frail dugouts, they started for the great city,
nothing daunted, and, as already described in a previous chapter,
boarded and captured the Spanish fleet, took possession of the
flag-ship, and, transforming her into a pirate vessel, ravished the
coast of South America, and eventually rounded the Horn, and reached
the Caribbean in safety.
El Real is still in existence, and just below the present village one
may yet see the crumbling ruins of the town Sharp and his men took at
the conclusion of that terrible journey, through the jungle, from the
Atlantic.
In the old days El Real de Santa Maria was an important outpost, the
heavily guarded, stockaded repository of vast quantities of gold taken
from La Caña and scores of other mines in the district; while to it
from what is now Colombia were brought gold-dust and emeralds. But
Sharp’s raid spelled the doom of Darien. The Dons, realizing that where
pirates had once crossed others could find a way, felt that treasure
was unsafe there; mine after mine was abandoned, in fear of piratical
forays and owing to constant uprisings among the Indians; garrisons
were withdrawn and towns deserted, and the once incredibly rich
district was left to half-wild negroes and primitive red men. What
settlements are there to-day are miserable, squalid holes; the
inhabitants are lazy and shiftless, and while Darien’s forests are
still dense with dyewoods, valuable timber, and medicinal plants, while
its rivers still flow over golden sands, and while its mountains still
hold fortunes in mineral wealth, it is for the most part an untamed,
impenetrable wilderness.