_Barracoa._
You will no doubt be surprised at receiving a letter from hence, but
here we are my dear friend, deprived of every thing we possessed,
in a strange country, of whose language we are ignorant, and where,
even with money, it would be impossible to procure what we have been
accustomed to consider as the necessaries of life. Yet here we have
found an asylum, and met with sympathy; not that of words, but active
and effectual sympathy, from strangers, which, perhaps, we should have
sought in vain in our own country, and among our own people.
We embarked at the Cape, Clara, myself and six servants, in a small
schooner, which was full of women, and bound to St. Jago. As soon as
we were out of the harbour a boat from a British frigate boarded us,
condemned the vessel as French property, and, without further ceremony,
sent the passengers on board another vessel which was lying near us,
and was going to Barracoa, where we arrived in three days, after having
suffered much from want of provisions and water. Every thing belonging
to us had been left in the schooner the English made a prize of. St.
Louis, having forseen the probability of this event, had made Clara
conceal fifty doubloons in her corset.
On our arrival at Barracoa, a Frenchman we had known at the Cape came
on board. He conducted us ashore, and procured us a room in a miserable
hut, where we passed the night on a board laid on the ground, it
being impossible to procure a mattrass. The next morning the first
consideration was clothes. There was not a pair of shoes to be found in
the place, nor any thing which we would have thought of employing for
our use if we had not been obliged by the pressure of necessity. Clara
had given a corner of our hut to a lady who, with two children, was
without a shilling.
While we were at breakfast, which we made of chocolate, served in
little calabashes, lent us by the people of the house, a priest of most
benign aspect entered, and addressing Clara in French, which he speaks
fluently, told her that having heard of our arrival and misfortunes,
he had come to offer his services, and enquired how we had passed the
night? Clara shewed him the boards on which we had slept. He rose
instantly, and calling the mistress of the house, spoke to her angrily.
I afterwards learned that he reproached her for not having informed him
of our distress as soon as we arrived. He took his leave and returned
in half an hour with three or four negroes who brought mattrasses, and
baskets filled with fowls, and every kind of fruit the island produces.
Then, telling Clara that his sister would call on her in the evening,
and begging her to consider him as her servant, and every thing he
possessed at her disposal, he went away. In the afternoon he returned
with his sister. She is a widow. Her manners are interesting, but she
speaks no language except her own, of which not one of us understood a
word.
Father Philip sent for the only shopkeeper in the place, who furnished
us with black silk for dresses, and some miserable linen. By the next
day we were decently equipped. We were then presented to the governor,
whose wife is divinely beautiful. Nothing can equal the lustre of her
eyes, or surpass the fascinating power of her graceful and enchanting
manners. The changes of her charming countenance express every emotion
of her soul, and she seems not to require the aid of words to be
understood. She conceived at once a fervent friendship for Clara, and
having learned our misfortunes from father Philip, insisted on our
living in her house whilst we remained at Barracoa. This point was
disputed by Donna Angelica, who said she had provided a chamber for
us in her own. But madame la Governadora was not to be thwarted; she
seized Clara by the arm, and drawing her playfully into another room,
insisted on dressing her _a la Espagnole_, which is nothing more than
a cambric _chemise_, cut very low in the bosom, an under petticoat of
linen, made very stiff with starch, and a muslin one over it, both very
short. To this is added, when they go out, a large black silk veil,
which covers the head and falls below the waist. By this dress the
beauty of the bosom, which is so carefully preserved by the French is
lost.
Clara looked very well in this costume, but felt uncomfortable. As
Donna Jacinta would not hear of our leaving her we consented to stay;
and a chamber was prepared for us. In the evening we walked through
the town, and were surprised to see such extreme want in this abode
of hospitality. The houses are built of twigs, interwoven like basket
work, and slightly thatched with the leaves of the palm tree, with no
other floor than the earth. The inhabitants sit on the ground, and eat
altogether out of the pot in which their food is prepared. Their bed is
formed of a dried hide, and they have no clothes but what they wear,
nor ever think of procuring any till these are in rags.
There are only three decent houses in the place, which belong to the
governor, to father Philip, and his sister; yet these good people are
happy, for they are contented. Their poverty is not rendered hideous
by the contrast of insolent pride or unfeeling luxury. They dose away
their lives in a peaceful obscurity, which if I do not envy, I cannot
despise. There are many French families here from St. Domingo; some
almost without resource; and this place offers none for talents of any
kind. It is not uncommon to hear the sound of a harp or piano from
beneath a straw built shed, or to be arrested by a celestial voice
issuing from a hut which would be supposed uninhabitable.
Clara studies with so much application the Spanish language that she
can already hold with tolerable ease a conversation, especially with
the seignora Jacinta, whose eyes are so eloquent that it would be
impossible not to understand her. She is a native of the Havanna, was
married very young, and her husband having been appointed governor of
Barracoa, was obliged to leave the gaiety and splendour of her native
place for this deserted spot, where fashion, taste or elegance had
never been known. It has been a little enlivened since the misfortunes
of the French have forced them to seek in it a retreat.
Jacinta has too much sensibility not to regret the change of situation;
but she never repines, and seeks to diffuse around her the cheerfulness
by which she is animated. From early prejudice she loves not the French
character. Fortunately Clara is an American; and the influence of her
enchanting qualities on the heart of her fair friend is strengthened by
the charm of novelty.
We are waiting for a vessel to carry us to St. Jago, and its arrival, I
assure you will fill us with regret.