WAIKNA;
OR,
ADVENTURES
ON THE
MOSQUITO SHORE.

BY SAMUEL A. BARD.

“Whatever sweets salute the northern sky,

With vernal lives, that blossom but to die;

These here disporting, own the kindred soil,

Nor ask luxuriance from the planter’s toil;

While sea-born gales their gelid wings expand,

To winnow fragrance round the smiling land.”

Goldsmith.

WITH SIXTY ILLUSTRATIONS.

NEW YORK:
HARPER & BROTHERS.
329 & 331 PEARL STREET.
1855.

Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1855, by
Harper & Brothers,
In the Clerk’s Office of the Southern District of New York.

PREFACE.

Scene.—A lonely shore.

Enter Yankee and Mosquito Man.

Well, my dark friend, who are you?

“Waikna!” A man!

And what is your nation?

“Waikna!” A nation of men!

Pretty good for you, my dark friend! There was once a great nation—a few old bricks are about all that remains of it now—whose people were proud to call themselves —— but then what do you know about the Romans?

“Him good for drink—him grog?”

Bah! No!

“Den no good! bah, too!”

Exeunt ambo.

Now such a dialogue took place, or might have taken place, on the Mosquito Shore. For all artistic purposes it did take place; and, as my book is chiefly devoted to the Mosquito man and his country, it shall be called Waikna—a word that, in the Mosquito tongue, means simply Man, but which is proudly claimed as the generic designation of the people of the entire coast.

CONTENTS.

ILLUSTRATIONS.

MAP of Mosquito Shore

The route of the author is indicated in the Map by a dotted line.

THE
MOSQUITO SHORE.

Chapter I.

A month in Jamaica is enough for any sinner’s punishment, let alone that of a tolerably good Christian. At any rate, a week had given me a surfeit of Kingston, with its sinister, tropical Jews, and variegated inhabitants, one-half black, one-third brown, and the balance as fair as could be expected, considering the abominable, unintelligible Congo-English which they spoke. Besides, the cholera which seems to be domesticated in Kingston, and to have become one of its local institutions, had begun to spread from the stews, and to invade the more civilized parts of the town. All the inhabitants, therefore, whom the emancipation had left rich enough to do so, were flying to the mountains, with the pestilence following, like a sleuth-hound, at their heels. Kingston was palpably no place for a stranger, and that stranger a poor-devil artist.

The cholera had cheated me of a customer. I was moody, and therefore swung myself in a hammock, lit a cigar, and held a grand inquisition on myself, as the poets are wont to do on their souls. It ran after this wise, with a very little noise but much smoke:—

“Life is pleasant at twenty-six. Do you like life?”

Rather.

“Then you can’t like the cholera?”

No!—with a hurried pull at the cigar.

“But you’ll have it here!”

Then I’ll be off!

“Where?”

Any where!

“Good, but the exchequer, my boy, how about that? You can’t get away without money.”

There was a long pause, a great cloud of smoke, and much swinging in the hammock, and a final echo—

Money! Yes, I must have money!

So I got up, spasmodically opened my portmanteau, dived deep amongst collars, pencils and foul linen, took out my purse, turned its contents on the table, and began to count.

Forty-three and a half, forty-four, forty-five, and this handful of small silver and copper. Call it fifty in all.

“Only fifty dollars!” ejaculated my mental interrogator.

Only fifty! responded I.

“’Twon’t do!”

I lit another cigar. It was clear enough, it wouldn’t do; and I got into the hammock again. Commend me to a hammock, (a pita hammock, none of your canvas abominations,) and a cigar, as valuable aids to meditation and self-communion of all kinds. There was a long silence, but the inquisition went on, until the cigar was finished. Finally “I’ll do it!” I exclaimed, in the voice of a man determined on some great deed, not agreeable but necessary, and I tossed the cigar stump out of the window. But what I determined to do, may seem no great thing after all; it was only to paint the portrait of my landlady.

“Yes, I’ll paint the old wench!”

Now, I am an artist, not an author, and have got the cart before the horse, inasmuch as my narrative does not preserve the “harmonies,” as every well-considered composition should do. It has just occurred to me that I should first have told who I am, and how I came to be in Jamaica, and especially in that filthy place, Kingston. It isn’t a long story, and if it is not too late, I will tell it now.

As all the world knows, there are people who sell rancid whale oil, and deal in soap, and affect a great contempt for artists. They look down grandly on the quiet, pale men who paint their broad red faces on canvas, and seem to think that the few greasy dollars which they grudgingly pay for their flaming immortality, should be received with meek confusion and blushing thanks, as a rare exhibition of condescension and patronage. I never liked such patronage, and therefore would paint no red faces. But there is a great difference between red, bulbous faces, and rosy faces. There was that sweet girl at the boarding-school in L—— Place, the Baltimore girl, with the dark eyes and tresses of the South, and the fair cheek and elastic step of the North! Of course, I painted her portrait, a dozen times at least, I should say. I could paint it now; and I fear it is more than painted on my heart, or it wouldn’t rise smiling here, to distract my thoughts, make me sigh, and stop my story.

An artist who wouldn’t paint portraits and had a soul above patronage—what was there for him to do in New York? Two compositions a year in the Art Union, got in through Mr. Sly, the manager, and a friend of mine, were not an adequate support for the most moderate man. I’ll paint grand historical paintings, thought I one day, and straightway purchased a large canvas. I had selected my subject, Balboa, the discoverer of the Pacific, bearing aloft the flag of Spain, rushing breast-deep in its waves, and claiming its boundless shores and numberless islands for the crown of Castile and Leon. I had begun to sketch in the plumed Indians, gazing in mute surprise upon this startling scene, when it occurred to me—for I have patches of common sense scattered amongst the flowery fields of my fancy—to count over the amount of my patrimonial portion. Grand historical paintings require years of study and labor, and I found I had but two hundred dollars, owed for a month’s lodging, and had an unsettled tailor’s account. It was clear that historical painting was a luxury, for the present at least, beyond my reach. It was then some evil spirit, (I strongly suspect it was the ——,) taking the cue doubtless from my projected picture, suggested:—

“Try landscape, my boy; you have a rare hand for landscapes—good flaming landscapes, full of yellow and vermillion, you know!”

Although there was no one in the room, I can swear to a distinct slap on the back, after the emphatic “you know” of the tempter. It was a true diabolical suggestion, the yellow and vermillion, but not so sulphurous as what followed:—

“Go to the tropics boy, the glorious tropics, where the sun is supreme, and never shares his dominion with blue-nosed, leaden-colored, rheumy-eyed frost-gods; go there, and catch the matchless tints of the skies, the living emerald of the forests, and the light-giving azure of the waters; go where the birds are rainbow-hued, and the very fish are golden; where—”

But I had heard enough; I was blinded by the dazzling panorama which Fancy swept past my vision, and cried, with enthusiastic energy,

“Hold; I’ll go to the glorious tropics!”

And I went—more’s the pity—in a little dirty schooner, full of pork and flour; and that is the way I came to be in Jamaica, dear reader, if you want to know. I had been there a month or more, and had wandered all over the really magnificent interior, and filled my portfolio with sketches. But that did not satisfy me; there were other tropical lands, where Nature had grander aspects, where there were broad lakes and high and snow-crowned volcanoes, which waved their plumes of smoke in mid-heaven, defiantly, in the very face of the sun; lands through whose ever-leaved forests Cortez, Balboa, and Alvarado, and Cordova had led their mailed followers, and in whose depths frowned the strange gods of aboriginal superstition, beside the deserted altars and unmarked graves of a departed and mysterious people. Jamaica was beautiful certainly, but I longed for what the transcendentalists call the sublimely-beautiful, or, in plain English, the combined sublime and beautiful—for, in short, an equatorial Switzerland. And, although Jamaica was fine in scenery, its dilapidated plantations, and filthy, lazy negroes, already more than half relapsed into native and congenial barbarism, were repugnant to my American notions and tastes. They grinned around me, those negroes, when I ate, and scratched their heads over my paper when I drew. They followed me every where, like black jackals, and jabbered their incomprehensive lingo in my ears until they deafened me. And then their odor under tropical heats! Faugh! “’Twas rank, and smelt to heaven!”

I had, therefore, come down from the interior to set up my easel in Kingston, paint a few views, and thereby raise the wind for a trip to the mainland. Of course, I did not fly from painting red-faced portraits in the United States, to paint ebony ones in Jamaica. My scruples, however, did not apply to customers. There was a “brown man,” which is genteel Jamaican for mulatto, who was an Assembly-man, or something of the kind, and wanted a view of the edifice at Spanish-town, wherein he legislated for the “emancipated island.” I had agreed to paint it for the liberal compensation of twenty pounds. But one hot, murky morning, my brown lawgiver took the cholera, and before noon was not only dead, but buried—and my picture only half-finished! Mem. As people have a practice of dying, always get your pay beforehand.

Voltaire, I believe, has said, that if a toad were asked his ideal of beauty, he would, most likely, describe himself, and dwell complacently on a cold, clammy, yellow belly, a brown, warty, corrugated back, and become ecstatic on the subject of goggle eyes. And, I verily believe, that if my landlady had been asked the same question, she would have coquettishly patted up her woolly curls over each oleaginous cheek, and glanced toward the mirror, by way of reply. Black, glossy black, and fat, marvelously fat, yet she was possessed, even she, of her full share of feminine vanity. There was no mistaking, from the first day of my arrival, that her head was running on a portrait of herself. She was fond of money and penurious, and careful, therefore, not to venture upon a proposition until she had got some kind of a clew as to what her immortality would be likely to cost. I had, however, diplomatically evaded all of her approaches, up to the unfortunate day when my Assembly-man died. She brought me the news herself, and saw that it annoyed rather than shocked me, and that I stopped painting with the air of a man abandoning a bad job. She evidently thought the time favorable for a coup de main; there was a gleam of cunning in her little, round, half-buried eyes, and the very ebony of her cheek lightened palpably, as she said:

“So your picture will be no good for nothing?”

No!

“You have not got the——?”

And she significantly rubbed the forefinger of one hand in the palm of the other.

No!

There was a pause, and then she resumed:

“I want a picture!”

Eh?

“A picture, you know!”

And now she complacently stroked down her broad face, and exhibited a wide, vermillion chasm, with a formidable phalanx of ivories, by way of a suggestive smile.

No, I never paint portraits!

“Not for ten pounds?”

No; nor for a hundred,—go!

And my landlady rolled herself out of the room with a motion which, had she weighed less than two hundred, might have passed for a toss.

It was on the evening of this day, and after this conversation, one half of the Assembly-house at Spanish-town staring redly from the canvas in the corner, that I lay in my hammock and soliloquized as aforesaid. It was thus and then, that I resolved to paint my landlady.

And having now, by means of this long parenthesis, restored the harmonies of my story, and got my horse and cart in correct relative positions, I am ready to go ahead.

I not only resolved to paint my landlady, but I did it, right over the half-finished Assembly-house. It was the first, and, by the blessing of Heaven, so long as there are good potatoes to be dug at the rate of six cents the bushel, it shall be my last portrait. I can not help laughing, even now, at that fat, glistening face, looking for all the world as if it had been newly varnished, surmounted by a gaudy red scarf, wound round the head in the form of a peaked turban; and two fat arms, rolling down like elephants’ trunks against a white robe for a background, which concealed a bust that passeth description. That portrait—“long may it wave!” as the man said, at the Kossuth dinner, when he toasted “The day we celebrate!”

MY LANDLADY.

My landlady was satisfied, and generous withal, for she not only paid me the ten pounds, and gave me my two weeks board and lodging in the bargain, but introduced me to a colored gentleman, a friend of hers, who sailed a little schooner twice a year to the Mosquito Shore, on the coast of Central America, where he traded off refuse rum and gaudy cottons for turtle-shells and sarsaparilla. There was a steamer from Kingston, once a month, to Carthagena, Chagres, San Juan, Belize, and “along shore;” but, for obvious reasons, I could not go in a steamer. So I struck up a bargain with the fragrant skipper, by the terms of which he bound himself to land me, bag and baggage, at Bluefields, the seat of Mosquito royalty, for the sum of three pounds, “currency.”

Why Captain Ponto (for so I shall call my landlady’s friend, the colored skipper) named his little schooner the “Prince Albert,” I can not imagine, unless he thought thereby to do honor to the Queen-Consort; for the aforesaid schooner had evidently got old, and been condemned, long before that lucky Dutchman woke the echoes of Gotha with his baby cries. The “Prince Albert” was of about seventy tons burden, built something on the model of the “Jung-frau,” the first vessel of the Netherlands that rolled itself into New York bay, like some unwieldy porpoise, after a rapid passage of about six months from the Hague. The wise men of the Historical Society have satisfactorily shown, after long and diligent research, that the “Jung-frau” measured sixty feet keel, sixty feet beam, and sixty feet hold, and was modeled after one of Rubens’ Venuses. The dimensions of the “Prince Albert” were every way the same, only twenty feet less. The sails were patched and the cordage spliced, and she did not leak so badly as to require more than six hours’ steady pumping out of the twenty-four. The crew was composed of Captain Ponto, Thomas, his mate, one seaman, and an Indian boy from Yucatan, whose business it was to cook and do the pumping. As may be supposed, the Indian boy did not rust for want of occupation.

It was a clear morning, toward the close of December, that Captain Ponto’s wife, a white woman, with a hopeful family of six children, the three eldest with shirts, and the three youngest without, came down to the schooner to see us off. I watched the parting over the after-bulwarks, and observed the tears roll down Mrs. Ponto’s cheeks as she bade her sable spouse good-by. I wondered if she really could have any attachment for her husband, and if custom and association had utterly worn away the natural and instinctive repugnance which exists between the superior and inferior races of mankind? I thought of the condition of Jamaica itself, and mentally inquired if it were not due to a grand, practical misconception of the laws of Nature, and the inevitable result of their reversal? It can not be denied that where the superior and inferior races are brought in contact, and amalgamate, there we uniformly find a hybrid stock springing up, with most, if not all of the vices, and few, if any of the virtues of the originals. And it will hardly be questioned, by those experimentally acquainted with the subject, that the manifest lack of public morality and private virtue, in the Spanish-American States, has followed from the fatal facility with which the Spanish colonists have intermixed with the negroes and Indians. The rigid and inexorable exclusion, in respect to the inferior races, of the dominant blood of North America, flowing through different channels perhaps, yet from the same great Teutonic source, is one grand secret of its vitality, and the best safeguard of its permanent ascendency.

Mrs. Ponto wept; and as we slowly worked our way outside of Port Royal, I could see her waving her apron, for she was innocent of a more classical signal, in fond adieus. We finally got out from under the lee of the land, and caught in our sails the full trade-wind, blowing steadily in the desired direction. I sat long on deck, watching the receding island sinking slowly in the bright sea, until Captain Ponto signified to me, in the patois of Jamaica, which the deluded people flatter themselves is English, that dinner was ready, and led the way into what he called the cabin. This cabin was a little den, seven feet by nine at the utmost, low, dark and dirty, with no light or air except what entered through the narrow hatchway, and, consequently, hot as an oven. Two lockers, one on each side, answered for seats by day, and, covered with suspicious mattresses, for beds by night. The cabin was sacred to Captain Ponto and myself, the mate having been displaced to make room for the gentleman who had paid three pounds for his passage! I question if the “Prince Albert” had ever before been honored with a passenger; certainly not since she had come into the hands of Captain Ponto, who therefore put his best foot forward, with a full consciousness of the importance of the incident. Ponto had been a slave once, and was consequently imperious and tyrannical now, toward all people in a subordinate relation to himself. Yet, as he had evidently been owned by a man of consequence, he had not entirely lost his early deference for the white man, and sometimes forgot Ponto the captain in Ponto the chattel. It was in the latter character only, that he was perfectly natural; and, although I derived no little amusement from his attempts to enact a loftier part, I shall not trouble the reader with an episode on Captain Ponto. He was a very worthy darkey, with a strong aversion to water, both exteriorly and internally. The mate, and the man who constituted the crew, were ordinary negroes of no possible account.

But Antonio, the Indian boy, who cooked and pumped, and then pumped and cooked—I fear he never slept, for when there was not a “sizzling” in the little black caboose, there was sure to be a screeching of the rickety pump—Antonio attracted my interest from the first; and it was increased when I found that he spoke a little English, was perfect in Spanish, and withal could read in both languages. There was something mysterious in finding him among these uncouth negroes, with his relatively fair skin, intelligent eyes, and long, well-ordered, black hair. He was like a lithe panther among lumbering bears; and he did his work in a way which accorded with his Indian character, without murmur, and with a kind of silent doggedness, that implied but little respect for his present masters. He seldom replied to their orders in words, and then only in monosyllables. I asked Captain Ponto about him, but he knew nothing, except that he was from Yucatan, and had presented himself on board only the day previously, and offered to work his passage to the main land. And Captain Ponto indistinctly intimated that he had taken the boy solely on my account, which, of course, led to the inference on my part, that the captain ordinarily did his own cooking. He also ventured a patronizing remark about the Indians generally, to the effect that they made very good servants, “if they were kept under;” which, coming from an ex-slave, I thought rather good.

ANTONIO.

All this only served to interest me the more in Antonio; and, although I succeeded in engaging him in ordinary conversation, yet I utterly failed in drawing him out, as the saying is, in respect to his past history, or future purposes. Whenever I approached these subjects he became silent and impassible, and his eyes assumed an expression of cold inquiry, not unmingled with latent suspicion, which half inclined me to believe that he was a fugitive from justice. Yet he did not look the felon or knave; and when the personal inquiries dropped, his face resumed its usual pleasant although sad expression, and I became ashamed that I had suspected him. There was certainly something singular about Antonio; but, as I could imagine no very profound mystery attaching to a cook, on board of the “Prince Albert,” after the first day, I made no attempts to penetrate his secrets, but sought rather to attach him to me, as a prospectively useful companion in the country to which I was bound. So I relieved him occasionally at the pump, although he protested against it; and finally, to the horror of Captain Ponto, and the palpable high disdain of the mate, I became so intimate with him as to show him my portfolio of drawings. His admiration, I found to my surprise, was always judiciously bestowed, and his appreciation of outline and coloring showed that he had the spirit of an artist. Several times, in glancing over the drawings, he stopped short, looked up, his face full of intelligence, as if about to speak, and I paused to listen. Each time, however, the smile vanished, the flexible muscles ceased their play and became rigid, and a cold, filmy mist settled over the clear eyes which had looked into mine. Whatever was Antonio’s secret, great or small, it was evidently one that he half-wished, half-feared to reveal. I was puzzled to think that there could exist any relation between it and my paintings; but Antonio was only a cook, and so I dismissed all reflection on the subject.

On our third day out, the weather, which up to that time had been clear and beautiful, began to change, and night settled black and threatening around us. The wind had increased, but it was loaded with sultry vapors—the hot breath of the storm which was pressing on our track. Captain Ponto was not a scientific sailor, and kept no other than what is called “dead reckoning.” He had made the voyage very often, and was confident of his course. Upon that point, therefore, I gave myself no uneasiness; not so much from faith in Captain Ponto, as because there was nothing in the world to be done, except to follow his opinion. Nevertheless the captain was serious, and consulted an antediluvian chart which he kept in his cabin. It was a Rembrandtish picture, that negro tracing his forefinger slowly over the chart, by the light of a candle, which only half revealed the little cabin, while it brought out his grizzly head and anxious face in strong relief against the darkness. What Captain Ponto learned from all this study is more than I can tell; but when he came on deck, he ordered a reef to be made in the sails, and a variation of several points in our course, for the wind not only freshened, but veered to the north-east. The hot blasts or puffs of air became more and more frequent, and occasional sheets of lightning gleamed along the horizon. The sea, too, was full of phosphorescent light; fiery monsters seemed to leap around us and wreath and twine their livid volumes in our wake. I could hear the hiss of their forked tongues where the waters closed under our stern. I stood, leaning over the bulwarks, gazing on the gleaming waves, and thinking of home—for the voyager on the great deep always thinks of home, when darkness envelops him, and the storm threatens—when Antonio silently approached, so silently that I did not hear him, and took his place at my side. I was somewhat startled, therefore, when, changing my position a little, I saw, by the dim, reflected light of the sea, his eyes fixed earnestly on mine. “Ah, Antonio,” I said, “is that you?” and I placed my hand familiarly on his shoulder. He shrank beneath it, as if it had been fire. “What’s the matter?” I exclaimed, reproachfully; “have I hurt you?”

“Pardon me!” he ejaculated, rather than spoke, in a voice deep and tremulous; “I know now that it is not you who will die to-night!”

“What do you mean? You are not afraid, Antonio? Who thinks of dying?” I replied, in a light tone.

“No! it is not myself. I was afraid it might be you; for, sir,” and he laid a hand cold and clammy as that of a corpse on mine; “for, sir, there is death on board this vessel!”

This was said in a voice so awed and earnest that I was impressed deeply, in spite of myself, and for some moments made no reply. “You talk wildly, Antonio,” I finally said; “we are going on bravely, and shall all be in Bluefields together in a day or two.”

“All of us, never,” he replied, “never! The Lord, who never lies, has told me so!” and, pressing near me, he drew from his bosom something resembling a small, round plate of crystal, except that it seemed to be slightly luminous, and veined or clouded with green. “See, see!” he exclaimed, rapidly, and held the object close to my eyes. I instinctively obeyed, and gazed intently upon it. As I gazed, the clouds of green seemed to concentrate and assume a regular form, as the moisture of one’s breath passes away from a mirror, until I distinctly saw, in the center, the miniature of a human head, of composed and dignified aspect, but the eyes were closed, and all the lineaments had the rigidity of death.

“Do you see?”

“I do!”

“It is Kucimen, the Lord who never lies!” and Antonio thrust his talisman in his bosom again, and slowly moved away. There was no mistake in what I had seen, and although I am not superstitious, yet the feeling that some catastrophe was impending gathered at my heart. It was in vain that I tried to smile at the Indian trick; the earnest voice of the Indian boy still sounded in my ears, “All of us, never!” What reason should he have for attempting to practice his Indian diablerie on any one, least of all on me? I rejected the thought, and endeavored to banish the subject from my mind.

Meanwhile the wind had gathered strength, and Captain Ponto had taken in sail, so that we had no more standing than was necessary to keep the vessel steady before the wind. The waves now began to rise, the gloom deepened, the hot puffs of air became more and more frequent, and the broad lightning-sheets rose from the horizon to the very zenith. The thunder, too, came rolling on, every peal more distinctly, and occasional heavy drops of rain fell with an ominous sound on the deck. The storm was evidently close at hand; and I left the side of the vessel, and approached the little cabin to procure my poncho, for I preferred the open deck and the storm to the suffocation below. The hatchway was nearly closed, but there was a light within. I stooped to remove the slide, and in doing so obtained a full view of the interior. The spectacle which presented itself was so extraordinary that I stopped short, and looked on in mute surprise. The candle was standing on the locker, and kneeling beside it was the captain. He was stripped to the waist, and held in one hand what appeared to be the horn of some animal, in which he caught the blood which dripped from a large gash in the fleshy part of his left arm, just above the elbow, while he muttered rapidly some rude and strangely-sounding words, unlike any I had ever before heard. My first impression was that Antonio had tried to fulfill his own prediction, by attempting the life of the captain; but I soon saw that he was performing some religious rite, a sacrifice or propitiation, such as the Obi men still teach in Jamaica and Santo Domingo, and which are stealthily observed, even by the negroes professing Christianity and having a nominal connection with the church. I recognized in the horn the mysterious gre-gre of the Gold Coast, where the lowest form of fetish worship prevails, and where human blood is regarded as the most acceptable of sacrifices. Respecting too rigidly all ceremonies and rites, which may contribute to the peace of mind of others, to think of disturbing them, I silently withdrew from the hatchway, and left the captain to finish his debasing devotions. In a short time he appeared on deck, and gave some orders in a calm voice, as one reassured and confident.

I was occupied below for only a few minutes, yet when I got on deck again the storm was upon us. The waves were not high, but the water seemed to be caught up by the wind, and to be drifted along, like snow, in blinding, drenching sheets. I was nearly driven off my feet by its force, and would have been carried overboard had I not become entangled in the rigging. The howling of the wind and the hissing of the water would have drowned the loudest voice, and I was so blinded by the spray that I could not see. Yet I could feel that we were driving before the hurricane with fearful rapidity. The very deck seemed to bend, as if ready to break, beneath our feet. I finally sufficiently recovered myself to be able, in the pauses of the wind, and when the lightning fell, to catch glimpses around me. Our sails were torn in tatters, the yards were gone, in fact every thing was swept from the deck except three dark figures, like myself, clinging convulsively to the ropes. On, on, half-buried in the sea, we drifted with inconceivable rapidity.

Little did we think that we were rushing on a danger more terrible than the ocean. The storm had buffeted us for more than an hour, and it seemed as if it had exhausted its wrath, and had begun to subside, when a sound, hoarse and steady, but louder even than that of the wind, broke on our ears. It was evident that we were approaching it, for every instant it became more distinct and ominous. I gazed ahead into the hopeless darkness, when suddenly a broad sheet of lightning revealed immediately before us, and not a cable’s length distant, what, under the lurid gleam, appeared to be a wall of white spray, dashing literally a hundred feet in the air—a hell of waters, from which there was no escape. “El Roncador!” shrieked the captain, in a voice of utter despair, that even then thrilled like a knife in my heart. The fearful moment of death had come, and I had barely time to draw a full breath of preparation for the struggle, when we were literally whelmed in the raging waters. I felt a shock, a sharp jerk, and the hiss and gurgle of the sea, a sensation of immense pressure, followed by a blow like that of a heavy fall. Again I was lifted up, and again struck down, but this time with less force. I had just enough consciousness left to know that I was striking on the sand, and I made an involuntary effort to rise and escape from the waves. Before I could gain my feet I was again struck down, again and again, until, nearer dead than alive, I at last succeeded in crawling to a spot where the water did not reach me. I strove to rise now, but could not; and, as that is the last thing I remember distinctly of that terrible night, I suppose I must have fallen into a swoon.

THE SHIPWRECK.

Chapter II.

How long I remained insensible I know not, but when my consciousness returned, which it did slowly, like the lifting of a curtain, I felt that I was severely hurt; and, before opening my eyes, tried to drive away my terrible recollections, as one rousing from a troubled dream tries to banish its features from his mind. It was in vain; and, with a sensation of despair, I opened my eyes! The morning sun was shining with blinding brilliancy, and I was obliged to close them again. Soon, however, I was able to bear the blaze, and, painfully lifting myself on my elbow, looked around me. The sea was thundering with awful force, not on the sandy shore where I was lying, but over a reef two hundred yards distant, within which the water was calm, or only disturbed by the combing waves, as they broke over the outer barrier. Here the first and only object which attracted my attention was our schooner, lying on her beam ends, high on the sands. The sea, the vessel, the blinding sun and glowing sand, and a bursting pain in my head, were too palpable evidences of my misfortune to be mistaken. It was no dream, but stern and severe reality, and for the moment I comprehended the truth. But, when younger, I had read of shipwrecks, and listened, with the interest of childhood, and a feeling half of envy, to the tales of old sailors who had been cast away on desert shores. And now, the first shock over, it was almost with a sensation of satisfaction, and something of exultation, that I exclaimed to myself, “shipwrecked at last!” Robinson Crusoe, and Reilly and his companions, recurred to my mind, and my impulse was to leap up and commence an emulative career. But the attempt was a failure, and brought me back to stern reality, in an instant. My limbs were torn and scarified, and my face swollen and stiff. The utmost I could do was to sit erect.

I now, for the first time, thought of my companions, and despairingly turned my eyes to look for them. Close by, and nearly behind me, sat Antonio, resting his head on his hands. His clothes were hanging around him in shreds, his hair was matted with sand, and his face was black with dried blood. He attempted to smile, but the grim muscles could not obey, and he looked at me in silence. I was the first to speak:

Are you much hurt, Antonio?

“The Lord of Mitnal never lies!” was his only response; and he pointed to the talisman on his swarthy breast, gleaming like polished silver in the sun. I remembered the scene of the previous night, and asked;—

Are they all dead?

He shook his head, in sign of ignorance.

Where are we, Antonio?

“This is El Roncador!”

And so it proved. We were on one of the numerous coral keys or cays which stud the sea of the Antilles, and which are the terror of the mariners who navigate it. They are usually mere banks of sand, elevated a few feet above the water, occasionally supporting a few bushes, or a scrubby, tempest-twisted palm or two, and only frequented by the sea-birds for rest and incubation, and by turtles for laying their eggs. Around them there is always a reef of coral, built up from the bottom of the sea by those wonderful architects, the coral insects. This reef surrounds the cay, at a greater or less distance, like a ring, leaving between it and the island proper a belt of water, of variable depth, and of the loveliest blue. The reef, which is sometimes scarcely visible above the sea, effectually breaks the force of the waves; and if, as it sometimes happens, it be interrupted so as to leave an opening for the admission of vessels, the inner belt of water forms a safe harbor. Except a few of the larger ones, none of these cays are inhabited, nor are they ever frequented, except by the turtle fishers.

It was to the peculiar conformation of these islands that our safety was owing. Our little vessel had been driven, or lifted by the waves, completely over the outer reef. The shock had torn us from our hold on the ropes, and we had drifted upon the comparatively protected sands. The vessel too, had been carried upon them, and the waves there not being sufficiently strong to break her in pieces, she was left high and dry when they subsided. There was, nevertheless, a broad break in her keel, caused probably by striking on the reef.

Two of the five human beings who had been on board of her, the captain and his mate, were drowned. We found their bodies;—but I am anticipating my story. When we had recovered ourselves sufficiently to walk, Antonio and myself took a survey of our condition. “El Roncador,” the Snorer, is a small cay, three quarters of a mile long, and at its widest part not more than four hundred yards broad,—a mere bank of white sand. At the eastern end is an acre or more of scrubby bushes, and near them three or four low and distorted palm-trees. Fortunately for us, as will be seen in the sequel, “El Roncador” is famous for the number of its turtles, and is frequented, at the turtle season, by turtle-fishers from Old Providence, and sometimes from the main land. Among the palm-trees, to which I have referred, these fishermen had erected a rude hut of poles, boards, and palm-branches, which was literally withed and anchored to the trees, to keep it from being blown away by the high winds. It was with a heart full of joy that I saw even this rude evidence of human intelligence, and, accompanied by Antonio, hastened to it as rapidly as my bruised limbs would enable me. We discovered no trace of recent occupation as we approached, except a kind of furrow in the sand, like that which some sea-monster, dragging itself along, might occasion. It led directly to the hut, and I followed it, with a feeling half of wonder, half of apprehension. As we came near, however, I saw, through the open front, a black human figure crouching within, motionless as a piece of bronze. Before it, stretched at length, was the dead body of Captain Ponto. The man was Frank, of whom I have spoken, as constituting the crew of the Prince Albert. It was a fearful sight! The body of the captain was swollen, the limbs were stiff and spread apart, the mouth and eyes open, and conveying an expression of terror and utter despair, which makes me shudder, even now, when I think of it. Upon his breast, fastened by a strong cord, drawn close at the throat, was the mysterious gre-gre horn, and the gash in his arm, from which the poor wretch had drawn the blood for his unavailing sacrifice, had opened wide its white edges, as if in mute appeal against his fate.

The negro sailor had drawn the body of the captain to the hut, and the trail in the sand was that which it had made. I spoke to him, but he neither replied nor looked up. His eyes were fixed, as if by some fascination, on the corpse. Antonio exhibited no emotion, but advancing close to the body lifted the gre-gre horn, eyed it curiously for a moment, then tossed it contemptuously aside, exclaiming:—

“It could not save him: it is not good!”

The words were scarcely uttered, when the crouching negro leaped, like a wild beast, at the Indian’s throat; but Antonio was agile, and evaded his grasp. The next instant the poor wretch had returned to his seat beside the dead. The negro could not endure a sneer at the potency of the gre-gre. Such is the hold of superstition on the human mind!

I tried to induce the negro to remove the body, and bury it in the sand; but he remained silent and impassible as a stone. So I returned with Antonio to the vessel, for the instincts of life had come back. We found, although the little schooner had been completely filled, that the water had escaped, and left the cargo damaged, but entire. Some of the provisions had been destroyed, and the remainder was much injured. Nevertheless they could be used, and for the time being, at least, we were safe from starvation. My spirits rose with the discovery, and I almost forgot my injuries in the joy of the moment. But Antonio betrayed no signs of interest. He lifted boxes and barrels, and placed them on the sands, as deliberately as if unloading the vessel at Kingston. I knew that it was not probable the wrecked schooner would suffer further damage from the sea, protected as it was by the outer reef, yet I sought to make assurance doubly sure, by removing what remained of the provisions to the hut by the palm-trees. Antonio suggested nothing, but implicitly followed my directions.

We had got out most of the stores, and carried them above the reach of the waters on the sands, when I went back to the hut, with the determination, by at once assuming a tone of authority, to have the negro remove and bury the body of the captain. I was surprised to find the hut empty, and a trail, like that which had attracted my notice in the morning, leading off in the direction of the bushes, at some distance from the hut. I followed it; and, in the centre of the clump, discovered the negro filling in the sand above the corpse. He mumbled constantly strange guttural words, and made many mysterious signs on the sand, as he proceeded. When the hole was entirely filled, he laid himself at length above it. I waited some minutes, but as he remained motionless, returned to the hut. We now commenced carrying to it, such articles of use as could be easily removed. But we had not accomplished much when Frank, the negro, presented himself; and, approaching me, inquired meekly what he should do. He was least injured of the three, and proved most serviceable in clearing the wreck of all of its useful and moveable contents.

By night I had bandaged my own wounds and those of my companions, and over a simple but profuse meal, forgot the horrors of the shipwreck, and gave myself up, with real zest, to the pleasures of a cast-away! I cannot well describe the sensation of mingled novelty and satisfaction, with which I looked out from the open hut upon the turbulent waters, whence we had so narrowly escaped. The sea still heaved from the effects of the storm, but the storm itself had passed, and the full tropical moon looked down calmly upon our island, which seemed silvery and fairy-like beneath its rays.

At first, all these things were quieting in their influences, but as the night advanced I must have become feverish, for notwithstanding the toils of the day, and the exhaustion of the previous night, I could not sleep. My thoughts were never so active. All that I had ever seen, heard, or done, flashed back upon my mind with the vividness of reality. But, owing to some curious psychical condition, my mind was only retrospectively active; I tried in vain to bring it to a contemplation of the present or the future. Incidents long forgotten jostled through my brain; the grave mingling strangely with the gay. Now I laughed outright over some freak of childhood, which came back with primitive freshness; and, next moment, wept again beside the bed of death, or found myself singing some hitherto unremembered nursery rhyme. I struggled against these thronging memories, and tried to ask myself if they might not be premonitions of delirium. I felt my own pulse, it beat rapidly; my own forehead, and it seemed to burn. In the vague hope of averting whatever this strange mental activity might portend, I rose and walked down to the edge of the water. I remember distinctly that the shore seemed black with turtles, and that I thought them creations of a disordered fancy, and became almost mad under the mere apprehension that the madness was upon me.

I might, and undoubtedly would, have become mad, had it not been for Antonio. He had missed me from the hut; and, in alarm, had come to seek me. I felt greatly relieved when he told me that there were real turtles on the shore, and not monsters of the imagination; and that it was now the season for laying their eggs, and therefore it could not be long before the fishers would come for their annual supply of shells. So I suffered him to lead me back to the hut. When I laid down he took my head between his hands, and pressed it steadily, but apparently with all his force. The effect was soothing, for in less than half an hour my ideas had recovered their equilibrium, and I fell into a slumber, and slept soundly until noon of the following day.

When I awoke, Antonio was sitting close by me, and intently watching every movement. He smiled when my eyes met his, and pointing to his forehead said significantly—

“It is all right now!”

And it was all right, but I felt weak and feverish still. A sound constitution, however, resisted all attacks, and it was not many days before I was able to move around our sandy prison, and join Antonio and Frank in catching turtles; for, with more foresight than I had supposed to belong to the Indian and negro character, they were laying in a stock of shells, against the time when we should find an opportunity of escape. Upon the side of our island, to which I have alluded as covered with bushes, the water was comparatively shoal, and the bottom overgrown with a species of sea-grass, which is a principal article of turtle-food. The surface of the water, also, was covered with a variety of small blubber fish, which Antonio called by the Spanish name of dedales, or thimbles—a name not inappropriate, since they closely resembled a lady’s thimble both in shape and size. These, at the spawning or egg-laying period of the year, constitute another article of turtle-food. During the night-time the turtles crawled up on the shore, and the females dug holes in the sand, each about two feet deep, in which they deposited from sixty to eighty eggs. These they contrived to cover so neatly, as to defy the curiosity of one unacquainted with their habits. Both Antonio and Frank, however, were familiar with turtle-craft, and got as many eggs as we desired. When roasted, they are really delicious. The Indians and people of the coasts never destroy them, being careful to promote the increase of this valuable shell-fish. But on the main land, wild animals, such for instance as the cougar, frequently come down to the shore, and dig them from their resting places. Occasionally they capture the turtles themselves, and dragging them into the forest, kill and devour them, in spite of their shelly armor.

“SHELLING” TURTLES.

It was during the night, therefore, that Antonio and Frank, who kept themselves concealed in the bushes, rushed out upon the turtles, and with iron hooks turned them on their backs, when they became powerless and incapable of moving. The day following, they dragged them to the most distant part of the island, where they “shelled” them;—a cruel process, which it made my flesh creep to witness. Before describing it, however, I must explain that, although the habits of all varieties of the turtle are much the same, yet their uses are very different. The large, green turtle is best known; it frequently reaches our markets, and its flesh is esteemed, by epicures, as a great delicacy. The flesh of the smaller or hawk-bill variety is not so good, but its shell is most valuable, being both thicker and better-colored. What is called tortoise-shell is not, as is generally supposed, the bony covering or shield of the turtle, but only the scales which cover it. These are thirteen in number, eight of them flat, and five a little curved. Of the flat ones four are large, being sometimes a foot long and seven inches broad, semi-transparent, elegantly variegated with white, red, yellow, and dark brown clouds, which are fully brought out, when the shell is prepared and polished. These laminæ, as I have said, constitute the external coating of the solid or bony part of the shell; and a large turtle affords about eight pounds of them, the plates varying from an eighth to a quarter of an inch in thickness.

The fishers do not kill the turtles; did they do so, they would in a few years exterminate them. When the turtle is caught, they fasten him, and cover his back with dry leaves or grass, to which they set fire. The heat causes the plates to separate at their joints. A large knife is then carefully inserted horizontally beneath them, and the laminæ lifted from the back, care being taken not to injure the shell by too much heat, nor to force it off, until the heat has fully prepared it for separation. Many turtles die under this cruel operation, but instances are numerous in which they have been caught a second time, with the outer coating reproduced; but, in these cases, instead of thirteen pieces, it is a single piece. As I have already said, I could never bring myself to witness this cruelty more than once, and was glad that the process of “scaling” was carried on out of sight of the hut. Had the poor turtles the power of shrieking, they would have made that barren island a very hell, with their cries of torture.

A SAIL! A SAIL!

We had been nearly two weeks on the island, when we were one morning surprised by a sail on the edge of the horizon. We watched it eagerly, and as it grew more and more distinct, our spirits rose in proportion. Its approach was slow, but at noon Frank declared that it was a turtle schooner, from the island of Catarina or Providence, and that it was making for “El Roncador.” And the event proved that he was right; for, about the middle of the afternoon, she had passed an opening through the reef, and anchored in the still water inside. She had a crew of five men, in whom it was difficult to say if white, negro, or Indian blood predominated. They spoke a kind of patois, in which Spanish was the leading element. And although we were unqualifiedly glad to see them, yet they were clearly not pleased to see us. The patrón, or captain, no sooner put his foot on shore, than affecting to regard us as intruders, he demanded why we were there? and if we did not know that this island was the property of the people of Catarina? We replied by pointing to our shattered schooner, when the whole party started for it, and unceremoniously began to strip it of whatever article of use or value they could find, leaving us to the pleasant reflections which such conduct was likely to suggest.

While this was going on, I returned to the hut, and found that Antonio and Frank had already removed the shells which they had procured, as also some other valuables which we had recovered from the wreck, and had buried them in the sand—a prudent precaution, which no doubt saved us much trouble. A little before sundown, our new friends, having apparently exhausted the plunder, came trooping back to the hut, and without ceremony ordered us out. I thought, although the physical force was against us, that a little determination might make up for the odds, and firmly replied that they might have a part of it, if they wished, but that we were there, and intended to remain. The patron hereupon fell into a great passion, and told his men to bring up the machétes—ugly instruments, half knife, half cleaver. “He would see,” he said, in his mongrel tongue, “if this white villain would refuse to obey him.” Two of the men started to fulfill his order, while he stood scowling in the doorway. When they had got off a little distance, I unrolled a blanket in which I had wrapped our pistols, and giving one to Frank, and another to Antonio, I took my own revolver, and passed outside of the hut. The patron fell back, in evident alarm.

“Now, amigo,” said I, “if you want a fight, you shall have it; but you shall die first!” And I took deliberate aim at his breast, at a distance of less than five yards. “Mother of Mercy!” he exclaimed, and glanced round, as if for support, to his followers. But they had taken to their legs, without waiting for further proceedings. The patron attempted to follow, but I caught him by the arm, and pressed the cold muzzle of the pistol to his head. He trembled like an aspen, and sunk upon the ground, crying in most abject tones for mercy. I released him, but he did not attempt to stir. The circumstances were favorable for negotiation, and in a few minutes it was arranged that we should continue to occupy the hut, and that he should remain with us, while his crew should stay on board the vessel, when not engaged in catching turtles. He did not like the exception in his favor; but, fearing that he might pull up anchor and leave us to our fate, I insisted that I could not forego the pleasure of his company.

The reader may be sure that I had a vigilant eye on our patron, and at night either Antonio or Frank kept watch, that he should not give us the slip. He made one or two attempts, but finding us prepared, at the end of a couple of days, resigned himself to his fate. Contenting ourselves with our previous spoil, we allowed the new comers to pursue the fishery alone. At the end of a week I discovered, by various indications, that the season was nearly over, and, accordingly, making a careless display of my revolver, told the captain that I thought it would be more agreeable for us to go on board his schooner, than to remain on shore. I could see that the proposition was not acceptable, and therefore repeated it, in such a way that there was no alternative but assent left. He was a good deal surprised when he discovered the amount of shells which we had obtained; and when I told him that he should have half of it, for carrying us to Providence, and the whole if he took us to Bluefields, his good nature returned. He asked pardon for his rudeness, and, slapping his breast, proclaimed himself “un hombre bueno,” who would take us to the world’s end, if I would only put up my horrible pistol. That pistol, from the very first day, had had a kind of deadly fascination for the patron, who watched it, as if momentarily expecting it to discharge itself at his head. And even now, when he alluded to it, a perceptible shudder ran through his frame.

Two days after I had taken up my quarters on board of the little schooner, which, in age and accumulated filth, might have been twin-brother of the Prince Albert, we set sail from “El Roncador.” As it receded in the distance, it looked very beautiful—an opal in the sea—and I could hardly realize that it was nothing more than a reef-girt heap of desert sands.

Although friendly relations had been restored with the patron, for the crew seemed nearly passive, I kept myself constantly on my guard against foul play. Antonio was sleeplessly vigilant. But the patron, so far from having evil designs, appeared really to have taken a liking to me, and expatiated upon the delights of Providence, where he represented himself as being a great man, with much uncouth eloquence. He promised that I should be well received, and that he would himself get up a dance—which he seemed to think the height of civility—in my honor.

“EL RONCADOR.”

About noon, on our third day from “El Roncador,” the patron pointed out to me two light blue mounds, one sharp and conical, and the other round and broad, upon the edge of the horizon. They were the highlands of Providence. Before night, we had doubled the rocky headland of Santa Catarina, crowned with the ruins of some old Spanish fortifications, and in half an hour were at anchor, alongside a large New Granadian schooner, in the small but snug harbor of the island.

This island is almost unknown to the world; it has, indeed, very little to commend it to notice. Although accounted a single island, it is, in fact, two islands; one is six or eight miles long, and four or five broad, and but moderately elevated; while the second, which is a rocky headland, called Catarina, is separated from the main body by a narrow but deep channel. The whole belongs to New Granada, and has about three hundred inhabitants, extremely variegated in color, but with a decided tendency to black. This island was a famous resort of the pirates, during their predominance in these parts, who expelled the Spaniards, and built defences, by means of which they several times repelled their assailants.

The productions consist chiefly of fruits and vegetables; a little cotton is also raised, which, with the turtle-shells collected by the inhabitants, constitutes about the only export of the island. Vessels coming northward sometimes stop there, for a cargo of cocoa-nuts and yucas.

As can readily be imagined, the people are very primitive in their habits, living chiefly in rude, thatched huts, and leading an indolent, tropical life, swinging in their hammocks and smoking by day, and dancing, to the twanging of guitars, by night. My patron, whom I had suspected of being something of a braggart, was in reality a very considerable personage in Providence, and I was received with great favor by the people, to whom he introduced me as his own “very special friend.” I thought of our first interview on “El Roncador,” but suppressed my inclination to laugh, as well as I was able. True to his promise, the second night after our arrival was dedicated to a dance. The only preparation for it consisted in the production of a number of large wax candles, resembling torches in size, and the concoction of several big vessels of drink, in which Jamaica rum, some fresh juice of the sugar-cane, and a quantity of powdered peppers were the chief ingredients. The music consisted of a violin, two guitars and a queer Indian instrument, resembling a bow, the string of which, if the critic will pardon the bull, was a brass wire drawn tight by means of a perforated gourd, and beaten with a stick, held by the performer, between his thumb and forefinger.

I cannot attempt to describe the dance, which, not over delicate at the outset, became outrageous as the calabashes of liquor began to circulate. Both sexes drank and danced, until most could neither drink nor dance; and then, it seemed to me, they all got into a general quarrel, in which the musicians broke their respective instruments over each other’s heads, then cried, embraced, and were friends again. I did not wait for the end of the debauch, which soon ceased to be amusing; but, with Antonio, stole away, and paddled off to the little schooner, where the last sounds that rung in my ears were the shouts and discordant songs of the revelers.

Providence, it can easily be understood, offered few attractions to an artist minus the materials for pursuing his vocation; and I was delighted when I learned that the New Granadian schooner was on the eve of her departure for San Juan de Nicaragua. Her captain readily consented to land me at Bluefields, and our patron magnificently waived all claims to the tortoise-shells which we had obtained at “El Roncador.” I had no difficulty in selling them to the captain of “El General Bolivar” for the unexpected sum of three hundred dollars. Fifty dollars of these I gave to the negro Frank, who was quite at home in Providence. I offered to divide the rest with Antonio, but he refused to receive any portion of it, and insisted on accompanying me without recompense. “You are my brother,” said he, “and I will not leave you.” And here I may add that, in all my wanderings, he was my constant companion and firm and faithful friend. His history, a wild and wonderful tale, I shall some day lay before the world: for Antonio was of regal stock, the son and lieutenant of Chichen Pat, one of the last and bravest of the chiefs of Yucatan, who lost his life, under the very walls of Merida, in the last unsuccessful rising of the aborigines; and I blush to add that the fatal bullet, which slew the hope of the Indians, was sped from the rifle of an American mercenary!

Chapter III.

The approach to the coast, near Bluefields, holds out no delusions. The shore is flat, and in all respects tame and uninteresting. A white line of sand, a green belt of trees, with no relief except here and there a solitary palm, and a few blue hills in the distance, are the only objects which are offered to the expectant eyes of the voyager. A nearer approach reveals a large lagoon, protected by a narrow belt of sand, covered, on the inner side, with a dense mass of mangrove trees; and this is the harbor of Bluefields. The entrance is narrow, but not difficult, at the foot of a high, rocky bluff, which completely commands the passage.

The town, or rather the collection of huts called by that name, lies nearly nine miles from the entrance. After much tacking, and backing, and filling, to avoid the innumerable banks and shallows in the lagoon, we finally arrived at the anchorage. We had hardly got our anchor down, before we were boarded by a very pompous black man, dressed in a shirt of red check, pantaloons of white cotton cloth, and a glazed straw hat, with feet innocent of shoes, whose office nobody knew, further than that he was called “Admiral Rodney,” and was an important functionary in the “Mosquito Kingdom.” He bustled about, in an extraordinary way, but his final purpose seemed narrowed down to getting a dram, and pocketing a couple of dollars, slily slipped into his hand by the captain, just before he got over the side. When he had left, we were told that we could go on shore.

Bluefields is an imperial city, the residence of the court of the Mosquito Kingdom, and therefore merits a particular description. As I have said, it is a collection of the rudest possible thatched huts. Among them are two or three framed buildings, one of which is the residence of a Mr. Bell, an Englishman, with whom, as I afterwards learned, resided that world-renowned monarch, “George William Clarence, King of all the Mosquitos.” The site of the huts is picturesque, being upon comparatively high ground, at a point where a considerable stream from the interior enters the lagoon. There are two villages; the principal one, or Bluefields proper, which is much the largest, containing perhaps five hundred people; and “Carlsruhe,” a kind of dependency, so named by a colony of Prussians who had attempted to establish themselves here, but whose colony, at the time of my visit, had utterly failed. Out of more than a hundred of the poor people, who had been induced to come here, but three or four were left, existing in a state of great debility and distress. Most of their companions had died, but a few had escaped to the interior, where they bear convincing witness to the wickedness of attempting to found colonies, from northern climates, on low, pestiferous shores, under the tropics.

Among the huts were many palm and plantain trees, with detached stalks of the papaya, laden with its large golden fruit. The shore was lined with canoes, pitpans and dories, hollowed from the trunks of trees, all sharp, trim, and graceful in shape. The natives propel them, with great rapidity, by single broad-bladed paddles, struck vertically in the water, first on one side, and then on the other.[1]

There was a large assemblage on the beach, when we landed, but I was amazed to find that, with few exceptions, they were all unmitigated negros, or Sambos (i. e. mixed negro and Indian). I had heard of the Mosquito shore as occupied by the Mosquito Indians, but soon found that there were few, if any, pure Indians on the entire coast. The miserable people who go by that name are, in reality, Sambos, having a considerable intermixture of trader blood from Jamaica, with which island the coast has its principal relations. The arrival of the traders on the shore is the signal for unrestrained debauchery, always preluded by the traders baptizing, in a manner not remarkable for its delicacy or gravity, all children born since their last visit, in whom there is any decided indication of white blood. The names given on these occasions are as fantastic as the ceremony, and great liberties are taken with the cognomens of all notabilities, living and dead, from “Pompey” down to “Wellington.”

Our first concern in Bluefields was to get a roof to shelter us, which we finally succeeded in doing, through the intervention of the captain of the “Bolivar.” That is to say, a dilapidated negro from Jamaica, hearing that I had just left that delectable island, claimed me as his countryman, and gave me a little deserted thatched hut, the walls of which were composed of a kind of wicker work of upright canes, interwoven with palm leaves. This structure had served him, in the days of his prosperity, as a kitchen. It was not more than ten feet square, but would admit a hammock, hung diagonally from one corner to the other. To this abbreviated establishment, I moved my few damaged effects, and in the course of the day, completely domesticated myself. Antonio exhibited the greatest aptness and industry in making our quarters comfortable, and evinced an elasticity and cheerfulness of manner unknown before. In the evening, he responded to the latent inquiry of my looks, by saying, that his heart had become lighter since he had reached the continent, and that his Lord gave promise of better days.

“Look!” he exclaimed, as he held up his talisman before my eyes. It emitted a pale light, which seemed to come from it in pulsations, or radiating circles. It may have been fancy, but if so, I am not prepared to say that all which we deem real is not a dream and a delusion!

My host was a man of more pretensions than Captain Ponto, but otherwise very much of the same order of African architecture. From his cautious silence, on the subject of his arrival on the coast, I inferred that he had been brought out as a slave, some thirty-five or forty years ago, when several planters from Jamaica attempted to establish themselves here. However that may have been, he now called himself a “merchant,” and appeared proud of a little collection of “osnaburgs,” a few red bandanna handkerchiefs, flanked by a dingy cask of what the Yankees would call “the rale critter,” which occupied one corner of his house or rather hut. He brooded over these with unremitting care, although I believe I was his only customer, (to the extent of a few fish hooks), during my stay in Bluefields. He called himself Hodgson, (the name, as I afterwards learned, of one of the old British superintendents,) and based his hopes of family immortality upon a son, whom he respectfully called Mister James Hodgson, and who was, he said, principal counselor to the king. This information, communicated to me within two hours after my arrival, led me to believe myself in the line of favorable presentation at court. But I found out afterwards, that this promising scion of the house of Hodgson was “under a cloud,” and had lost the sunshine of imperial favor, in consequence of having made some most indiscreet confessions, when taken a prisoner, a few years before, by the Nicaraguans. However, I was not destined to pine away my days in devising plans to obtain an introduction to his Mosquito Majesty. For, rising early on the morning subsequent to my arrival, I started out to see the sights of Bluefields. Following a broad path, leading to a grove of cocoa-nut trees, which shadowed over the river, tall and trim, I met a white man, of thin and serious visage, who eyed me curiously for a moment, bowed slightly, and passed on in silence. The distant air of an Englishman, on meeting an American, is generally reciprocated by equally frigid formality. So I stared coldly, bowed stiffly, and also passed on. I smiled to think what a deal of affectation had been wasted on both sides, for it would have been unnatural if two white men were not glad to see each others’ faces in a land of ebony like this. So I involuntarily turned half round, just in time to witness a similar evolution on the part of my thin friend. It was evident that his thoughts were but reflections of my own, and being the younger of the two, I retraced my steps, and approached him with a laughing “Good morning!” He responded to my salutation with an equally pregnant “Good morning,” at the same time raising his hand to his ear, in token of being hard of hearing. Conversation opened, and I at once found I was in the presence of a man of superior education, large experience, and altogether out of place in the Mosquito metropolis. After a long walk, in which we passed a rough board structure, surmounted by a stumpy pole, supporting a small flag—a sort of hybrid between the Union Jack and the “Stars and Stripes”—called by Mr. Bell the “House of Justice,” I accepted his invitation to accompany him home to coffee.

His house was a plain building of rough boards, with several small rooms, all opening into the principal apartment, in which I was invited to sit down. A sleepy-looking black girl, with an enormous shock of frizzled hair, was sweeping the floor, in a languid, mechanical way, calculated to superinduce yawning, even after a brisk morning walk. The partitions were hung with many prints, in which “Her Most Gracious Majesty” appeared in all the multiform glory of steel, lithograph, and chromotint. A gun or two, a table in the corner, supporting a confused collection of books and papers, with some ropes, boots, and iron grapnels beneath, a few chairs, a Yankee clock, and a table, completed the furniture and decoration of the room. I am thus particular in this inventory, for reasons which will afterward appear.

At a word from Mr. Bell, the torpid black girl disappeared for a few moments, and then came back with some cups and a pot of coffee. I observed that there were three cups, and that my host filled them all, which I thought a little singular, since there were but two of us. A faint, momentary suspicion crossed my mind, that the female polypus stood in some such relation to my host as to warrant her in honoring us with her company. But, instead of doing so, she unceremoniously pushed open a door in the corner, and curtly ejaculated to some unseen occupant, “Get up!” There was a kind of querulous response, and directly a thumping and muttering, as of some person who regarded himself as unreasonably disturbed. Meanwhile we had each finished our first cup of coffee, and were proceeding with a second, when the door in the corner opened, and a black boy, or what an American would be apt to call, a “young darkey,” apparently nineteen or twenty years old, shuffled up to the table. He wore only a shirt, unbuttoned at the throat, and cotton pantaloons, scarcely buttoned at all. He nodded to my entertainer with a drawling “Mornin’, sir!” and sat down to the third cup of coffee. My host seemed to take no notice of him, and we continued our conversation. Soon after, the sloven youth got up, took his hat, and slowly walked down the path to the river, where I afterward saw him washing his face in the stream.

As I was about leaving, Mr. Bell kindly volunteered his services to me, in any way they might be made available. I thanked him, and suggested that, having no object to accomplish except to “scare up” adventures and seek out novel sights, I should be obliged to him for an introduction to the king, at some future day, after Antonio should have succeeded in rejuvenating my suit of ceremony, now rather rusty from saturation with salt water. He smiled faintly, and said, as for that matter, there need be no delay; and, stepping to the door, shouted to the black youth by the river, and beckoned to him to come up the bank. The youth put on his hat hurriedly, and obeyed. “Perhaps you are not aware that is the king?” observed my host, with a contemptuous smile. I made no reply, as the youth was at hand. He took off his hat respectfully, but there was no introduction in the case, beyond the quiet observation, “George, this gentleman has come to see you; sit down!”

I soon saw who was the real “king” in Bluefields. “George,” I think, had also a notion of his own on the subject, but was kept in such strict subordination that he never manifested it by words. I found him shy, but not without the elements of an ordinary English education, which he had received in England. He is nothing more or less than a negro, with hardly a perceptible trace of Indian blood, and would pass at the South for “a likely young fellow, worth twelve hundred dollars as a body-servant!”

The second day after my arrival was Sunday, and in the forenoon, Mr. Bell read the service of the English Church, in the “House of Justice.” There were perhaps a dozen persons present, among them the king, who was now dressed plainly and becomingly, and who conducted himself with entire propriety. I could not see that he was treated with any special consideration; while Mr. Bell received marked deference.

It is a curious fact that although the English have had relations, more or less intimate, with this shore, ever since the pirates made it their retreat, during the glorious days of the buccaneers, they have never introduced the Gospel. The religion of the “kingdom” was declared by the late king, in his will, to be “the Established Church of England,” but the Established Church has never taken steps to bring the natives within its aristocratic fold. Several dissenting missionaries have made attempts to settle on the coast, but as the British officers and agents never favored them, they have met with no success. Besides, the Sambos are strongly attached to heathenish rites, half African and half Indian, in which what they call “big drunk” is not the least remarkable feature. Some years ago a missionary, named Pilley, arrived at Sandy Bay, for the purpose of reclaiming the “lost sheep.” A house was found for him, and he commenced preaching, and for a few Sundays enticed some of the leading Sambos to hear him, by giving them each a glass of grog. At length, one Sabbath afternoon, a considerable number of the natives attended to hear the stranger talk, and to receive the usual spiritual consolation. But the demijohn of the worthy minister had been exhausted. He nevertheless sought to compensate for the deficiency by a more vehement display of eloquence, and for a time flattered himself that he was producing a lasting impression. His discourse, however, was suddenly interrupted by one of the chiefs, who rose and indignantly exclaimed, “All preach—no grog—no good!” and with a responsive “No good!” the audience followed him, as he stalked away, leaving the astonished preacher to finish his discourse to two or three Englishmen present.

In Bluefields the natives are kept in more restraint than elsewhere on the coast; but even here it has been found impossible to suppress their traditional practices, especially when connected with their superstitions. My venerable friend Hodgson, after “service,” informed me that a funeral was to take place, at a small settlement, a few miles up the river, and volunteered to escort me thither in his pitpan, if Antonio would undertake to do the paddling. The suggestion was very acceptable, and after a very frugal dinner, on roast fish and boiled plantains, we set out. But we were not alone; we found dozens of pitpans starting for the same destination, filled with men and women. It is impossible to imagine a more picturesque spectacle than these light and graceful boats, with occupants dressed in the brightest colors, darting over the placid waters of the river, now gay in the sunlight, and anon sobered in the shadows of the trees which studded the banks. There was a keen strife among the rowers, who, amid shouts and screeches, in which both men and women joined, exerted themselves to the utmost. Even Antonio smiled at the scene, but it was half contemptuously, for he maintained, in respect to these mongrels, the reserve of conscious superiority.

GOING TO THE FUNERAL.

Less than an hour brought us in view of a little collection of huts, grouped on the shore, under the shadow of a cluster of palm-trees, which, from a distance, presented a picture of entrancing beauty. A large group of natives had already collected on the shore, and, as we came near, we heard the monotonous beating of the native drum, or tum-tum, relieved by an occasional low, deep blast on a large hollow pipe, which sounded more like the distant bellowing of an ox than any thing else I ever heard. In the pauses, we distinguished suppressed wails, which continued for a minute perhaps, and were then followed by the monotonous drum and droning pipe. The descriptions of similar scenes in Central Africa, given to us by Clapperton and Mungo Park, recurred to me with wonderful vividness, and left the impression that the ceremonies going on were rather African than American in their origin.

On advancing to the huts, and the centre of the group, I found a small pitpan cut in half, in one part of which, wrapped in cotton cloth, was the dead body of a man of middle age, much emaciated, and horribly disfigured by what is called the bulpis, a species of syphilitic leprosy, which is almost universal on the coast, and which, with the aid of rum, has already reduced the population to one half what it was twenty years ago. This disgusting disease is held in such terror by the Indians of the interior, that they have prohibited all sexual relations, between their people and the Sambos of the coast, under the penalty of death.

A MOSQUITO BURIAL.

Around the pitpan were stationed a number of women, with palm branches, to keep off the flies, which swarmed around the already festering corpse. Their frizzled hair started from their heads like the snakes on the brow of the fabled Gorgon, and they swayed their bodies to and fro, keeping a kind of tread-mill step to the measure of the doleful tum-tum. With the exception of the men who beat the drum and blew the pipe, these women appeared to be the only persons at all interested in the proceedings. The rest were standing in groups, or squatted at the roots of the palm-trees. I was beginning to get tired of the performance, when, with a suddenness which startled even the women around the corpse, four men, entirely naked excepting a cloth wrapped round their loins, and daubed over with variously-colored clays, rushed from the interior of one of the huts, and hastily fastening a piece of rope to the half of the pitpan containing the corpse, dashed away towards the woods, dragging it after them, like a sledge. The women with the Gorgon heads, and the men with the drum and trumpet, followed them on the run, each keeping time on his respective instrument. The spectators all hurried after, in a confused mass, while a big negro, catching up the remaining half of the pitpan, placed it on his head, and trotted behind the crowd.

The men bearing the corpse entered the woods, and the mass of the spectators, jostling each other in the narrow path, kept up the same rapid pace. At the distance of perhaps two hundred yards, there was an open place, covered with low, dank, tangled underbush, still wet from the rain of the preceding night, which, although unmarked by any sign, I took to be the burial place. When I came up, the half of the pitpan containing the body had been put in a shallow trench. The other half was then inverted over it. The Gorgon-headed women threw in their palm-branches, and the painted negroes rapidly filled in the earth. While this was going on, some men were collecting sticks and palm-branches, with which a little hut was hastily built over the grave. In this was placed an earthen vessel, filled with water. The turtle-spear of the dead man was stuck deep in the ground at his head, and a fantastic fellow, with an old musket, discharged three or four rounds over the spot.

This done, the entire crowd started back in the same manner it had come. No sooner, however, did the painted men reach the village, than, seizing some heavy machetes, they commenced cutting down the palm-trees which stood around the hut that had been occupied by the dead Sambo. It was done silently, in the most hasty manner, and when finished, they ran down to the river, and plunged out of sight in the water—a kind of lustration or purifying rite. They remained in the water a few moments, then hurried back to the hut from which they had issued, and disappeared.

This savage and apparently unmeaning ceremony was explained to me by Hodgson, as follows: Death is supposed by the Sambos to result from the influences of a demon, called Wulasha, who, ogre-like, feeds upon the bodies of the dead. To rescue the corpse from this fate, it is necessary to lull the demon to sleep, and then steal away the body and bury it, after which it is safe. To this end they bring in the aid of the drowsy drum and droning pipe, and the women go through a slow and soothing dance. Meanwhile, in the recesses of some hut, where they cannot be seen by Wulasha, a certain number of men carefully disguise themselves, so that they may not afterwards be recognized and tormented; and when the demon is supposed to have been lulled to sleep, they seize the moment to bury the body. I could not ascertain any reason for cutting down the palm-trees, except that it had always been practiced by their ancestors. As the palm-tree is of slow growth, it has resulted, from this custom, that they have nearly disappeared from some parts of the coast. I could not learn that it was the habit to plant a cocoa-nut tree upon the birth of a child, as in some parts of Africa, where the tree receives a common name with the infant, and the annual rings on its trunk mark his age.

If the water disappears from the earthen vessel placed on the grave,—which, as the ware is porous, it seldom fails to do in the course of a few days,—it is taken as evidence that it has been consumed by the dead man, and that he has escaped the maw of Wulasha. This ascertained, preparations are at once made for what is called a Seekroe, or Feast of the Dead—an orgie which I afterwards witnessed higher up the coast, and which will be described in due course.

The negroes brought originally from Jamaica, as also most of their descendants, hold these barbarous practices in contempt, and bury their dead, as they say, “English-gentleman fashion.” But while these practices are discountenanced and prohibited in Bluefields proper, they are, nevertheless, universal elsewhere on the Mosquito Shore.

I cannot omit mentioning here, that I paid a visit both to the establishment and the burial-place of the ill-fated Prussian colony. Many of the houses, now rotting down, had been brought out from Europe, and all around them were wheels of carts falling in pieces, harnesses dropping apart, and plows and instruments of cultivation rusting away, or slowly burying themselves in the earth. They told a sad story of ignorance on the part of the projectors of the establishment, and of the disappointments and sufferings of their victims. The folly of attempting to plant an agricultural colony, from the north of Europe, on low, murky, tropical shores, is inconceivable. Again and again the attempt has been made, on this coast, and as often it has terminated in disaster and death. It was tried by the French at Tehuantepec and Cape Gracias; by the English at Vera Paz and Black River; and by the Belgians and Prussians at Santo Tomas and Bluefields. In no instance did these establishments survive a second year, nor in a single instance did a tenth of the poor colonists escape the grave. The Prussians at Bluefields suffered fearfully. At one time, within four months after their arrival, out of more than a hundred, there were not enough retaining their health to bury the dead, much less to attend to the sick. The natives, jealous of the strangers, would neither assist nor come near them, and absolutely refused to sell them the scanty food requisite for their subsistence. This feeling was rather encouraged than otherwise, by the traders on the coast, who desired to retain the monopoly of trade, as they had always done a preponderance of influence among the natives. They procured the revocation of the grant which had been made to the Messrs. Shepherd of San Juan, from whom the Prussians had purchased a doubtful title, and threatened the stricken strangers with forcible expulsion. Death, however, soon relieved them from taking overt measures; and, at the time of my visit, two or three haggard wretches, whose languid blue eyes and flaxen hair contrasted painfully with the blotched visages of the brutal Sambos, were all that remained of the unfortunate Prussian colony. The burying place was a small opening in the bush, where rank vines sweltered over the sunken graves, a spot reeking with miasmatic damps, from which I retreated with a shudder. I could wish no worse punishment to the originators of that fatal, not to say, criminal enterprise, than that they should stand there, as I stood, that Conscience might hiss in their ears, “Behold thy work!”

Chapter IV.

I made many inquiries in Bluefields, in order to decide on my future movements, to all of which Mr. Bell gave me most intelligent answers. At first, I proposed to ascend the Bluefields river, which takes its rise in the mountainous district of Segovia in Nicaragua, and which is reported to be navigable, for canoes, to within a short distance of the great lakes of that State, from which it is only separated by a narrow range of mountains. Upon its banks dwell several tribes of pure Indians, the Cookras, now but few in number, and the Ramas, a large and docile tribe. Several of the latter visited Bluefields while I was there, bringing down dories and pitpans rudely blocked out, which are afterwards finished by persons expert in that art. They generally speak Spanish, but I could not learn from them that their country was in any respect remarkable, or that it held out any prospect of compensation for a visit, unless it were an indefinite amount of hunger and hard work. So, although I had purchased a canoe, and made other preparations for ascending the river, I determined to proceed northward along the coast, and, embarking in some turtling vessel from Cape Gracias, proceed to San Juan, and penetrate into the interior by the river of the same name.

This, I ascertained, was all the more easy to accomplish, since the whole Mosquito shore is lined with lagoons, only separated from the sea by narrow strips of land, and so connected with each other as to afford an interior navigation, for canoes, from Bluefields to Gracias. So, procuring the additional services of a young Poyas or Paya Indian, who had been left from a trading schooner, I bade “His Mosquito Majesty” and his governor good-by, took an affectionate farewell of old Hodgson, and, with Antonio, sailed away to the northern extremity of the lagoon, having spent exactly a week in Bluefields.

It was a bright morning, and our little sail, filled with the fresh sea-breeze, carried us gayly through the water. Antonio carefully steered the boat, and my Poyer boy sat, like a bronze figure-head, in the bow, while I reclined in the centre, luxuriously smoking a cigar. The white herons flapped lazily around us, and flocks of screaming curlews whirled rapidly over our heads. I could scarcely comprehend the novel reality of my position. The Robinson Crusoe-ish feeling of my youth came back in all of its freshness; I had my own boat, and for companions a descendant of an aboriginal prince, the possessor of a mysterious talisman, devotedly attached to me, half friend, half protector, and a second strange Indian, from some unknown interior, silent as the unwilling genii whom the powerful spell of Solyman kept in obedience to the weird necromancers of the East. It was a strange position and fellowship for one who, scarcely three months before, had carefully cultivated the friendly interest of Mr. Sly, with sinister designs on the plethoric treasury of the Art Union, in New York!

I gave myself up to the delicious novelty, and that sense of absolute independence which only a complete separation from the moving world can inspire, and passed the entire day in a trance of dreamy delight. I subsequently passed many similar days, but this stands out in the long perspective, as one of unalloyed happiness. “’Twas worth ten years of common life,” and neither age nor suffering can efface its bright impress from the crowded tablet of my memory!

It was about four o’clock in the afternoon, when we reached the northern extremity of the lagoon, at a place called the Haulover, from the circumstance that, to avoid going outside in the open sea, it is customary for the natives to drag their canoes across the narrow neck of sand which separates Bluefields from the next northern or Pearl Kay Lagoon. Occasionally, after long and heavy winds from the eastward, the waters are forced into the lagoons, so as to overflow the belt of land which divides them, when the navigation is uninterrupted.

In order to be able to renew our voyage early next morning, our few effects and stores were carried across the portage, over which our united strength was sufficient to drag the dory, without difficulty. All this was done with prompt alacrity on the part of Antonio and the Poyer boy, who would not allow me to exert myself in the slightest. The transit was effected in less than an hour, and then we proceeded to make our camp for the night, on the beach. Our little sail, supported over the canoe by poles, answered the purpose of a tent. And as for food, without going fifty yards from our fire, I shot half a dozen curlews, which, when broiled, are certainly a passable bird. Meanwhile, the Poyer boy, carefully wading in the lagoon, with a light spear, had struck several fish, of varieties known as snook and grouper; and Antonio had collected a bag full of oysters, of which there appeared to be vast banks, covered only by a foot or two of water. They were not pearl oysters, as might be inferred from the name of the lagoon, but similar to those found on our own shores, except smaller, and growing in clusters of ten or a dozen each. Eaten with that relishing sauce, known among travelers as “hunger sauce,” I found them something more than excellent,—they were delicious.

While I opened oysters, by way of helping myself to my princely first course, the Indians busied themselves with the fish and birds. I watched their proceedings with no little interest, and as their mode of baking fish has never been set forth in the cookery books, I give it for the benefit of the gastronomic world in general, which, I take it, is not above learning a good thing, even from a Poyer Indian boy. A hole having been dug in the sand, it was filled with dry branches, which were set on fire. In a few minutes the fire subsided in a bed of glowing coals. The largest of the fish, a grouper, weighing perhaps five pounds, had been cleaned and stuffed with pieces of the smaller fish, a few oysters, some sliced plantains, and some slips of the bark of the pimento or pepper-tree. Duly sprinkled with salt, it was carefully wrapped in the broad green leaves of the plantain, and the coals raked open, put in the centre of the glowing embers, with which it was rapidly covered. Half an hour afterward, by which time I began to believe it had been reduced to ashes, the bed was raked open again and the fish taken out. The outer leaves of the wrapper were burned, but the inner folds were entire, and when they were unrolled, like the cerements of a mummy, they revealed the fish, “cooked to a charm,” and preserving all the rich juices absorbed in the flesh, which would have been carried off by the heat, in the ordinary modes of cooking. I afterward adopted the same process with nearly every variety of large game, and found it, like patent medicines, of “universal application.” Commend me to a young waree “done brown” in like manner, as a dish fit for a king. But of that anon.

By and by the night came on, but not as it comes in our northern latitudes. Night, under the tropics, falls like a curtain. The sun goes down with a glow, intense, but brief. There are no soft and lingering twilight adieus, and stars lighting up one by one. They come, a laughing group, trooping over the skies, like bright-eyed children relieved from school. Reflected in the lagoon, they seemed to chase each other in amorous play, printing sparkling kisses on each other’s luminous lips. The low shores, lined with the heavy-foliaged mangroves, looked like a frame of massive, antique carving, around the vast mirror of the lagoon, across whose surface streamed a silvery shaft of light from the evening star, palpitating like a young bride, low in the horizon. Then there were whispered “voices of the night,” the drowsy winds talking themselves to sleep among the trees, and the little ripples of the lagoon pattering with liquid feet along the sandy shore. The distant monotonous beatings of the sea, and an occasional sullen plunge of some marine animal, which served to open momentarily the eyelids drooping in slumbrous sympathy with the scene—these were the elements which entranced me during the long, delicious hours of my first evening, alone with Nature, on the Mosquito Shore!

My dreams that night so blended themselves with the reality, that I could not now separate them if I would, and to this day I hardly know if I slept at all. So completely did my soul go out, and melt, and harmonize itself with the scene, that I began to comprehend the Oriental doctrine of emanations and absorptions, which teaches that, as the body of man springs from the earth, and after a brief space, mingles again with it; so his soul, part of the Great Spirit of the Universe, flutters away like a dove from its nest, only to return, after a weary flight, to fold its wings and once more melt away in Nature’s immortal heart, an uncreated and eternal essence.

Before the dawn of day, the ever-watchful Antonio had prepared the indispensable cup of coffee, which is the tropical specific against the malignant night-damps; and the first rays of the sun shot over the trees only to fall on our sail, bellying with the fresh and invigorating sea-breeze. We laid our course for the mouth of a river called Wawashaan (hwas or wass, in the dialect of the interior, signifying water), which enters the lagoon, about twenty miles to the northward of the Haulover. Here we were told there was a settlement, which I determined to visit. As the day advanced, the breeze subsided, and we made slow progress. So we paddled to the shore of one of the numerous islands in the lagoon, to avoid the hot sun and await the freshening of the breeze in the afternoon. The island on which we landed appeared to be higher than any of the others, and was moreover rendered doubly attractive by a number of tall cocoa-nut palms, that clustered near the beach. We ran our boat ashore in a little cove, where there were traces of fires, and other indications that it was a favorite stopping-place with the natives. A narrow trail led inward to the palm-trees. Leaving the Poyer boy with the canoe, Antonio and myself followed the blind path, and soon came to an open space covered with plantain-trees, now much choked with bushes, but heavily laden with fruit. The palms, too, were clustering with nuts, of which we could not, of course, neglect to take in a supply. Near the trees we found the foundations of a house, after the European plan, and, not far from it, one or two rough grave-stones, on which inscriptions had been rudely traced; but they were now too much obliterated to be read. I could only make out the figure of a cross on one of them, and the name “San Andres,” which is an island off the coast, where it is probable the occupant of this lonely grave was born.

To obtain the cocoa-nuts, which otherwise could only have been got at by cutting down and destroying the trees, Antonio prepared to climb after them. He had brought a kind of sack of coarse netting, which he tied about his neck. He next cut a long section of one of the numerous tough vines which abound in the tropics, with which he commenced braiding a large hoop around one of the trees. After this was done, he slipped it over his head and down to his waist, gave it a few trials of strength, and then began his ascent, literally walking up the tree. It was a curious feat, and worth a description. Leaning back in this hoop, he planted his feet firmly against the trunk, clinging to which, first with one hand, and then with the other, he worked up the hoop, taking a step with every upward movement. Nothing loth to exhibit his skill, in a minute he was sixty feet from the ground, leaning back securely in his hoop, and filling his sack with the nuts. This done, he swung his load over his shoulders, grasped the tree in his arms, let the hoop fall, and slid rapidly to the ground. The whole occupied less time than I have consumed in writing an account of it.

CLIMBING AFTER COCOAS.

Loaded with nuts, plantains, and a species of anona called soursop, we returned to the boat, where the water, with which the green cocoa-nuts are filled, tempered with a little Jamaica rum, para á matar los animalicos, “to kill the animalculæ,” as the Spanish say, made a cooling and refreshing beverage.

MANGROVE SWAMP.

In the afternoon we again embarked, and before dark reached the mouth of the Wawashaan, which looked like a narrow arm of the lagoon, but which, we found, when we entered, had considerable current, rendering necessary a brisk use of our paddles. The banks near the lagoon, were low, and the ground back of them apparently swampy, and densely covered with mangrove trees. This tree is universal on the Mosquito coast, lining the shores of the lagoons and rivers, as high up as the salt water reaches. It is unlike any other tree in the world. Peculiar to lands overflowed by the tides, its trunk starts at a height of from four to eight feet from the ground, supported by a radiating series of smooth, reddish-brown roots, for all the world like the prongs of an inverted candelabrum. These roots interlock with each other in such a manner that it is utterly impossible to penetrate between them, except by laboriously cutting one’s way. And even then an active man would hardly be able to advance twenty feet in a day. The trunk is generally tall and straight, the branches numerous, but not long, and the leaves large and thick; on the upper surface of a dark, glistening, unfading green, while below, of the downy, whitish tint of the poplar-leaf. Lining the shore in dense masses, the play of light on the leaves, as they are turned upward by the wind, has the glad, billowy effect of a field of waving grain. The timber of the mangrove is sodden and heavy, and of no great utility; but its bark is astringent, and excellent for tanning. Its manner of propagation is remarkable. The seed consists of a long bean-like stem, about the length and shape of a dipped candle, but thinner. It hangs from the upper limbs in thousands, and, when perfect, drops, point downward, erect in the mud, where it speedily takes root, and shoots up to tangle still more the already tangled mangrove-swamp. Myriads of small oysters, called the mangrove-oysters, cling to the roots, among which active little crabs find shelter from the pursuit of their hereditary enemies, the long-legged and sharp-billed cranes, who have a prodigious hankering after tender and infantile shell-fish.

The Mosquito settlement is some miles up the river, and we were unable to reach it before dark; so, on arriving at a spot where the ground became higher, and an open space appeared on the bank, we came to a halt for the night. We had this time no fish for supper, but, instead, a couple of quams, a species of small turkey, which is not a handsome bird, but, nevertheless, delicate food. Many of these flew down to the shore, as night came on, selecting the tops of the highest, overhanging trees for their roosting-places, and offering fine marks for my faithful double-barreled gun.

The mosquitoes proving rather troublesome at the edge of the water, I abandoned the canoe, and spreading my blanket on the most elevated portion of the bank, near the fire, was soon asleep. Before midnight, however, I was roused by the sensation of innumerable objects, with sharp claws and cold bodies, crawling over me. I leaped up in alarm, and hastily shook off the invaders. I heard a crackling, rustling noise, as of rain on dry leaves, all around me, and by the dim light I saw that the ground was alive with crawling things, moving in an unbroken column toward the river. I felt them in the pockets of my coat, and hanging to my skirts. My nocturnal interview with the turtles at “El Roncador” recurred to me, and Coleridge’s ghastly lines—

——“The very sea did rot—

Oh Christ, that this should be!—

And slimy things did crawl with legs

Upon the slimy sea!”

Half fearing that it might be my own disordered fancy, I shouted to Antonio, who, quick as light, was at my side. He stirred up the fire, and laughed outright! We had been invaded by an army of soldier-crabs, moving down from the high backgrounds. Antonio had selected his bed for the night nearest the river, and the fire, dividing the host, had protected him, while it had turned a double column upon me. I could not myself help laughing at the incident, which certainly had the quality of novelty. I watched the moving legion for an hour, but there was no perceptible decrease in the numbers. So I laid down again by the side of Antonio, and slept quietly until morning, when there were no more crabs to be seen, nor a trace of them, except that the ground had been minutely punctured all over, by their sharp, multitudinous claws.

It was rather late when we started up the river. We had not proceeded far before we came to an open space, where there were some rude huts, with canoes drawn up on the bank, in front. A few men, nearly naked, shouted at us as we passed, inquiring, in broken English, what we had to sell, evidently thinking that the white man could have no purpose there unless to trade. We passed other huts at intervals, which, however, had no signs of cultivation around them, except a few palm and plantain-trees, and an occasional small patch of yucas. The mangroves had now disappeared, and the banks began to look inviting, covered, as they were, with large trees, including the caoba, or mahogany, and the gigantic ceiba, all loaded down with vines. Thousands of parrots passed over, with their peculiar short, heavy flutter, and loud, querulous note. In the early morning, and toward night, they keep up the most vehement chattering, all talking and none listening, after the manner of a Woman’s Rights Convention. There were also gaudy macaws, which floated past like fragments of a rainbow. In common with the parrots, they always go in pairs, and when one is found alone, he is always silent and sad, and acts as if he were a lone widower, and meditated suicide.

“THE SPOONBILL.”

On the occasional sandy reaches, we saw groups of the Roseate Spoonbills, with their splendid plumage. The whole body is rose-colored; but the wings, toward the shoulders, and the feathers around the base of the neck, are of a bright scarlet, deepening to blood-red. But they form no exception to the law of compensations—in mechanics, called equilibrium, and in mathematics equations, since, while beautiful in plumage, they are sinfully ugly in shape. And I could not help fancying, when I saw them standing silent and melancholy on snags, contemplating themselves in the water, that, as with some other kinds of birds, their brilliant colors gave them no joy, coupled with so serious a drawback in form. I shot several, from which the Poyer boy selected the most beautiful feathers, which he afterward interwove with others from the macaw, parrot, and egret, in a gorgeous head-dress, as a present to me.

Toward noon we came to a cleared space, much the largest I had seen on the coast; and, as we approached nearer, I saw a house of European construction, and a large field of sugar-cane. In striking contrast with these evidences of industry and civilization, a Sambo or Mosquito village, made up of squalid huts, half buried in the forest, filled out the foreground. I recognized it as the village of Wasswatla (literally Watertown), the place of our destination. It, nevertheless, looked so uninviting and miserable, that had I not been attracted by the Christian establishment in the distance, I should have returned incontinently to the lagoon.

My unfavorable impressions were heightened on a nearer approach. As we pushed up our canoe to the shore, among a great variety of dories and other boats, the population of the village, including a large number of dogs of low degree, swarmed down to survey us. The juveniles were utterly naked, and most of the adults of both sexes had nothing more than a strip of a species of cloth, made of the inner bark of the ule or India-rubber tree (resembling the tappa of the Society Islanders), wrapped around their loins. There was scarcely one who was not disfigured by the blotches of the bulpis, and the hair of each stood out in frightful frizzles, “like the quills on the fretful porcupine.” Most of the men carried a short spear, pointed with a common triangular file, carefully sharpened by rubbing on the stones, which, as I afterward learned, is used for striking turtle.

Forbidding as was the appearance of the assemblage, none of its individuals evinced hostility, and when I jumped ashore, and saluted them with “Good morning,” they all responded, “Mornin’ sir!” brought out with an indescribable African drawl. Two or three of the number volunteered to help Antonio draw up our boat, while I gave various orders, in default of knowing what else to do. Luckily, it occurred to me to produce a document, or pass, with which Mr. Bell had kindly furnished me before leaving Bluefields, and which all seemed to recognize, pointing to it respectfully, and ejaculating, “King paper! King paper!” It was frequently called afterward, “the paper that talks.” This precious document, well engrossed on a sheet of fools-cap, with a broad seal at the bottom, ran as follows:—

“Mosquito Kingdom.

“George William Clarence, by the Grace of God, King of the Mosquito Territory, to our trusty and well-beloved officers and subjects, Greeting! We, by these presents, do give pass and license to Samuel A. Bard Esquire, to go freely through our kingdom, and to dwell therein; and do furthermore exhort and command our well-beloved officers and subjects aforesaid, to give aid and hospitality to the aforesaid Samuel A. Bard Esquire, whom we hold of high esteem and consideration. Given at Bluefields, this —— day of ——, in this the tenth year of our reign.”

(Signed,)

The ejaculations of “King paper! King paper!” were followed by loud shouts of “Capt’n! Capt’n!” while two or three tall fellows ran off in the direction of the huts. I was a little puzzled by the movement, but not long left in doubt as to its object, for, in a few moments, a figure approached, creating hardly less sensation among the people, than he would have done among the “boys” in the Bowery. I at once recognized him as the “Capt’n,” whose title had been so vigorously invoked. He was, to start with, far from being a fine-looking darkey; but all natural deficiencies were more than made up by his dress. He had on a most venerable cocked hat, in which was stuck a long, drooping, red plume, that had lost half of its feathers, looking like the plumes of some rake of a rooster, returning, crestfallen and bedraggled, from an unsuccessful attempt on some powerful neighbor’s harem. His coat was that of a post-captain in the British navy, and his pantaloons were of blue cloth, with a rusty gold stripe running down each side. They were, furthermore, much too short at both ends, leaving an unseemly projection of ankle, as well as a broad strip of dark skin between the waistband and the coat. And when I say that the captain wore no shirt, was rather fat, and his pantaloons deficient in buttons wherewith to keep it appropriately closed in front, the active fancy of the reader may be able to complete the picture. He bore, moreover, a huge cavalry sword, which looked all the more formidable from being bent in several places and very rusty. He came forward with deliberation and gravity, and I advanced to meet him, “king paper” in hand.

CAPTAIN DRUMMER.

When I had got near him, he adjusted himself in position, and compressed his lips, with an affectation of severe dignity. Hardly able to restrain laughing outright, I took off my hat, and saluted him with a profound bow, and “Good morning, Captain!” He pulled off his hat in return, and undertook a bow, but the strain was too great on the sole remaining button of his waistband; it gave way, and, to borrow a modest nautical phrase, the nether garment “came down on the run!” The captain, however, no way disconcerted, gathered it up with both hands, and held it in place, while I read the “paper that talked.”

The upshot of the ceremony was, that I was welcomed to Wasswatla, and taken to a large vacant hut, which was called the “king’s house,” and dedicated to the Genius of Hospitality. That is to say, the stranger or trader may take up his abode there, provided he can dislodge the pigs and chickens, who have an obstinate notion of their own on the subject of the proprietorship, and can never be induced to surrender their prescriptive rights. The “king’s house” was a simple shed, the ground within trodden into mire by the pigs, and the thatched roof above half blown away by the wind. But, even thus uninviting, it was better than any of the other and drier huts, for the fleas, at least, had been suffocated in the mud. Before night, Antonio had covered the floor, a foot deep, with cahoon leaves, and, with the aid of the Poyer boy and one or two natives, seduced thereunto by what they universally call “grog,” had restored the roof, and built up a barricade of poles against the pigs. These were not numerous, but hungry and vicious; and, finding the barricade too strong to be rooted down, they tried the dodge of the Jews at Jericho, and of Captain Crockett with the bear, and undertook to squeal it down! They neither ate nor slept, those pigs, I verily believe, during the period of my stay; but kept up an incessant squeal, occasionally relieving their tempers by a spiteful drive at the poles. Between them and pestilent insects of various kinds, my slumbers were none of the sweetest, and I registered a solemn vow that this should be my last trial of Mosquito hospitality.

In the afternoon I had a visit from the captain, who told me that his name was “Lord Nelson Drummer,” and that his father had been “Governor” in the section around Pearl-Cay Lagoon. He had laid aside his official suit, and with simple breeches of white cotton cloth, and a straw hat, afforded a favorable contrast to his appearance in the morning. He spoke English—quite as well as the negroes of Jamaica, and generally made himself understood. From him I learned that the house, which I had seen in the clearings, had been built, many years before, by a French Creole from one of the islands of the Antilles, who at one time had there a large plantation of coffee, cotton, and sugar-cane, from the last of which he distilled much rum. Drummer was animated on the subject of the rum, of which there had been, as he said, “much plenty!” But the Frenchmen had died, and although his family kept up the establishment for a little while, they were obliged to abandon it in the end. The negroes who had been brought out, soon caught the infection of the coast, and, slavery having been prohibited (by the British Superintendent at Belize!), became idle, drunken, and worthless. Some of them still lingered around Wasswatla, gathering for sale to the occasional trader, a few pounds of coffee from the trees on the plantation, which, in spite of years of utter neglect, still bore fruit. The abandoned cane-fields furnished a supply of canes, at which all the inhabitants of Wasswatla, old and young, were constantly gnawing. In fact, this appeared to be their principal occupation. I subsequently visited the abandoned estate. It was overgrown with vines and bushes, among which the orange, lime, and coffee-trees struggled for existence. The house was tumbling into ruin, and the boilers in which the sugar had been made, were full of stagnating water. I returned to the squalid village, having learned another philosophy in the science of philanthropy; and with a diminishing inclination to tolerate the common cant about “universal brotherhood!”

The soil on the Wawashaan is rich and productive. It seems well adapted to cotton and sugar. The climate is hot and humid, and I saw many of the natives much reduced, and suffering greatly from fevers, which, if not violent, appear, nevertheless, to be persistent, and exceedingly debilitating. The natural products are numerous and valuable. I observed many indian-rubber trees, and, for the first time, the vanilla. It is produced on a vine, which climbs to the tops of the loftiest trees. Its leaves somewhat resemble those of the grape; the flowers are red and yellow, and when they fall off are succeeded by the pods, which grow in clusters, like our ordinary beans. Green at first, they change to yellow, and finally to a dark brown. To be preserved, they are gathered when yellow, and put in heaps, for a few days, to ferment. They are afterward placed in the sun to dry, flattened by the hand, and carefully rubbed with cocoa-nut oil, and then packed in dry plantain-leaves, so as to confine their powerful aromatic odor. The vanilla might be made a considerable article of trade on the coast; but, at present, only a few dozen packages are exported.

Lord Nelson, as I invariably called the captain, domesticated himself with me from the first day, and ate and drank with me—“especially the latter.” And I soon found out that there was a direct and intimate relation, between his degree of thirst and his protestations of attachment. He even hinted his intention to get up a mushla feast for me, but I would not agree to stay for a sufficient length of time.

Finally, however, a grand fishing expedition to the lagoon was determined on, and I was surprised to see with how much alacrity the proposition was taken up. The day previous to starting was devoted to sharpening spears, cleaning the boats, and making paddles, in all of which operations the women worked indiscriminately with the men. Plantains were gathered, and, as it seemed to me, no end of sugar-canes from the deserted plantation. In the evening, which happened to prove clear, the big drum was got out, fires lighted, and there was a dance, as Lord Nelson said, “Mosquito fashion.” My part of the performance consisted in keeping up the spirit of the drummers, by pouring spirits down, which service was responded to by a vehemence of pounding that would have done credit to a militia training. I was surprised to find how much skill the performers had attained; but afterward discovered that the drum is the favorite instrument on the coast, and is called in requisition on all occasions of festivity or ceremony. The dance was uncouth, without the merit of being grotesque; and long before it was finished, the performers, of both sexes, had thrown aside their tournous, and abandoned every shadow of decency in their actions. Lord Nelson began to grow torpid early in the evening, and, before I left the scene, had been carried off dead drunk. Next morning he looked rather downcast, and complained that the rum “had spoiled his head.”

It was quite late when our flotilla got under way, with a large dory, carrying the big drum, leading the van. There were some twenty-odd boats, containing nearly the entire population of the village. This number was increased from the huts lower down, the occupants of which hailed us with loud shouts, and hastened after us with their canoes. We went down the river with the current very rapidly, the men paddling in the maddest way, and shouting to each other at the top of their voices. Occasionally the boats got foul, when the rivals used the flat of their paddles over each other’s heads without scruple. I was considerably in the rear, and, from the sound of the blows, imagined that every skull had been crushed; but next moment their owners were paddling and shouting as if nothing had happened. From that day, I had a morbid curiosity to get a Mosquito skull!

We all encamped at night, on the sandy beach of a large island, in the centre of the lagoon. The reader may be sure that I made my own camp at a respectable distance from the rest of the party, where I had a quiet supper, patronized, as usual, by Captain Drummer. As soon as it became dark, the preparations for fishing commenced. The women were left on the beach, and three men apportioned to each boat. One was detailed to paddle, another to hold the torch, and the third, and most skillful, acted as striker or spearsman. The torches were made of splinters of the fat yellow pine, which abounds in the interior. The spears, I observed, were of two kinds; one firmly fixed by a shank at the end of a long light pole, called sinnock, which is not allowed to escape the hand of the striker. The other, called waisko-dusa, is much shorter. The staff is hollow, and the iron spear-head, or harpoon, is fastened to a line which passes through rings by the side of the shaft, and is wound to a piece of light-wood, designed to act as a float. When thrown, the head remains in the fish, while the line unwinds, and the float rises to the surface, to be seized again by the fisherman, who then hauls in his fish at his leisure. When the fish is large and active, the chase after the float becomes animated, and takes the character of what fishermen call “sport.”

As I have said, no sooner was it dark than the boats pushed off, in different directions, on the lagoon. My Poyer boy had borrowed a waisko-dusa, and with him to strike, and Antonio to paddle, I took a torch, and also glided out on the water. My torch was tied to a pole, which I held over the bow. Antonio paddled slowly, while the Poyer boy, entirely naked (for the strikers often go overboard after their own spears), stood in the bow, with his spear poised in his right hand, eagerly inclining forward, and motionless as a statue. He was perfect in form, and his bronze limbs, just tense enough to display without distorting the muscles, were brought in clear outline against the darkness by the light of the torch—revealing a figure and pose that would shame the highest achievements of the sculptor. It was so admirable that I quite forgot the fisher in the artist, when, rapid as light, the arm of the Poyer boy fell, and the spear entered the water eight or nine feet ahead of the boat. The motion was so sudden, that it nearly startled me overboard. At first, I thought he had missed his mark, but I soon saw the white float, now dipping under the water, now jerked this way, now that, evincing clearly that the spearsman had been true in his aim. A few strokes of Antonio’s paddle brought the float within reach of the striker, who began, in sporting phrase, to “land” the fish. It made a desperate struggle, and, for awhile, it was what is called a “tight pull” between the boy and the fish. Nevertheless, he was finally got in, and proved to be what is called a June, or Jew-fish (Coracinus), by the English, and Palpa by the natives. In point of delicacy and richness of flavor, this fish is unequaled by any other found in these seas. The one which we obtained weighed not far from eighty pounds. Some of them have been known to weigh two or three hundred pounds. Our prize made a great disturbance in our little canoe, to which Antonio put a stop by disemboweling him on the spot, after which we resumed our sport. We were successful in obtaining a number of rock-fish, and several sikoko, or sheep’s-heads. Ambitious to try my skill, I took the Poyer boy’s place for awhile. I was astonished to find how perfectly clear the water proved to be, under the light of the torch. The bottom, which, in the broad daylight, had been utterly invisible, now revealed all of its mysteries, its shells, and plants, and stones, with wonderful distinctness. I observed also that the fish seemed to be attracted by the light, and, instead of darting away, rose toward the surface and approached the boat. I allowed several opportunities of throwing the spear to slip. Finally, a fine sheep’s-head rose just in front of me; I aimed my spear, and threw it with such an excess of force as literally to drive the dory from beneath my feet, precipitating myself in the water, and knocking down and extinguishing the torch in my ungraceful tumble. The spear was recovered, and I felt rather disappointed to find that it was innocent of a fish. Antonio suggested that he had broken loose, which was kind of him, but it wouldn’t do. As we were without light, and, moreover, had as many fish as we could possibly dispose of, we paddled ashore.

Up to this time, I had been so much absorbed with our own sport, that I had not noticed the other fishers. It was a strange scene. Each torch glowed at the apex of a trembling pyramid of red light, which, as the boats could not be seen, seemed to be inspired with life. Some moved on stately and slow, while others, where the boats were rapidly whirled in pursuit of the stricken fish, seemed to be chasing each other in fiery glee. Every successful throw was hailed with vehement shouts, heightened by loud blows made by striking the flat of the paddle on the surface of the water. All along the shore, the women had lighted fires whereat to dry the fish, which, in this climate, can not be kept long without spoiling. The light from these fires caught on the heavy foliage of the shore, and revealing the groups of half-naked women and children, helped to make up a scene which it is difficult to paint in words, but which can never be forgotten by one who has witnessed it.

It was past midnight before the boats all returned to the shore; and then commenced the drying of the fish. Over all the fires, just out of reach of the flames, were raised frame-works of canes, like gridirons, on which the fish, thinly sliced lengthwise, and rubbed with salt, were laid. They were repeatedly turned, so that, with the salt, smoke and heat, they were so far cured in the morning, as to require no further attention than a day or two of exposure to the sun. Our Jew-fish was thus prepared, and afterward stood us in good stead, much resembling smoked salmon, but less salt. While Antonio superintended this operation, I cooked the head and shoulders of the big fish in the sand, after the manner I have already described, and achieved a signal success, inasmuch as the dish was well seasoned with “hunger sauce.”

Chapter V.

Off the mouth of Pearl-Cay Lagoon are numerous cays, which, in fact, give their name to the lagoon. They are celebrated for the number and variety of turtles found on and around them. I was so much delighted with our torch-light fishing, that I became eager to witness the sport of turtle-hunting, which is regarded by the Mosquitos as their noblest art, and in which they have acquired proverbial expertness. Drummer required only a little persuasion and a taste of rum, to undertake an expedition to the cays. As this involved going out in the open sea, he selected four of the largest pitpans, to each of which he assigned the requisite number of able-bodied and expert men. The women and remaining men were left to continue their fishing in the lagoon. My canoe was much too small to venture off, and accordingly was left in charge of the Poyer boy, who, armed with my double-barreled gun, felt himself a host. With Antonio, I was given a place in the largest pitpan, commanded by Harris, Captain Drummer’s “quarter-master,” who was much the finest specimen of physical beauty that I had seen among the Sambos.

I was quite concerned on finding how little provisions were taken in the boats, since bad weather often keeps the fishermen out for two or three weeks. But Drummer insisted that we should find plenty to eat, and we embarked. We caught the land-breeze as soon as we got from under the lee of the shore, and drove rapidly on our course. Although the sea was comparatively smooth, yet the boats all carried such an amount of sail as to keep me in a state of constant nervousness. One would scarcely believe that the Mosquito men venture out in their pitpans, in the roughest weather with impunity, riding the waves like sea-gulls. If upset, they right their boats in a moment, and with their broad paddle-blades clear them of water in an incredibly short space of time.

We went, literally, with the wind; and in four hours after leaving the shore, were among the cays. These are very numerous, surrounded by reefs, through which wind intricate channels, all well known to the fishers. Some of the cays are mere heaps of sand, and half-disintegrated coral-rock, others are larger, and a few have bushes, and an occasional palm-tree upon them, much resembling “El Roncador.” It was on one of the latter, where there were the ruins of a rude hut, and a place scooped in the sand, containing brackish water, that we landed, and made our encampment. No sooner was this done than Harris started out with his boat after turtle, leaving the rest to repair the hut, and arrange matters for the night. Of course I accompanied Harris.

The apparatus for striking the turtle is exceedingly simple, corresponding exactly with the waisko-dusa, which I have described, except that instead of being barbed, the point is an ordinary triangular file, ground exceedingly sharp. This, it has been found, is the only thing which will pierce the thick armor of the turtle; and, moreover, it makes so small a hole, that it seldom kills the green turtle, and very slightly injures the scales of the hawk-bill variety, which furnishes the shell of commerce.

Harris stood in the bow of the pitpan, keeping a sharp look out, holding his spear in his right hand, with his left hand behind him, where it answered the purpose of a telegraph to the two men who paddled. They kept their eyes fixed on the signal, and regulated their strokes, and the course and speed of the boat, accordingly. Not a word was said, as it is supposed that the turtle is sharp of hearing. In this manner we paddled among the cays for half an hour, when, on a slight motion of Harris’ hand, the men altered their course a little, and worked their paddles so slowly and quietly as scarcely to cause a ripple. I peered ahead, but saw only what I supposed was a rock, projecting above the water. It was, nevertheless, a turtle, floating lazily on the surface, as turtles are wont to do. Notwithstanding the caution of our approach, he either heard us, or caught sight of the boat, and sank while we were yet fifty yards distant. There was a quick motion of Harris’ manual telegraph, and the men began to paddle with the utmost rapidity, striking their paddles deep in the water. In an instant the boat had darted over the spot where the turtle had disappeared, and I caught a hurried glimpse of him, making his way with a speed which quite upset my notions of the ability of turtles in that line, predicated upon their unwieldiness on land. He literally seemed to slide through the water.

And now commenced a novel and exciting chase. Harris had his eyes on the turtle, and the men theirs on Harris’ telegraphic hand. Now we darted this way, then that; slow one moment, rapid the next, and anon stock still. The water was not so deep as to permit our scaly friend to get entirely out of reach of Harris’ practiced eye, although to me the bottom appeared to be a hopeless maze. As the turtle must rise to the surface sooner or later to breathe, the object of the pursuer is to keep near enough to transfix him when he appears. Finally, after half an hour of dodging about, the boat was stopped with a jerk, and down darted the spear. As the whole of the shaft did not go under, I saw it had not failed of its object. A moment more, and Harris had hold of the line. After a few struggles and spasmodic attempts to get away, his spirit gave in, and the tired turtle tamely allowed himself to be conducted to the shore. A few sharp strokes disengaged the file, and he was turned over on his back on the sand, the very picture of utter helplessness, to await our return. I have a fancy that the expression of a turtle’s head, and half-closed eyes, under such circumstances, is the superlative of saintly resignation; to which a few depreciatory movements of his flippers come in as a sanctimonious accessory, like the upraised palms of a well-fed parson.

STRIKING TURTLE.

This “specimen,” as the naturalists would say, proved to be of the smaller, or hawk-bill variety, the flesh of which is inferior to that of the green turtle, although hawk-bills are most valuable on account of their shells. So we paddled off again, keeping close to the cays and reefs, where the water is shallow. It was nearly dark before Harris got a chance at another turtle, which he struck on the bottom, at least eight feet below the surface. This was of the green variety; he was lifted in the boat, and his head unceremoniously chopped off, lest he should take a spiteful nip at the hams of the paddlers.

We wound our way back to the rendezvous, picking up our hawk-bill, who was that night unmercifully put through the cruel process, which I have already had occasion to describe, for separating the scales from the shell, after which he was permitted to take himself off. I may here mention, that besides the two varieties of turtle which I have named, there is another and larger kind, called the loggerhead turtle (Testudo Caretta), which resembles the green turtle, but is distinguished by the superior size of the head, greater breadth of shell, and by its deeper and more variegated colors. It grows to be of great size, sometimes reaching one thousand or twelve hundred pounds; but its flesh is rank and coarse, and the laminæ of its shell too thin for use. It, nevertheless, supplies a good oil, proper for a variety of purposes.

That evening, we had turtle steaks, and turtle eggs, roasted turtle flippers, and callipash and callipee (the two latter in the form of soup),—in fact, turtle in every form known to the Mosquito men, who well deserve the name of turtle-men. The turtle conceals its eggs in the sand, but the natives are ready to detect indications of a deposit, which they verify by thrusting in the sand the iron ramrod of a musket, an operation which they call “feeling for eggs.”

About midnight, it came on to rain heavily, and continued all the next day, so that nothing could be done. The time was “put in” talking turtle, and Harris got so warmed up as to promise to show me what the Mosquito men regard as the ne plus ultra of skill in turtle craft, namely, “jumping turtle.” He did not explain to me what this meant, but gave me a significant wag of the head, which is a Mosquito synonym for nous verrons.

The third day proved propitious, and Harris was successful in obtaining several fine turtles. About noon he laid aside his spear, and took his position, entirely naked, keeping up, nevertheless, his usual look-out. We were not long in getting on the track of a turtle. After a world of maneuvering, apparently with the object of driving him into shallow water, Harris made a sudden dive overboard. The water boiled and bubbled for a few moments, when he reappeared, holding a fine hawk-bill in his outstretched hands. And that feat proved to be what is called “jumping a turtle.” It often happens that bungling fishermen get badly bitten in these attempts, which are not without their dangers from the sharp coral rocks and spiny sea-eggs.

During the afternoon of the fourth day, we returned to the lagoon, taking with us eight green turtles, and about ninety pounds of fine shell. We found that most of the party which we had left had gone back to the village, whither Drummer and his “quarter-master” were urgent I should return with them. But Wasswatla had no further attractions for me, and I was firm in my purpose of proceeding straightway up the coast.

With many last turns at the grog, I parted—not without regret—with Drummer and Harris, giving them each a gaudy silk handkerchief, in acknowledgment of two fine turtles which they insisted on my accepting. Harris also gave me his turtle-spear, and was much exalted when I told him that I should have it engraved with his name, and hung up in my watla (house) at home.

Pearl-Cay Lagoon is upward of forty miles long, by, perhaps, ten miles wide at its broadest part. There are three or four settlements upon it, the principal of which are called Kirka, and English Bank. I did not visit any of these, but took my course direct for the upper end of the lagoon, where, as the chain of salt lakes is here interrupted for a considerable distance, there is another haulover from the lagoon to the sea. I saw several collections of huts on the western shore, and on a small island, where we stopped during the midday heats, I gathered a few stalks of the jiquilite (Indigofera disperma), or indigenous indigo-plant, which may be ranked as one of the prospective sources of wealth on the coast.

We arrived at the haulover in the midst of a drenching thunder-storm, which lasted into the night. It was impossible to light a fire, and so we drew up the canoe on the beach, and, piling our traps in the centre, I perched myself on the top, where, with the sail thrown over my head, I enacted the part of a tent-pole for the live-long night! My Indian companions stripped themselves naked, rubbed their bodies with palm oil, and took the pelting with all the nonchalance of ducks. For want of any thing better to do, I ate plantains and dried fish, and, after the rain subsided, watched the brilliant fire-flies, of which hundreds moved about lazily under the lee of the bushes. The atmosphere, after the storm had subsided, was murky and sultry, making respiration difficult, and inducing a sense of extreme lassitude and fatigue. Every thing was damp and sticky, and so saturated with water, that it was impossible for me to lie down. I applied to my Jamaica for comfort, but, in spite of it, relapsed into a fit of glums, or “blue-devils.” To add to my discomfort, innumerable sand-flies came out, and, soon after, a cloud of mosquitos, while a forest-full of some kind of tree-toad struck up a doleful piping, which proved too much for even my tried equanimity. I got up, and strode back and forth on the narrow sand-beach, in a vehement and intemperate manner, wishing myself in New York, any where, even in Jamaica! The remembrance of my first night on the shores of the lagoon only served to make me feel the more wretched, and I longed to have “some gentleman do me the favor to thread on the tail of me coat!”

Toward daylight, however, my companions had contrived to make up a sickly fire, in the smoke of which I sought refuge from the mosquitoes and sand-flies, and became soothed and sooty at the same time. Day came at last, but the sun was obscured, and things were but slight improvement on the night. I found that we were on a narrow strip of sand, scarcely two hundred yards wide, covered with scrubby bushes, interspersed with a few twisted trees, looking like weather-beaten skeletons, beyond which was the sea, dark and threatening, under a gray, filmy sky. Antonio predicted a storm, what he called a temporal, during which it often rains steadily for a week. Under the circumstances, it became a pregnant question what to do: whether to return down the lagoon to some more eligible spot for an encampment, or to push out boldly on the ocean, and make an effort to gain the mouth of a large river, some miles up the coast, called Rio Grande or Great River.

I resolved upon the latter course, and we dragged the canoe across the haulover. Although the surf was not high, we had great difficulty in launching our boat, which was effected by my companions, who, stationed one on each side, seized a favorable moment, as the waves fell, to drag it beyond the line of breakers. While one kept it stationary with his paddle, the other, watching his opportunity, carried off the articles one by one, and finally, stripping myself, I mounted on Antonio’s shoulders, and was deposited like a sack in the boat. We paddled out until we got a good offing, then put up our sail, and laid our course north-north-west. The coast was dim and indistinct, but I had great faith in the Poyer boy, whose judgment had thus far never failed. About four o’clock in the afternoon, we came in sight of a knoll or high bank, which, covered with large trees, rises on the north side of the mouth of Great River, constituting an excellent landmark. I was in no wise sorry to find ourselves nearing it rapidly, for the wind began to freshen, and I feared lest it might raise such a surf on the bar of the river as to prevent us from entering. In fact, the waves had begun to break at the shallower places on the bar, while elsewhere the north-east wind drove over the water in heavy swells. The sail was hastily gathered in, and my Indians, seizing their paddles, watched the seventh, or crowning wave, and, by vigorous exertion, cheering each other with shouts, kept the canoe at its crest, and thus we were swept majestically over the bar, into the comparatively quiet water beyond it. Half an hour afterward, the great waves broke on the very spot where we had crossed, in clouds of spray, and with the noise of thunder!

The mouth of Great River is broad, but entirely exposed to the north-east; and, although it is a large stream, the water on its bar is not more than five or six feet deep, shutting out all large vessels, which otherwise might go up a long way into the country. There are several islands near the mouth. On the innermost one, which toward the sea is bluff and high, we made our encampment. It appeared to me as favorable a spot as we could find, whereon to await the temporal which Antonio had predicted, and the approach of which became apparent to even the most unpracticed observer. Fortunately, with Harris’ turtles, we felt easy on the score of food. So we dragged the canoe high up on the bank, and while I kindled a fire, my companions busied themselves in constructing a shelter over the boat. Stout forked stakes were planted at each end of the canoe, to support a ridge-pole, with other shorter ones supporting the outer poles. To these, canes were lashed transversely, and over all was woven a thatch of cahoon, or palmetto-leaves. Outside, and on a line with the eaves, a little trench was dug, to carry off the water, and preserve the interior from being flooded by what might run down the slope of the ground. So rapidly was all this done, that before it was quite dark the hut was so far advanced as to enable us to defy the rain, which soon began to fall in torrents. The strong sea wind drove off the mosquitos to the bush on the mainland, so that I slept comfortably and well, in spite of the thunder of the sea and the roaring of the wind.

For eight days it rained almost uninterruptedly. Sometimes, between nine and eleven o’clock, and for perhaps an hour near sunset, there would be a pause, and a lull in the wind, and a general lighting up of the leaden sky, as if the sun were about to break through. But the clouds would gather again darker than ever, and the rain set in with a steady pouring unknown in northern latitudes. For eight mortal days we had no ray of sun, or moon, or star! Every iron thing became thickly coated with rust; our plantains began to spot, and our dried fish to grow soft and mouldy, requiring to be hung over the small fire which we contrived to keep alive, in one corner of our extemporaneous hut.

TEMPORAL CAMP.

After the third day, the water in the river began to rise, and during the night rose more than eight feet. On the fifth day the current was full of large trees, their leaves still green, which seemed to be bound together with vines. In the afternoon down came the entire thatched roof of a native hut, which lodged against our island, bringing us a most acceptable freight, in the shape of a plump two-months old pig. His fellow-voyager—strange companionship!—was a tame parrot, with clipped wings, who looked melancholy enough when rescued, but who, after getting dry in our hut, and soothing his appetite on my plantains, first became mirthful, then boisterous, and finally mischievous. He was immediately installed as one of the party, and made more noise in the world than all the rest. To me he proved an unfailing source of amusement. He was respectful toward Antonio, but vicious toward the Poyer boy, and never happy except when cautiously stealing to get a bite at his toes. When successful in this he became wild with delight, and as noisy and vehement as a lucky Frenchman. It was one of his prime delights to gnaw off the corks of my bottles; and he was possessed of a most insane desire to get inside of my demijohn, mistaking it, perhaps, for a wicker cage, from which he imagined himself wrongfully excluded. Antonio called him “El Moro,” the Moor, for what reason I did not understand, and the name suiting me as well as any other, I baptized him with water, “El Moro,” and got an ugly pinch on the wrist for my blasphemy.

Our young porker escaped drowning only to fall into the hands of the Philistines; we had nothing to feed him; he might get away; he was, moreover, invitingly fat; so we incontinently cut his throat, and ate him up!

During our imprisonment, my companions were not idle. Upon the island were many mohoe-trees, the bark of which is tough, and of a fine, soft, white fibre. Of this they collected considerable quantities, which the Poyer boy braided into a sort of cap, designed as the foundation of the elegant feather head-dress which he afterward gave me; while Antonio, more utilitarian, wove a small net, not unlike that which we use to catch crabs. He at once put it into requisition to catch craw-fish, which abounded among the rocks to the seaward of the island. But before entering upon the subject of craw-fish, I may say that the mohoe bark, from its fine quality, and the abundance in which it may be procured, might be made exceedingly useful for the manufacture of paper—an article now becoming scarce and dear.

The cray or craw-fish resemble the lobster, but are smaller in size, and want the two great claws. Their flesh has more flavor than that of either the crab or lobster, and we found them an acceptable addition to our commissariat. There were many wood-pigeons and parrots on the island, but my gun had got in such a state, from the damp, that I did not attempt to use it.

Our protracted stay made a large draft on our yucas and plantains, and it became important to us to look out for fruit and vegetables. The current in the river was too strong, and too much obstructed with floating timber, to permit us to use our boat. The water, even at the broadest part of the stream, had risen upward of fifteen feet, equivalent to a rise of twenty or twenty-five feet in the interior! The banks were overflowed; the low islands outside of us completely submerged and our own space much circumscribed. A few plantain-trees, which we had observed on the first evening, had been broken down or swept away, and we were fain to put ourselves on a short allowance of vegetables. One morning, during a pause in the rain, I ventured out; and, after a little search, found a tree, resembling a pear-tree, and bearing a large quantity of a small fruit, of the size and shape of a crab-apple, and exactly like it in smell. I cried out delightedly to Antonio, holding up a handful of the supposed apples. To my surprise, he shouted, “Throw them down! throw them down!” explaining that they were the fruit of the mangeneel or manzanilla, and rank poison. He hurried me away from the tree, assuring me that even the dew or rain-drops which fell from its leaves were poisonous, and that its influence, like that of the fabled upas, is so powerful as to swell the faces and limbs of those who may be ignorant or indiscreet enough to sleep beneath its shade! I found out subsequently, that it is with the acrid milky juice of this tree that the Indians poison their arrows. I ever afterward gave it a wide berth. In shape and smell it is so much like the crab-apple that I can readily understand how it might prove dangerous to strangers. Under the tropics, it is safe to let wild fruits alone. Antonio, more successful than myself, found a large quantity of guavas, which the natives eat with great relish, but which to me have a disagreeable aromatic, or rather, musky taste. So I stuck to plantains, and left my companions and “El Moro” to enjoy a monopoly of guavas.

Finally, the windows of heaven were closed, the rain ceased, and the sun came out with a bright, well-washed face. It was none too soon, for every article which I possessed, clothing, books, food, all had begun to spot and mould from the damp. I had myself a sympathetic feeling, and dreamed at night that I was covered with a green mildew; dreams so vivid that I once got up and went out naked in the rain, to wash it off!

After the leaves had ceased to drip, we stretched lines between the trees, and hung out our scanty wardrobe to dry. I rubbed and brushed at my court suit of black, but in vain. What with salt water at “El Roncador,” and mould here, it had acquired a permanent rusty and leprous look, which half inclined me to follow the Poyer boy’s suggestion, and soak it in palm oil! Few and simple as were our equipments, it took full two days to redeem them from the effects of the damp. My gun more resembled some of those quaint old fire-locks taken from wrecks, and exhibited in museums, than any thing useful to the present generation. In view of all things, I was fain to ejaculate, Heaven save me from another “temporal” on the Mosquito Shore!

Chapter VI.

It was three days after the rain had ceased, before we could embark on the river, and even then its current was angry and turbid, and filled with floating trees. We hugged the banks in our ascent, darting from one side of the stream to the other, to avail ourselves of the back-sets, or eddies, sometimes losing, by an unsuccessful attempt, all we had gained by half an hour of hard paddling. The banks were much torn by the water; in some places they had fallen in, carrying many trees into the stream, where they remained anchored to the shore by the numerous tough vines that twined around them. Elsewhere the trees, half undermined, leaned heavily over the current, in which the long vines hung trailing in mournful masses, like the drooping leaves of the funeral willow. The long grass on the low islands had been beaten down, and was covered with a slimy deposit, over which stalked hungry water-birds, the snow-white ibis, and long-shanked crane, in search of worms and insects, and entangled fish.

We were occupied the whole day, in reaching the first settlement on this river—a picturesque collection of low huts, in a forest of palm, papaya, and plantain-trees. Near it were some considerable patches of maize, and long reaches of yucas, squash, and melon-vines. There were, in short, more evidences of industry and thrift than I had yet seen on the entire coast.

As we approached the bank, in front of the huts, I observed that all the inhabitants were pure Indians, whom my Poyer boy hailed in his own tongue. I afterward found out that they were Woolwas, and spoke a dialect of the same language with the Poyers, and Cookras, to the northward. As at Wasswatla, nearly all the inhabitants crowded down to the shore to meet me, affording, with their slight and symmetrical bodies, and long, well-ordered, glossy black hair, a striking contrast to the large-bellied, and spotted mongrels on the Wawashaan. I produced my “King-paper,” and advanced toward a couple of elderly men bearing white wooden wands, which I at once conjectured were insignia of authority. But no sooner did they get sight of my “King-paper,” than they motioned me back with tokens of displeasure, exclaiming, “Sax! sax!” which I had no difficulty in comprehending meant “take it away!” So I folded it up, put it in my pocket, and extended my hand, which was taken by each, and shaken in the most formal manner. When the men with the wands had finished, all the others came forward, and went through the same ceremony, most of them ejaculating, interrogatively, Nakisma? which appears to be an exact equivalent of the English, “How are you?”

This done, the men with the wands beckoned to me to follow them, which I did, to a large hut, neatly wattled at the sides, and closed by a door of canes. One of them pushed this open, and I entered after him, followed only by those who had wands, the rest clustering like bees around the door, or peering through the openings in the wattled walls. There were several rough blocks of wood in the interior, upon which they seated themselves, placing me between them. All this while there was an unbroken silence, and I was quite in a fog as to whether I was held as a guest or as a prisoner. I looked into the faces of my friends in vain; they were as impassible as stones. I, however, felt reassured when I saw Antonio at the door, his face wearing rather a pleased than alarmed expression.