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Title: A lady's ride across Spanish Honduras
Author: Mary Soltera
Release date: November 22, 2025 [eBook #77296]
Language: English
Original publication: Edinburgh: W. Blackwood & Sons, 1884
Credits: Richard Tonsing, Peter Becker, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A LADY'S RIDE ACROSS SPANISH HONDURAS ***
A LADY’S RIDE
ACROSS SPANISH HONDURAS
_ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN ‘BLACKWOOD’S MAGAZINE’_
A LADY’S RIDE
ACROSS SPANISH HONDURAS
BY
MARIA SOLTERA
_WITH ILLUSTRATIONS_
WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS
EDINBURGH AND LONDON
MDCCCLXXXIV
TO THE DEAR MEMORY OF
THE MOST REVEREND
ROGER BEDE VAUGHAN
LATE ARCHBISHOP OF SYDNEY, N.S.W.
THIS RECORD OF MY WANDERINGS
IS INSCRIBED.
[Illustration: HACIENDA NEAR SAN ANTONIO.]
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
HACIENDA NEAR SAN ANTONIO, _Frontispiece_
SE DUERMA—HE SLEEPS, _To face page_ 158
PASS BEYOND GOASCARON, „ 164
COMAYAGUA, „ 207
MANIOBAR, „ 244
POSADA NEAR SAN PEDRO SULA, „ 276
A LADY’S RIDE ACROSS SPANISH
HONDURAS.
CHAPTER I.
It was the question of pounds, shillings, and pence. Should I take
steamer from San Francisco to Panama, cross the isthmus, and from the
Atlantic side enter Spanish Honduras? or had I better travel by steamer
as far as Amapala, and thence take mules and ride across the country to
San Pedro Sula—my destination—a distance of about two hundred and
nineteen miles? Thus was perplexed the mind of your globe-trotting
servant “Soltera,” as she pored over railway and steamboat guides and
calculated expenses, in her comfortable but very costly bedroom in the
Palace Hotel, San Francisco, in the month of June, in year of grace
1881.
The steamer to Panama! A fine expense! And once arrived at that place,
the end of the journey is not by any means reached. After enduring more
or less sea-sickness, much thunder, and lightning unlimited, for about
twelve days, there would be the further risk of catching the Panama
fever.
This fever is often irreverently styled the canal fever (in grim
compliment to that cutting), and its general result is to put a decided
stop to all plans and locomotion for many a day; often for ever. Should
I avoid that misfortune, there would be the certainty of being detained
at some miserable place to wait for a vessel going to Puerto Cortez. A
bill for “discomfort supplied,” at a fearful charge of dollars, would be
the inevitable result of that detention.
Arrived at Puerto Cortez, which is also called Puerto Caballo, there
would still be fifty miles to travel over mountains, through streams,
and upon the ruins of the late Inter-Oceanic Railway of Honduras, till
the haven of San Pedro Sula were reached. So far the one side of the
question.
Now for its converse.
Take steamer as far as Amapala, which is the only Pacific port of entry
to Spanish Honduras; invade the consulate thereat; make a friend and
ally of good Señor Don Pedro Bahl; ask him to provide mules, servant,
and muleteer; and thus ride straight and hard for San Pedro Sula. That
is the better plan. It will also be the cheaper route; and I shall, by
this means, enjoy the mountains I love so well, and see them in all
their beauty, the grand Honduras mountains, over which few Englishmen,
and still fewer Englishwomen, have ridden!
It has been ascertained, and I have been assured of this from Honduras,
that the dangers of this route have been much exaggerated, the chief
drawback being the bad roads and the peril of fording some of the
streams. There exists also a great difficulty in obtaining food. But I
shall have a servant and a muleteer to forage, and I can live as they do
for twelve days or so (rash asseveration); and let me only come by a
tolerable supply of milk, and I will travel far and well.
Now falls on my soul the remembrance that I am alone in the world; and
at this moment the knowledge brings no pang. No one near of kin exists
whose anxieties might deter me; no loving heart will be broken should my
portion be evil. Suffering, physical and mental, will fall upon myself
solely; and should this expedition end in the “last disaster,” there
remain those outside the ties of kin, thank God, who will hold me in
kindly remembrance and deal gently with my name. Let me forward whilst I
have health and willing spirit. I am alone in the world. Yes; but I go
with God.
“What are you doing, Soltera? why are you going to San Pedro Sula, and
where on earth is the place?” had inquired of me, some weeks previously,
my handsome young cousin of the clan Campbell, who had come on board at
Auckland, whereat the steamer Australia (in which I formed one of the
passengers) touched, from lovely, hospitable Sydney. We were bound to
San Francisco, and had to stay a few hours in Auckland in order to take
in the New Zealand contingent of mails and seafarers. This cousin and
his wife were bound “home” on a visit, and it was quite in the usual
accidental nature of things in travel, that we should thus meet without
the slightest provocation thereto on either side.
Rail and steam here gave evidence that the world is small enough to
render chance encounters with long-parted friends a common incident.
Apart from the fact that the presence of this relative would contribute
to throw an air of respectability over me, I was very glad to meet him,
and to secure an auditor as to my plans and intentions.
In answer to his inquiries, I informed Mr Campbell that San Pedro Sula
was a large town in the Republic of Honduras, situate about fifty miles,
or rather more, off the Atlantic coast, at the foot of a range of
mountains, name forgotten. That its climate, according to a pamphlet
compiled by the Rev. Dr Pope, is salubrious (it is no such thing—but the
nights are bearable); that a colony of Britons and some French people
were being located thereat. In addition to this, the Government of
Honduras was granting large concessions of land (quite true), and doing
its utmost to get Europeans to make a settlement there.
“What has all this to do with you?” cut in my cousin, who seemed to fear
that the whole contents of the pamphlet were about to be let loose upon
him.
“Simply this: as I speak Spanish fairly, and can be otherwise useful, I
am invited (after some correspondence on the subject) to take charge of
the school which is being erected for the colonists’ children at San
Pedro Sula. A salary has been guaranteed me; and in addition to this,
the Government will assign me a plantation of one hundred and sixty
acres for the taking it, subject, of course, to its being cultivated and
kept in order. Dr Pope writes me that a plantation once put in working
trim, requires little further outlay, beyond the first or second year’s
expenses.”
“Who is this Dr Pope?”
“The agent of the Honduras Government and a Catholic priest. He has
already located a number of families from Ireland, and he is to return
shortly and fetch out four hundred more. The pamphlet is circulated as a
proclamation and confirmation of his position to the outside world, and
contains, both in the Spanish and the English language, a copy of all
the engagements existing between the President of the Republic, Dr Soto,
and this agent. There are also published letters of authority from most
of the principal persons of the State, the Dutch consul, and the Bishop
of Comayagua.”
“Coma—what?”
“Comayagua,” I replied, “the ancient capital of Spanish Honduras. The
seat of government is transferred now to a town which lies further south
of Comayagua. The name of this town is Tegucigalpa—perhaps you like that
better?”
“Don’t chaff a fellow; the names are wonderful! What a country it must
be to stand such queer-sounding appellations! Excuse me further. Let me
hope that you have not bought any land, or placed money in this agent’s
hands.”
“Certainly not. You know that I have been obliged to increase my
pittance by taking pupils in Sydney. I am very, very sorry to part with
these dear people; but I am not getting younger, and I want to make a
home of my own. This appointment will help me on till I do so. Don’t you
see?”
“Yes—well—and if it does not do, you can go back again. I don’t know
much about the matter, but I have always had the impression that the
climate out there is rather awful. Hot as fire, is it not?”
“Not among the mountains,” I retorted quickly; for a shadow of suspicion
must not be allowed to fall upon my beloved mountains. “The climate is
unhealthy, and worse, I know, on the sea-coast and low-lying plains; but
I shall be very little among these.”
“Haven’t they a place there called Mosquito? That sounds lively, but
decidedly the reverse of pleasant, eh?”
“Mosquito, my good cousin, is another province altogether. Look at the
map. You can abuse that as much as you please. San Pedro Sula lies in
the interior of the country, and is surrounded by the mountains. The
only drawback of the situation is, that the town has been placed at
their base.”
“What are these mountains called?”
“I do not know that they have any particular designation; but they form
part of the chain of the principal range.”
“You seem to be pretty well up in the geography of these parts at any
rate, and I hope you will not be disappointed; for really, Soltera, this
is an undertaking, and no mistake about it.”
“Yes; and if you read in some newspaper a few months hence, that a lady
unknown, together with her mule, have been found at the bottom of a
precipice, make up your mind that it is I. Better people can be spared;
so any way I will try it. Besides, my late residence in Fiji has given
me an insight both as regards tropical and plantation life. I learnt a
few things when in those lovely isles of the Pacific which I hope to
turn to good account.” (A year previously I had been employed as a
finishing governess in a planter’s family in one of the islands of the
Fijian group. This fact will inform the reader that I add the crime of
poverty to my other detriments.)
The foregoing conversation will also explain the conflict anent ways and
means which exercised me during my stay at San Francisco, and why the
more perilous route chimed in so readily with my purse and proclivities.
Time and the steamer _viâ_ the Mexican ports of Mazatlan, San Blas,
Manzanillo, and Puerto Angel, saw me on my way to the Republic of
Honduras, and bound for its port of entry, Amapala.
This latter place is so rarely marked on the smaller maps, that I may
mention that this town is situate on a small island in the bay of
Fonseca; and that most people revile it as being a hot, dirty, and not
money-making place.
Having “been and seen” the stores of the United States of American
consul there, and witnessed the traffic which goes on in his
well-stocked warehouse, I am much inclined to doubt the latter part of
this assertion.
Public opinion, furthermore, appeared to be greatly aggrieved because
the nightly lightning which always works with great vigour at Amapala
has hitherto left the town intact, and this by a peculiar and persistent
perversion of right and wrong. From the manner also in which some
persons talked about this coast, I was led to believe that an inevitable
lion was to be descried on its shores on the approach of a steamer,
watching, it was implied, for the rare meat which, in the shape of a
passenger, might descend upon Amapala. This lion also enjoyed the
peculiarity of being reported as a “tiger,” probably from the
circumstance of an acclivity called “La Montaña de los Tigres” being
close to the landing-place, and whence the creature might have hailed.
Before the journey had nearly ended, however, he had subsided (by
description) into a mountain-leopard. Bad enough; but I never met him
under any of these phases.
Acapulco is the one of the Mexican ports at which we touched on our way
down the coast, of which I shall ever retain a “pleasant memory.” We
arrived in its lovely harbour in the early morning; and the sight of the
picturesque little town, over the red roofs of which the thin veil of
the mists was slowly clearing itself away, reminded me of the face of a
friend determined to wear a smile. Its situation between two irregular
and projecting tongues of land, with the background gradually widening
and rising towards the hills, invests it with an air of coziness, and of
being, at the same time, thoroughly well protected.
A few trees, dotted about in all the beauty of unprecision, serve to
relieve the whole landscape from the appearance of aridity so common to
the majority of seaboard towns. Several broken rocks of peculiarly vivid
colour jut out like an advanced-guard to the right of a long pier at the
entrance, and upon this pier the natives, in full costume or in little
costume, stand out in pleasing relief. Add to these the bright-coloured
fruit and fish, lying in baskets of every shape and elegant texture,
shrouded partially in grand green leaves, which of themselves suggest
the idea of sheltering trees. Not overlooking, either, the delicate
shell-work held up for sale in the hands of the loveliest female
peasantry in the world; the wonderful flowers; the boats covered with
every variety of gay awning, with the Mexican flag at their prow,
dancing here and there on the liquid emerald of the sea.
Look with me, reader, in this mirror; you will then have some idea of
how appears, in everyday garb, Acapulco.
“How lovely these Mexican girls are!” said the ship’s doctor to me as we
neared shore,—a party intending to spend a few hours on land whilst the
good ship Colima took in cargo, and transacted the business which would
detain her in harbour for the rest of the day. “Quite beautiful,”
continued the doctor, speaking to no one in particular, and keeping his
eyes riveted upon a damsel who was waiting on the pier ready to pounce
down upon us, and bewitch us into buying some of her shell-work. This
was a wreath of stephanotis, most artistically made in small white
shells, and as tastefully mounted with green silk leaves. It was a crown
for a fairy queen.
The doctor was a very young man—indeed this was, I think, his first trip
as doctor on board a steamer. He had talked during the voyage from San
Francisco with much contempt concerning Mexico, the Mexicans, and all
their ways and works. In fact he could see nothing admirable but the
United States of America, and had repudiated with great energy the
imputation often made by the passengers in general, that America is only
biding her time to “annex” Mexico to the States.
“Nothing of the kind,” he would asseverate; “you are all wrong; the
States would not take the country as a gift. A land that requires other
people to point out her means of wealth, and invites foreigners to
exploit her mines and build her railroads! A lazy, good-for-nothing set
of men; and as for the women——”
“Hold hard there, doctor,” had retorted a young English engineer, who
had embarked at Mazatlan on his way to join a mining camp somewhere in
Guatemala. “I give you the men; but as for the women, nothing short of
paradise can beat _them_. I was in Mexico last year, so I think I know
something about it. I repeat, the ladies of Mexico are all lovely.”
This opinion was emphatically supported by a party of students fresh
from college at San Francisco. These youths, who, in this most
cosmopolitan of cities, must have seen many Mexican ladies, were
unanimous in backing the engineer’s assertion. This gentleman had a
smattering of the Spanish language, and thus, with the alliance of the
students, his position appeared to be impregnable; but the American
doctor stood to his guns.
“Paradise, indeed! what have they to do with the place? They are too
lazy to walk in even if the door were opened to them. No brains—no
usefulness—can’t do a thing but thrum on a guitar. One American girl is
worth a hundred of them. And as for beauty,—dirty, brown skins—glaring,
beady, black eyes without intelligence. No——”
“May I ask,” interrupted the engineer, politely, “_who_ is the one
American girl worth half a hundred of—well—houris?”
“Angels,” suggested one of the students. I think he suspected that the
engineer’s appellation might not be strong enough.
The deep flush on the quiet impassive face of the doctor betrayed that
the conversation had taken a turn quite unlooked for by him. Happily at
that moment one of the stewards, sent by his chief, came to ask for some
quinine pills. So the doctor got himself away, but not before he had
heard one of the company assert,—“The Americans certainly have their
pretty women, like other nations; but, good Lord! ‘them have all of them
voices like a peacock.’”
“Surely that is rather a sweeping assertion,” I made reply to the
passenger who had ventured it.
“Not a bit of it,” he answered, with all the hardihood of thorough
conviction; “that beautiful thing in woman, ‘the soft low voice,’ is
utterly unknown in America. The children in the schools are taught to
pitch their voices in a high key. It is part of their education. One can
forgive a little of the peacock in a pretty woman; but when it comes to
the plain ones, it makes one shiver whenever they open their mouths.”
“I don’t know,” I replied; “but somehow it does not seem to accord with
our doctor’s quiet gentle manner to accredit him with a fancy even for a
girl with a harsh voice.”
“Can’t help himself,” was the rejoinder; “and I know pretty clearly what
I am talking about.”
This finished the conversation as far as I was concerned; but I felt
sure that the doctor, though out of sight, was near enough to hear these
remarks. To prevent the subject coming up again, I asked a young lady of
ten years of age to favour us with some music.
That performance had the effect of sending every one at once out of the
saloon; and the next morning saw us invading a Mexican port, and
admiring the beauty of “las Mejicanas.”
In the multiplicity of his occupations by night and day (for there was
an apprehension of fever breaking out) our Esculapius had entirely
forgotten the guerilla warfare of the preceding evening, or he would not
have so enthusiastically exclaimed, “How lovely these Mexican women
are!”
Fortunately his opponent had seated himself in the second boat, and so
this involuntary applause fell only on my ear and upon those of the San
Franciscan students.
These were quite good-natured fellows, and their “chaff” was perfectly
guileless of being personal or bitter. They, however, would have their
say.
“Well done, doctor!” cried one who was called Paul by his _confrères_,
and who seemed to be their leading spirit; “a confession and retraction
all in one. Now look here, doctor: you must buy that wreath; and
moreover, you must present it to some lady who is _not_ an American. Do
you consent?”
“Wa-al, and what then? I will buy the wreath; and further, I can afford
to say that I have been mistaken. There is great intelligence in that
‘Mejicana’s’ eye. She is a wonderfully beautiful woman. Ask the price of
the wreath and I will buy it, and present it to a lady not American.”
True to his promise, the doctor, aided by the lad named Paul (who spoke
English very fairly), immediately upon landing began to traffic with the
Mexican girl, she, on her side, being more than willing. Let those whose
sole acquaintance with shell-work is confined to the hideous productions
exhibited at Brighton, Margate, and others of Britain’s coasts, know
that on their side of the world never have nor never can be encountered
those wonderful productions of sand and glue and buried mussel which
constitutes nine-tenths of what is miscalled shell-work in the
above-named places.
The shells on the coast of Central America generally are exquisitely
delicate, and thin to transparency. At a place called Acajutta, there is
a beach so famous for its rose-coloured shells that it is commonly
styled the bed of rose-leaves.
The making of these shell-flowers is a prevailing industry along the
coast, and the native women, especially the Indians and the Mexicans,
derive a great emolument from their sale. The art is also much practised
by ladies of higher rank, and it is taught as one of the accomplishments
in the convent schools. It is certain that nature gives a liberal
helping hand in the tints of rose and yellow which in these shells are
remarkably natural; but a good deal must be accorded to the delicate
touch and elegant taste of those who arrange these charming bouquets.
The wreath being bought, it was not difficult to guess who was to be its
recipient. Close beside me stood a young Irish lady, who, with her
family, was on her way from Japan to New York viâ Aspinwall. The mother
having the care of a young infant, had asked me to chaperon “Beauty” and
her sister on this little expedition. At this moment I forget the lady’s
Christian name. She was called Beauty O’H—— all over the ship; and she
deserved the appellation, being a simple innocent girl, charming in
every way.
Three cheers from the lads, interlarded with the complimentary
expressions of “Good comrade—man of good heart—of honour,” &c., notified
the extreme satisfaction of the students at this assignment of the
purchase; whilst the sapphire blue eyes of the girl beamed with
gratitude as she warmly tendered her thanks. The doctor really at that
moment did receive the reward of virtue—that is, if virtue ever does get
any reward outside of tracts and little books.
A fellow-passenger, who rejoiced in the name of Cookes, here remarked
that he liked sentiment and all that sort of thing in its place. He had
come to Acapulco to see the peak of distant Popocatepetl, “that splendid
mountain, madam,” he continued, particularly addressing himself to me,
“which has his head covered with clouds all the year round, and which——”
Here interposed Señor Hernandez, a gentle well-bred Spaniard, who might
pass for being perfectly sane, did he not acknowledge to the ambition of
becoming at no distant date president of one of the Central American
republics. The Señor’s knowledge of English was limited, but he had
caught enough to understand that Popocatepetl was being misrepresented.
“Pardon me, his head is not always in the clouds,” said he, taking up Mr
Cookes; “and if we want to see him in all his glory we must walk a short
way into the country. In such splendid weather, I think we should be
able to count upon a very clear view.”
“Do you know the way?” inquired Mr Cookes, who spoke the Castilian
language remarkably well.
“I was here many years ago, but I think I can remember the route; there
is no time to lose. Remember our captain’s words as we left: ‘If you do
not return by five o’clock I shall not wait, but sail away.’”
This admonition put us on our mettle, and taking the middle of the road,
we set out on our expedition. The streets of Acapulco as they recede
from the shore are hilly, and full of sand and large holes. An attempt
has formerly been made to repair them here and there, but the result is
not a success. Some of the houses are very solidly built, with stone
pillars supporting the porticoes, and with broad stone seats, firmly
built in the wall, within these. Apparently there was not a glass window
in the place, all these apertures being filled with light lattice-work,
painted a dull red colour. In some casements thin bars of iron, placed
diagonally, admitted air and light.
The public school window was so furnished, and a thick shutter hung
outside, which could be closed at pleasure, according to the strength of
the sun and glare. The schoolroom seemed to be very roomy and clean, and
its walls were evidently of great thickness. We looked through the iron
lattice, and saw the scholars busy at work. The master came forward and
bowed, and at a sign from him all the pupils who were seated rose to
their feet. This, from all appearance, did not seem to be the first time
that the school had been noticed by strangers. A few little fellows
poked their heads through the lower bars; and some big ones, who had got
into the street, followed us for a short distance as we wended on our
way. They soon turned back, and sped away to school again with the speed
of deer. Somebody was awaiting them!
CHAPTER II.
Forward being the word, we quickly cleared the town of Acapulco. Its
outskirts bear a cultivated appearance, owing to the rows of trees which
are planted for some distance at the side of the footpath. At this
season they bore a bunchy mauve-coloured flower, something between the
lilac and the beautiful climber Wistaria; but the blossom was not so
clearly defined, and it crumbled away in the hand at the slightest
touch.
It was pleasant to find the China rose (with such a lovely pink on its
cheek!) peeping out here and there from a dilapidated hedge. This place
must surely be some deserted garden. A look through a gap confirmed this
conjecture, as we descried several tall hollyhock-looking plants,
bearing about them a decided air of culture. They appeared as if they
were on guard, distracting by their gaudy array the attention of the
passers-by from the desolation within.
A party endowed with plenty of life and _tongue_ generally travels
quickly, and gets over a good span of ground and time at almost
imperceptible speed. This was certainly the case with us as on and on we
went, admiring the fantastic peaks and heights by which the near
distance was intersected, and grumbling a little when the ascent became
more abrupt, and the road rougher. Very shortly granite rocks, and their
usual companion the dwarf cactus, stood out upon the scene; the huts,
too, had become more sparse; these were little else than bare poles,
with their roofing composed of dirty skins and palm-leaves. Then utter
desolation: for nothing living, save a large hare, which darted into
some brushwood in the background, gave evidence that any created thing
existed here.
My surprise was great when I heard this animal declared to be a hare.
“It is so large and black,” objected I.
“Years ago, when I landed from a merchant vessel here for a day, this
place was overrun by hares. I remember we made a party to go into the
interior and shoot them. They were mostly large, and the flesh was very
coarse,” made answer Mr Cookes.
“You have been here before?” inquired Beauty O’H——.
“I have been almost all over Mexico and the coast,” returned Mr Cookes;
“but I was only on shore at Acapulco for the one day I allude to, and
that was twenty years ago.”
“This is how you come to speak Spanish so well,” said the same young
lady.
“Yes; I kept it up in Mexico; but I learned the language in Spain, in
the old country. When very young I was sent into a counting-house at
Cadiz; but I soon tired of that, and turned sailor.”
“You know all about Popocatepetl then?” continued Beauty.
“No; I don’t feel interested in mountains; I have seen such a lot of
them. This one is the highest in America, they say; but it is only,
after all, a volcano out of work.”
“Doctor,” said she, turning round, and speaking to him with an air of
confidence; “you know something about this mountain. Why is it thought
so much of, and where did it get its frightful name?”
“It got its frightful name in very far-off times,” replied that
gentleman; “I cannot tell you when, but it was so called when the
Spaniards invaded Mexico, and conquered that country. The meaning of
Popocatepetl is ‘The hill that smokes.’”
“It does not smoke now?”
“No; but at the time of the invasion I allude to, it was in full play;
and the eruption was so terrific, and lasted so long, that the Indians
believed it to be the portent of the destruction of their city. You
should read ‘The Conquest of Mexico,’ by Prescott. You will learn all
about it far better in that work than from me.”
“Prescott is an American?”
“Yes,” returned the doctor, proudly; “and his writings are accepted as
being standard works in all the civilised world. If you prefer to select
an English author on the subject, read Robertson.”
“Certainly not,” replied the girl hastily; “you Americans are so touchy.
I only inquired what Prescott’s nationality was, to satisfy my own
ignorance.”
“Come up here, all of you,” shouted a voice from the front—the owner
being perched on an elevated ridge a little to the right, and taking
advantage of the height to look down upon us with the air of a
discoverer. This was the student Paul.
We hastened to obey. The other students helped up the girls, the
Spaniard helped me, and I hauled Mr Cookes, who was lame, with my
disengaged hand, the doctor propelling him in the rear.
Hats off, shouting, and an improvised war-dance on the part of the
students, announced us to be in the presence of Popocatepetl, that is,
as far as eyesight was concerned. Actually it was many, many leagues
away in the far distance.
In the far distance—true; but well did we discern this magnificent peak,
shooting like a monolith straight and fair into the clouds. Was his form
irregular; had he gaping wounds, black with cinder and burn, and
disfigured by smoke? The rich soft mantle of snow veiled all these; and
troops of smaller cones far and wide, more sober in their greyer tones,
clustered around him to conceal his scars and his power for evil. From
the point whence we viewed him, he was the giant grand and beautiful,
and we ignored the destructions which he had wrought.
“Let him not arouse,” pray we; for should His hand unloose him, who can
tell what miseries the pent-up fires of a century may rain on the earth?
Some longing, lingering looks, and we descend into the road which will
take us back to the town! Our tongues are free, for the weird solemn
scene had subdued the youngest of us into silence.
Now we all burst forth into praise, and admire ourselves intensely for
undertaking this pilgrimage. Ere long it leaks out that some of us are
tired, and all confess to feeling very hungry and thirsty.
Good Señor Hernandez is equal to this occasion.
“I have an old friend,” said he, “whose _hacienda_ is very near the
town,—it will not be many steps out of the way. If he does not happen to
be at home, some of the family will be. They are kind, hospitable
people, and will make us welcome.”
“But we are such a gang,” one of our number reminded Señor Hernandez.
“Never mind; there is plenty of room, and my friend is a Spaniard of
pure race.” This last expression meant many things; amongst which the
declaration of there being no admixture of Indian blood in the
composition of Señor Hernandez’s friend was one; another, that a true
Spaniard never quarrels with the number of his guests.
So we hied to the _hacienda_ of Señor Don Candido, and were admitted
through a broken gate into a piece of ground, half coffee plantation,
half garden, and whole wilderness,—brilliant flowers dotting themselves
here and there, mostly set on tall stalks. They reminded me somewhat of
some pert damsels I have seen, who were determined not to be overlooked.
A long low building stood in the centre of this enclosure; and presently
there poured out from this men, women, dogs, unlimited in number as they
appeared, followed by a very handsome lad who carried a gun in his hand.
Introductions over, we were soon seated in the broad verandah—which is
generally the place of social gatherings in these Spanish houses. Some
handsomely netted hammocks and some plain grass ones were slung between
the several posts of the verandah. Out of one of these a head was raised
up, and as quickly popped back again.
“It is only Pepita,” said the lady of the house, in explanation. “Poor
Pepita! she runs about too much. Sleep on,” she continued, addressing
the bulge in the hammock; “these good friends will excuse thee.” And she
gave the hammock a swing, which, I suppose, sent Pepita off to the land
of Nod, but which effectually roused a cross parrot which had been
reposing with its mistress, and which flew out of its enclosure, and
without the slightest provocation made straight for me and attempted to
bite my feet. Failing in this, the bird clung to my skirts, and
attempted to climb upon me beneath them. I tried to push the creature
away, but it seemed bent upon tasting European flesh; and as the O’H——
girls were afraid to touch it, I had to rise to my feet and hurl it from
me. Just then the handsome lad—who was called, I heard, Jaime (this is
pronounced Ha-ee-may, and is Castilian for our ugly, abrupt
James)—caught sight of what was going on, and proceeded to put a stop to
the parrot’s annoyance, for it was rushing at me again.
Don Jaime left the verandah-post against which he had been leaning as he
chatted to Señor Hernandez, and brought out from some corner a long and
very thin bamboo switch. With this he administered four or five cuts
sharply across the back and wings of the bird, reproving it as he did so
just as if it had been a child under correction.
“Ah, naughty Marquita! Take thy whipping; this is to teach thee manners.
Wicked bird! How dare you try to bite!”
I had never seen a bird whipped before; and fearing that he might do it
a mischief, I begged the lad to refrain.
“She must be tamed,” replied the lad, as he desisted at once; “she is of
a very strong kind, and her temper is that of the _demonio_. No, I would
not hurt her; I know how much to correct her.”
All this time the bird was yelling and squeaking like a veritable
_demonio_, and flew to the roof of the verandah, describing wide circles
about Don Jaime’s head, and making as if she would attack him with all
the strength of her will. The bamboo switch was evidently a factor in
the case; and at length she flew up into a corner and contented herself
with emitting now and then some peculiar sounds, which possibly might be
hard bird-swearing.
The party at the other end of the verandah talked calmly on, and never
appeared even to notice the hubbub which this had occasioned. I suppose
in these parts it is not the correct thing to expend unnecessary
strength upon being surprised.
Some excellent coffee and fruit were handed to us, and at the same time
cigars were offered to all who would accept them. The lady of the house
presented her own to me, first lighting it and giving it two or three
puffs at her mouth as she did so. This is the most complimentary manner
of presenting a cigar, and I felt sorry that natural and national
prejudices obliged me to decline the civility. The hostess soon found a
grateful recipient in one of our fellow-travellers, and then she and her
daughters smoked away as hard as any three London cabmen.
The Misses O’H—— proposed to stroll out into the garden, and the
handsome Jaime put down his coffee-cup and attended us. He plucked some
fine China roses, and placing these against a background of coffee-tree
stems laden with berries, produced three beautiful and unique bouquets.
This young gentleman told us that he was a nephew of the owner of the
house, and that he was paying a visit at this time to Acapulco. We were
all very much taken with the appearance of the youth, and his kind
unaffected manner was truly charming.
“What a lout the ordinary British youth of the same age would be in this
position!” said the eldest Miss O’H—— to me, as we walked behind the
others. “He would be wishing all of us in Japan, and suffer the extreme
of misery in his own mind.”
“True,” I answered; “but remember, when the ordinary British lad arrives
at maturity, he generally remains in the plenitude of strength and
manhood for many years. When Lubin is fifty, Antonio will be looking,
and probably feeling, sixty-five. The Spanish women, you know, are
considered to be old at thirty; but they are formed and lovely at
fifteen.”
“I do not understand why this should be,” continued my young friend.
“Nor I either. I suppose it is in some degree a fulfilment of the
doctrine of compensation.”
“Ah! that is my father’s favourite theory, don’t you know?”
“No, dear Hibernia, I did not know; but I agree with your father. I
confess to being a great believer in the doctrine of compensation.”
“Have you had any compensation in your life for your early troubles?
None of us have, and papa has been done out of a lot of money,” said the
girl.
“So have I also; but compensation may not come in the way we expect.
Good health, happiness, getting married, my dear, on your part, and not
getting married on mine, may perhaps be a compensation for the loss of
money.”
So preached I; and the kind-hearted girl pressed my arm, and said she
only wished that I had a large fortune, and that I could finish my
journey with her and her family. This could not be, for the O’H——’s were
on their way to New York.
Now were gathered together our forces, for we must be back on our way to
the vessel. The doctor was missing. Somebody surmised that he had
already returned to the ship. However, we unanimously decided that he
would turn up somewhere; and then we all took leave, having well enjoyed
our simple and cordial entertainment.
“Ah! there you are, doctor; we could not think what had become of you,”
exclaimed Mr Cookes, as he caught sight of that gentleman sitting on a
step busy overhauling the contents of a candle-box-looking article. “We
thought you had turned back for metal more attractive—the Mexican
shell-worker.”
“You thought wrong, then. I strayed out of the way to look for some
marine plants, for I aspire to be a little of a botanist. Not having the
faintest idea where you had got to, I walked straight here; for you
would be obliged to pass this place to get to the pier.”
“This place” was a large and well-stocked store, hung without and within
with a wonderful collection of articles, and kept by a veritable
Englishman. I wanted some large white handkerchiefs wherewith to cover
my shoulders during my proposed ride, as the back of the neck, at the
juncture of the head with the spine, is the part which should be more
carefully covered even than the head itself under a burning sun.
The girls, too, wanted the gayest handkerchiefs they could find, to
remind them of Mexico when they arrived at home.
We were supplied with what we required at a terrific price. The
shopkeeper must have netted forty per cent on an average upon our
purchases.
“We pay very high for the privilege of dealing with a countryman,”
remarked Mr Cookes. “The French, Greeks, and Spaniards certainly do
bleed foreigners pretty freely, but it is reserved to the English all
over the world to overcharge and swindle those of their own nation.
Other peoples are considerate to their own, but we are above the
weakness of making any exception.”
“Really?”
“That is my experience in these countries. Depend upon it, the worst
people to be encountered in any part of the world are the low whites,”
went on Mr Cookes. “They get all they can out of the natives, and then,
in some cases, go home and cant about the wickedness of the heathen.”
This is in a measure true, as I knew by experience in the Fiji Islands,
and from statements of friends on whom I could rely.
Returning in the boat to the vessel, I found myself again seated near
the doctor. He asked me to spare him a stem of the coffee-berries.
“I want them,” said he, with a little hesitation, “for a ‘school marm.’
She is a good girl, and, though an American, she _has_ the low soft
voice so beautiful in woman.” Here the doctor looked very valiant, as if
he would not recede an inch from what he had averred.
I handed him the stem of coffee-berries, and with it the finest of my
roses. “The ‘school marm’ will be the doctor’s wife some fine day, I
predict,” said I, shaking him by the hand. “Now, do you dry that rose,
and some far-off time you may chance upon it, and remember our little
excursion in Acapulco.”
The good gentleman returned the pressure of my hand, and merely replied,
“Yes; this has been a red-letter day.”
“May all go well with you. Good-bye.”
The boat had touched the ship’s stair, and the doctor, after placing me
on the lower step, ran rapidly up on deck. Thus vanished out of my
sight, probably for ever, one of my pleasant travelling friends.
The captain was standing on board as we ascended. “I have not had time
to say much to you,” said he, addressing me; “but I hear you are going
to the Honduras. Surely it is a terrible journey for you to take alone!”
“I do not fear a little hardship,” said I, perhaps too confidently. “I
am the daughter and sister of English soldiers, and my bringing up has
never been luxurious. Circumstances in later years have compelled me to
depend on myself.”
“It is a wonder to me,” continued the captain, “that your relatives
allow you to go.”
“I have no near relations, and I go to make a home of my own. We have
all of us our troubles, captain; do not discourage me. Hitherto I have
got on very well, and the world in general is kind to lone female
travellers.”
“Yes, the civilised world.” The captain here shook his head.
I turned aside to answer a summons. The speaker was a bedroom steward.
“Mr Smith sends me to ask you to get together your things, please, for
the boat will be ready in twenty minutes to take you on board the
Clyde.”
I looked at my roses and my beautiful bunch of coffee-berries, and
handed them silently over to the youngest Miss O’H——; for—the truth must
out—I was to say good-bye, and leave these friends of a few days “for
ever and a day,” as the saying goes. Yes; there stood the vessel
alongside of the Colima, the steamer which we had seen in the harbour
before we went ashore. She was called the Clyde, was smaller than the
Colima, and warranted slow.
This vessel had been all day taking in and discharging cargo, and now
was ready to receive the last of the passengers of the Colima who might
be bound to the intermediate ports. The future mission of the Colima was
to dash down to Panama without a stoppage; whilst the Clyde was to
dawdle leisurely along the coast, stop at every port, and to cast anchor
every night from sundown to sunrise.
“Why is this?” I inquired of Mr Smith, the head steward,—that kindest
and most courteous of head stewards, wherever the others may be.
“The navigation is particularly dangerous along that coast, and in some
places the water is very shallow and abounds in shoals. The steamers
always lay-to at night. The voyage down there will be very tedious, and
the heat terrible, you’ll find,” returned Mr Smith. “Do not be startled
at the lightning. It is very alarming to a stranger, but you will soon
be accustomed to that. This is the season for it.”
“We have had a pretty fair share since we left San Francisco. Will it be
worse as we go further south?” I inquired.
“No; but you will think more of it, as you will be lying still, and the
steamer also. I mention the subject, to assure you that I have never
heard of any vessel being struck; and although moving objects, they say,
run less risk, the lightning on this coast seems to respect vessels at
anchor.”
“Are any more of our passengers changing for the Clyde?” I inquired.
“One steerage passenger,—a gentleman in every sense of the word. He goes
only as far as La Union, but he is willing to be useful to you if he
can. I am sorry to say that terrible ‘lady,’ Mrs C., and her children,
will be your only companions. I transferred them to the other ship three
hours ago, and they have been shrieking ever since. By the way,”
continued Mr Smith, with his good-natured laugh, “the captain of the
Clyde is in a terrible fright as to what you may be like, as these C.’s
are the only specimens he has of the Colima’s passengers, and Mrs C.
talks of her friend the English lady!”
I had only spoken to this individual once. She was a
demi-semi-gentlewoman, and her manners and appearance were very
unfortunate. Her hardness to one of her children, and the brazen way in
which she had informed the passengers in general that she had come away
in debt, and evaded her tradespeople in San Francisco, had caused us to
dislike her thoroughly.
We found that her husband was captain of a mine somewhere on the coast
of Guatemala, and that she and her family were on the way to join him.
According to her own account, she had left San Francisco in disguise;
but from various discrepancies in her narrations, I was led to think
that she preferred being taken for a vagabond than to pass as one of
whom there was nothing particular to be said.
Here they are, the boat and Mr Smith waiting to transfer me to the
Clyde. He brings in his hand a glass of champagne, which is sent, he
says, “with the Colima’s compliments.” The O’H——’s and students say
good-bye with all the kindliness of their nature; and gentle, unassuming
Señor Hernandez tells me not to keep him waiting, for he is coming on
board with me to introduce me to the captain. And so I get away, with a
benison in my heart on these kindly strangers. This was all my adieu,
for I could not speak. _El buen Dios los guarde mûchos años!_ (May God
grant them many years!)
CHAPTER III.
The steerage passenger described by the head steward as being a thorough
gentleman was already seated in the boat which was to convey us on board
the Clyde. I saw at a glance that he was one of Britannia’s sons, very
poor, perhaps, but bearing withal that unmistakable air of “breed,”
which neither wealth, nor education even, has ever succeeded in
imitating with success. The true stamp of nature’s gentleman, the best
of all, is ever inborn. This fellow-wanderer assisted us to seats, and
then we exchanged a few words as we were being rowed to our new vessel.
I gathered from these that this passenger was bound for the mines in
Guatemala; and he added to this information an avowal of his
determination never to set foot in England until he should return rich,
or at least independent.
“I am going to work as a common miner,” continued this young man, with
great decision, “whether my family like it or not. They sent me off to
make my way as best I could in the colonies; and because I could not get
a situation as a clerk in an office the moment I landed, it is assumed
that I am idle and all the rest of it; and so I am going to take my own
way of it, and stick to the work that has been offered to me on this
side.”
Mr Smith, who sat opposite, listened to all this, and then said: “You
came from Sydney, sir, did you not?”
“Yes; I worked my passage to ’Frisco, and am now on my way to join a
mining camp.”
From what transpired further, I found that this young man was but one of
the many who suffer from the extraordinary delusions under which many
_patres familiarum_, uncles, and widowed mothers of our nation labour
with regard to the demand and supply of educated labour in the colonies.
Generally speaking, when a young gentleman betrays, or has betrayed, a
proclivity for spending too much money, or cannot get what is called
_genteel_ employment at home, or has perhaps committed himself in an act
of grave misdoing, there is always some fool at hand to suggest his
being sent out to the colonies. If he may consent to enter farm or
domestic service, to learn a trade, or undertake any manual labour—well,
let him go. “But no,” says _pater-familias_; “Dick has had a good
education, he must go out as a gentleman. What he has learned in the
office here will suffice to place him at once; and Crammer, the
emigration agent, assures me that young men are sure to be provided for
at once in the colonies.” And so, with perhaps one respectable
introduction, and much oftener without any, young hopeful or hopeless is
sent on his way. He perhaps makes some inquiries on his journey, and
falls in generally with those who note only the successes.
“Look how well have succeeded MacWuskey and O’Scamp! and they landed in
the colony without a pound, sir!”
Very true of forty years agone; but now are changed days, and the field,
in the older towns at least, is full; besides, the sons of the colonists
must have their innings.
Thus it is, that when Dick and Tom Clerk, London, first arrive in
Sydney, for instance, they walk, poor fellows, day after day, from
office to wharf, and from wharf to store counting-house, seeking work in
all honesty, and finding none. In some instances they get promises, but
in general they are recommended to betake themselves to the bush; and in
some few cases they are roughly repelled, and requested not to bother.
Desperation, as they find their small means diminishing, leads them to
invade the offices of the governor, the inspector of police, and the
immigration agent. Each and every one of these would do his best to
help, but he has already a list of applicants as long as his arm. The
answer to inquiries for employment is invariably the same. “You must
wait. I will try and help you, if you can stay for a month or so; if
not, I advise you to go into the bush as soon as you can.”
There it is; Clerk, London, cannot wait. He was sent out with a very
small sum, and most of this is already spent for everyday wants. He
would go into the bush now, but he cannot command the railway fare.
In nine cases out of ten, the family of the clerk has never supplied one
shilling to enable him to exist until work is found. So deeply rooted is
the idea that a man can get into a merchant’s office (this is the
favourite vision) the moment almost that he lands in Australia, that
provision for a month in advance is seldom thought of. And so the family
feel very aggrieved when they get the intelligence that Dick is hauling
coals on a wharf, and that Tom is driving cattle at Tumberumba.
Ah! how often comes the news that the one is dying in hospital,
dependent upon the benevolence of a citizen and a sister of mercy; and
that the other, not finding employment, has disappeared, no one knows
whither!
Our boat is dancing attendance now, for we have to wait till a _barca_
from the shore, unlading fruit, sheers aside. This conversation is Greek
to Señor Hernandez, but he smiles good-naturedly, and tells the young
man that a great deal can be done in mines. This much the Señor has
gathered.
Mr Smith here asked if the mounted police of Sydney were not a very
efficient body of men?
“Very,” I replied; “the force is chiefly constituted of young men who
have originally emigrated with the intention of filling very different
positions. They are well off, for the inspector of police takes great
interest in those who buckle cheerfully to their work, and he always
employs a fit man when he can. The mounted police, however, has its
limits, and cannot be regarded as a refuge for the destitute. I strongly
advise every man who emigrates to the colonies to learn a trade, or
follow some manual labour. Clerks and school teachers abound there _ad
nauseam_, and it is neither wise nor honest to advise one to add to the
number.”
“You are quite right,” answered the steerage passenger. “I suppose you
have had some experience in the matter?”
“The sad experience of being applied to by more than one gentleman’s son
to lend him a few shillings wherewith to purchase a meal.”
“This must be very often the result of their own imprudence,” said Mr
Smith.
“In some cases, unfortunately; but bad management and ignorance on the
part of people at home have a good deal to do with it. If the lad is not
to be trusted with money, why cannot parents or guardians send it out to
some bank or responsible person? This, I am told, has been urged both
publicly and privately. You know as well as I do that banishment to the
colonies has been a favourite remedy for ne’er-do-weels at home. Happily
the colonies will no longer put up with our scapegraces and incapables;
but work cannot, at first, be got for even the most deserving.”
Space is now made for us, and we clamber up the iron steps of the Clyde.
Mr Smith has something to say to his _confrère_ in that vessel. I hear
later on that it is an injunction to take care of me. A Chinaman comes
to tell me that my baggage is in the cabin No. 2, which I am to occupy
alone. This last news is very pleasant, and I am comforted also when I
see that No. 2 is a deck cabin, and that the berth is furnished with
white curtains. This will enable me to keep the door open during the
night. Mrs C. and her children are to occupy No. 1, so there will be
just companionship enough without too near proximity.
The sunset is over, and Señor Hernandez and I sit on a bench and watch
the lightning. It has become quite a familiar object now; and we both
admire this wonderful feature of the nights on this coast with deep
interest. We talk about Old Spain, I remember, and my good friend is
delighted to find that I am the daughter of an officer who fought for
that country in the last Peninsular war. Now Mr Smith comes to say
good-bye, and to carry away this kindly gentleman. The parting is
quickly over, and I plunge into my cabin and become “Soltera” once more.
Four o’clock A.M. is the correct hour for rising at sea in Central
America. After a night of great heat, I had just fallen asleep as the
vessel moved out of port; ten minutes afterwards I was roused by a
succession of shrieks. The cause proved to be Mrs C. correcting one of
her children with a box-strap; and so my intention of remaining in my
berth was completely frustrated, as far as sleep was concerned, for, to
drown the child’s yells, the elder sister had commenced a series of
dismal tunes on an accordion. Sam the Chinaman, who had brought me a cup
of tea, was dreadfully scandalised.
“Very bad lot,” remarked the Celestial, as he handed in my tea through
the window which looked out on to the deck. “Ole gentlemans other side,
he swear awful at the noise, and me don’t wonder. Ay! wait till captain
come on deck, he soon see. Come again soon.” This last promise was in
reference to bringing me more tea, I suppose; for my friend had shot
away like an arrow at the sound of a voice which was inquiring for that
“heathen Sam” in anything but dulcet tones.
There were few passengers present at the usual hour of breakfast, and of
these I alone represented womankind. What were called _gentlemen_ were
anything but attractive specimens of their order. They all ate and drank
in silence, fed with their knives, and never had the civility to pass a
single thing on the table to me. They certainly knew what was the
business of the table-steward, and, I conclude, did not care to
interfere with it. The captain, of whom I had heard most favourable
report, was ill, and confined to his cabin.
Here was one of the varieties of travel with a vengeance; but we cannot
have everything _couleur de rose_; and as no company is better than
uncongenial company, I tucked myself into a shady corner on deck, nursed
the purser’s cat, and read Jules Verne’s ‘Twenty Leagues under the Sea.’
If anything distracted my attention, it was the remembrance of the
Colima and her seafarers: but the copybook slips of my early days
impressed upon me that comparisons are odious; and so I tried very hard
to put everything but the present out of my mind, and in a sort of way I
managed to succeed.
A day and a night certified each other with regular monotony, the heat
becoming more intense. At length we made Port Angel. The port presents a
fine bold coast, but it bears the reputation of being extremely
unhealthy. An enormous old lady of colour got in here: it was quite a
work of mechanism to get her hoisted up the side. This was the first and
last I ever saw of her, as she went straight to her cabin, and remained
there till I disembarked at Amapala. She was accompanied by a nephew,
who seemed to be very nervous and shy; so these were no great
acquisition.
A laughable mistake had caused me to be sick and qualmish on this day.
Mrs C., who treated me very civilly, asked me to divide a bottle of
congress-water with her, both of us looking upon it as a kind of
effervescent, such as lemonade or soda-water.
The Chinaman who had brought it up of course made no explanation. Mrs C.
divided the contents of the bottle into two glasses, and we both drank
off a good portion of the most abominable decoction I ever tasted, at a
gulp. Simultaneously, we put down the glasses, and glared at each other.
“What have you given me?” I at last gasped out.
“It’s poison! I am sure it’s poison!” shrieked Mrs C. “Sam,—Chinese
fool, come to me this minute! You have brought poison here!”
Sam was not within hail; but one of the hitherto dumb male passengers
was passing, and he was startled into opening his lips.
“Why—you have not been drinking this to quench your thirst, have you?”
said he, as he took up a glass.
“Yes; we thought it was a cooling drink.”
The man could not restrain a laugh. Who could? This beverage was a
strong medicine—diluted Epsom salts, and something more—and ranked among
the ship’s remedies for bilious attacks and other ailments. We had taken
enough for four people, and we naturally must expect to feel the effects
of the medicine severely.
“If you had wanted to ward off fever, you could not have managed it more
effectually,” continued our interlocutor. “Let me advise you to eat
something substantial, and avoid tea and soups for a day or two.” So
saying he turned on his heel, and we had the satisfaction of hearing him
laugh like a fiend as he went down to the saloon.
Mrs C. hurled the congress-water bottle into the sea, and sent for some
brandy. We took about a teaspoonful apiece, and were not, after all,
made very ill. Possibly the dose was good for us; but we both, I think,
will “squirm” to the end of our lives at the mention of congress-water.
The next day being the “glorious Fourth of July,” some recognition of
the event must take place. Early in the morning, the C. girls’ awful
accordion was in full play, the purser following suit upon another, till
we were nearly all made wild with the noise; for the music had been
supplemented by a fire of crackers, and human yells were added to these.
Happily the captain, though an American, did not appreciate this manner
of celebrating the national glorification day. He was possessed of great
taste and refinement, and he would do a thing well, or leave it alone;
so these rejoicings were put an end to, and a very good dinner was
served in the saloon in honour of the day. Captain C. was a remarkably
handsome and agreeable man; and I always look back upon him as being my
model American. Of course there are many such, but I have not, hitherto,
been fortunate enough to meet them.
Three days passed wearily away, as the heat in the day had become most
oppressive: it was a dull, sickly kind of heat, which seemed to permeate
through the system and absorb all strength. The sea-air, and a violent
thunderstorm which took place one night, kept us alive.
We stopped at one or two ports; passengers coming and going by units,
and twos and threes, as the case might be. The C. children became so
unmanageable as the days went by, that I really could not help feeling
some compassion for the mother. To keep these rioters a little quiet,
the officers of the ship supplied them with oranges, nuts, and other
fruit, in unlimited quantity. The heaps of peel, skins, and other
_débris_ at our cabin-doors testified to the justice done to these
refreshments, and Sam the Chinaman had to come and sweep “twice a day,”
as if he were cleaning up after a herd of swine. This extra office, it
may be supposed, did not tend to increase his admiration for the family.
It was a great incident in our career when we reached a small port, the
name of which is not in my journal, to see a boat come off shore,
bringing towards us two passengers, some bales, and a heap of
cocoa-nuts. These last were the special attraction, for nothing quenches
the thirst more quickly than the water which is contained in the
cocoa-nut before it turns to milk and kernel. The ship’s store of
cocoa-nuts was exhausted; and we were not only thankful to see a new
supply, but hugged ourselves in the opinion that they might be fresh.
An unlocking of the door of an unoccupied cabin on the other side of
mine announced that we were going to have a new neighbour. Sam informed
us that a gentleman was going to occupy it who was sick, “very muchee
sick. He waitee in boat now—got own servant; he waitee for more mans
pull him up side.”
Mrs C. became violently excited at this piece of news. “Very ill, is
he?” exclaimed she. “Speak the truth, Sam, he has got the fever—you know
he has. Don’t contradict me; it _can_ be nothing else than fever.”
“No, not anything like that, missee,” returned the patient Celestial.
“Him have fever? No, no; captain know better; captain no let fever in
here, eh!”
There was some reason in this; and though Mrs C. had replied, “Then it
will turn to fever,” my fears were instantly allayed. I remembered how
strict were all precautions taken on board against even a suspicion of
“El Vomito,” as is called the terrible yellow fever of these coasts. A
family of five children, however, fully justified Mrs C.’s alarm.
Presently a scuffling and shuffling of feet approached our quarters, and
on standing aside we gave place to an exceedingly large stout gentleman
who was leaning on the arm of his servant. Behind these came a sailor
with a portmanteau and a canvas sack, tied in the middle like a
mail-bag, _minus_ its seal. Sam darted to the front in order to show the
cabin.
The gentleman was a Briton without a doubt. He was dressed in a suit of
white linen, and a long pugaree dangled from his green hat. His face was
ghastly pale, and his head was laid on his servant’s shoulder. He
evidently was suffering greatly, and appeared to be almost insensible.
As I looked at him it occurred to me that he might have had a sunstroke.
The servant got his master into his cabin, and presently one of the
ship’s officers came to assist in getting this stout gentleman into his
berth. The servant, who was a _ladino_ (mixture of Spanish and Indian),
was but a lad, of at most seventeen years, and must have been quite
unable to deal single-handed with so inert a load.
During dinner Captain C. told me something about this new passenger. “He
is travelling,” said he, “for a firm at New York, and, like most men
down here, he is looking after mines.”
“He seems to be very ill,” I said.
“Oh, that will pass off during the night. He is merely suffering from
giddiness from exposure to the sun, and from getting into an awful rage
to boot. Just fancy! he stood in the boiling heat for about two hours
disputing a charge on his baggage! The custom-house officer came on
board with him to explain how he appears to be so ill. It’s a mercy that
he escaped a sunstroke. Will you take some curry? It is very good.”
I got the curry, and the captain went on. “And only about two pesetas”
(less than two shillings)! “This is just like the usual run of
Englishmen; they will bear an overcharge of pounds with fair equanimity,
but when the matter is one of sixpence, they swear and tear till they
have scarcely a breath left!”
“Two pesetas seem hardly worth while to dispute about,” said I.
“The principle of the thing is always the reason given when the sum is a
trifle; and it is so, but it is lost labour to rave at these people;
they do not understand, as a rule, one quarter of what is said to them.
I have seen men stand whilst a foreigner, an opponent, is telling them,
in the strongest of mixed idioms, that they are fools and
villains,—quietly stand, with a half-pitying smile on their faces, as if
they were disputing with a child, and must make allowance.”
“But if they don’t understand?”
“It would be much the same if they did. They know well enough that they
are being abused, and bow and flourish between the lulls in the
conversation in the calmest manner. That is so aggravating to the
English and Americans! These take it as meant for impertinence; I, who
have had experience, know that it results from pure indifference and the
languor induced by the climate.”
“I have been told that these Central Americans stick very closely to the
point where money is concerned,” said I.
“That they do. Our friend up-stairs had, after all, to pay the two
pesetas, or leave his baggage behind. And so, what with the excitement
and exposure, he nearly succeeded in bringing on a fit. However, the
physicking he has had will set him up all right by to-morrow.”
This was cheering news, and Mrs C. retired to rest with a peaceful mind.
On the morrow the stranger was reclining in a bamboo-cane chair beneath
the awning. He did not look quite well, but his appearance was certainly
more comfortable than that presented on the preceding day.
I bade him good morning and inquired after his health. Mr Z.’s fine grey
eyes lighted up as I addressed him.
“Ah!” he exclaimed, “I could not be mistaken; I was sure that you were
an Englishwoman!”
I confirmed his opinion.
“You are not belonging to that woman and those horrible children?” he
continued, speaking with much disgust, and indicating the C. party with
his thumb.
“No; I am only acquainted with them by the accident of travel.”
“Excuse me, I am a plain man; what on earth brings a lady such as you in
this part of the world?”
I told him, as briefly as I could, what my position was. He snorted and
grunted, and finally said—
“I hope you won’t get murdered. By the by, San Pedro Sula, that is not a
bad place when you get to it; I should very much like to go there
myself, but the travelling——”
The _ladino_ boy, with a polite “Con permiso,” stated that he had been
at San Pedro Sula. It was “a beautiful place,” he said.
“He was there,” continued the master, “helping to build that confounded
railway. There’s a mess! A lot of rascals in London set that floating.
It ought to have paid; yes, paid well; but in these places there is no
one to look after things, and the whites are quite as ready to swindle
one another when there is nothing to be got out of foreigners. Would you
believe it, ma’am,” continued the poor gentleman, “that a wretched
Scotchman, one of my own countrymen, actually upheld the custom-house
clerk, through thick and thin, in the matter of an overcharge which was
made on my baggage!”
I expressed my regret to hear this, but ventured the observation that
perhaps the Scotchman thought that the official was right.
“Nothing of the kind,” replied my friend with great energy; “he only
wanted to curry favour and stick to his berth. Fancy their having the
audacity to charge me wharfage dues for that bag of cocoa-nuts there!”
continued Mr Z., warming with his subject; “a few cocoa-nuts that I had
bought and sent down the night before only! The thing is monstrous! I
could have done without the fruit, as I am going to La Libertad only;
but they threatened to detain my portmanteau if I did not pay all the
dues. So I was obliged to pay two pesetas, as I had not time to waste.
They got a bit of my mind, though!”
Here we both laughed; and as Mr Z. was in the main a good-natured
person, his wrath quickly evaporated in the safety-valve, which I, as an
unprejudiced listener, seemed to represent.
“La Libertad is the next port that we stop at,” I say, in order to ward
off any further reference to this gentleman’s annoyances.
“Yes; I get off there, as I have to go up into the interior on business.
You will have a terrible time of it going across to San Pedro. I have
often thought of going there; but from what I have heard about the
roads, and the starvation, and the chances of attack (chances, mind, I
say—for I don’t want to frighten you, but there is nothing really to
eat), and other discomforts, I have decided to give up the idea. I
should like, however, to accompany you,” he added, after a short pause.
“Why not?” say I, catching at the opportunity of securing a travelling
companion. “You and your servant and mules joined with mine (for I am to
hire a lad and muleteer at Amapala), would make quite a respectable
company. We should protect the one the other, if needs be. I have little
fear, and surely there must be something to be got to eat. How do the
people live themselves?”
“A plantain and a cigarillo is all they require,” replied Mr Z. “You
will suffer very much from want of food. Take what you can with you. For
myself, I could not do without my dinner more than twice a week. I have
always been accustomed to live well. No, no—at my time of life it would
not do. Glad the consul at Amapala will look after you. Have you got a
revolver?”
“A revolver! No. I never fired one in my life,” I replied in terror. “I
would much rather be without one.”
“Wait a moment,” replied Mr Z. He rose and went into his cabin,
returning with a mahogany case. He opened this, and displayed reposing
therein two revolvers,—one a large weapon, the other some sizes smaller.
“This is the jewellery I travel with,” he continued; “but the smaller
revolver is of no use to me. I bought this, intending it for a wedding
present to a girl in the interior; but the poor thing died suddenly, and
so I have a revolver to spare. This is for you,” he said, putting it
into my hand.
I thanked him for his kindness, but I put it back, saying that I could
never make up my mind to fire it.
“Do you think,” he asked, “that a man dies any sooner because he has
made his will?”
“No; what do you mean?”
“I mean that danger will not come upon you because you possess a
revolver. Come, don’t be proud, take this from an old man and a
countryman. We are in a strange land, and we ought to help one another
if we can.”
Set before me in this manner, to refuse would have been worse than
impertinence. I therefore accepted the revolver, lamenting only, that I
could not there and then enter a shooting-gallery, and there make my
mark. So I said.
Mr Z. replied, “You are a sensible woman, and I am very much obliged to
you for your company. Wish I was going with you; but can’t—can’t see my
way.” So saying he plunged into his cabin, and I was left in the warlike
attitude of holding a revolver.
CHAPTER IV.
No wonder that Master C., who had bundled himself towards the end of the
deck whereon I was standing, looking, I have no doubt, ruefully upon
this acquisition, should exclaim as he saw me—“You have got a revolver
there, stranger, and you are in a jolly fix, ain’t you now, how to fire
it off?”
That was just my difficulty, so I replied meekly, “Can you tell me if it
is loaded!”
“Why, don’t you know?” replied the youth with great contempt.
“Mr Z. has just given it to me, and I forgot to ask him if it were
loaded or not. Do you know anything about revolvers?”
“Should rather think I did,” was the response. “Let us have a try.” As
he spoke he took the weapon out of my hand, and soon solved the doubt,
as he discharged a ringing shot over the ship’s side.
The report brought two or three of the stewards to where we stood,
wanting to know what the noise was about.
“Did ye think I had killed yer grandmother?” answered the youth very
rudely. Then as he saw the purser coming along, he changed his tone, and
commenced to explain the situation, asseverating very strongly that the
revolver would be in far better hands if the lady would give it to him.
As no one made any reply to this, Master C. addressed himself directly
to me. “It is a jolly good revolver,” he said, “and no use to a woman.
Come now, I’ll give yer five dollars for it; that’s a fair deal!”
“I have told you that Mr Z. has made me a present of this revolver; pray
restore it.”
As the young gentleman seemed more than unwilling to part with this, his
neighbour’s property, the purser intervened, and speedily simplified the
proceedings.
He rapped the boy’s head, hurled him aside, and held the revolver in his
own hands, within a minute of time; and then in a calm, deliberate
manner he showed me how to manage this murderous little instrument.
“You had better let your _mozo_ carry this for you,” said this
good-natured gentleman. “I think I have a little case somewhere which
this will fit into. I will look at once, as early to-morrow we reach La
Libertad, and I shall be busy.” So saying, he withdrew.
The day and the night passed, and the early morning found me fast asleep
when the port of La Libertad was reached and left. As soon as I made my
appearance on deck, one of the stewards accosted me, as he pointed to
the canvas bag which had come on board with Mr Z.
“The gentleman left his compliments for you, madam,” he said; “and I was
to give you these cocoa-nuts. Mr Z. thought you might like them. Mr Z.
would like to have shaken hands with you, but he would not have you
called. He told me to say that he hoped you would have a good journey,
and to be sure and get provisions wherever you can.”
This was the first and last I have seen of Mr Z., but I shall always
have a kindly remembrance of this sympathising eccentric
fellow-traveller.
La Union was to be our next port, and in consequence the whole of the C.
family were in a state of high excitement, as this was their point of
debarkation. Great was the scrubbing and dressing; and as some of their
old clothes were cast into the sea, I rescinded the wish of my
heart,—viz., that the accordion would be assigned to the deep in their
company. Much as we all had suffered from that instrument, and often as
we had vowed vengeance against it, I don’t think any one even shivered
as the eldest C. girl performed “Home, sweet home” for the last time. It
was an “adieu” to us in a manner, and they were going home to “father.”
The children looked softened, too, as they were put into fresh raiment;
and Master C. was so civil to me that I made over the bag of cocoa-nuts
to him and his on the spot.
Amapala was the next port, so I made my arrangements, and we were all in
marching order when, some hours later, we stood opposite La Union.
Like most places on this coast, La Union appeared to be an assemblage of
red-tiled roofs, built in groups, the gaps being filled up by dwarf,
green shrubs, and here and there by a tall palm-tree: the shore low and
sandy, and looking as if quite ready to slip into the sea on the
smallest provocation. This is a place of some magnitude, however, and is
more regularly built farther in the interior. A good deal of trade is
done here, and La Union holds the reputation of being an improving and
progressive town.
The boats going to and from the port to a ship is, I think, always an
object of interest to the seafarers, even if there is nothing concerned
but a passing interest in the scene. On this occasion I looked across
the water with more than ordinary curiosity, as the anxiety displayed by
the C. family to greet the husband and father had quite enlisted my
sympathies. Several boats had come to the ship’s side, conveying
merchandise and visitors, but no Mr C. put in an appearance.
The patience of the younger girl was becoming exhausted, and she had
just fetched her breath for a scream, when a sailor came on the poop,
and presented a letter to Mrs C., the mother. This was to tell her that
Mr C. was far away up the country, but that he had deputed the
vice-consul to meet her and her children, and that apartments would be
ready for her in La Union.
The poor woman was at once disappointed and relieved. Very soon a large
boat was waiting at the ship’s side. A nice pleasant-looking man stepped
on board, and it was announced that he had come, as requested, to fetch
away Mrs C.
Whilst the luggage was being put in the boat, the consul held a little
chat with me, and offered to take me over with them to see La Union, and
partake of the hospitality of his house. There would be a difficulty
about my return, and the time was very short, so I was obliged to
decline the favour. All over the world the American men are particularly
kind to lone females, and I scored this gentleman as one example more on
my list.
After a short conference with the captain, the consul and his charges
took their departure. Mrs C.’s blue feather and the redoubtable
accordion perched on a mountain of baggage were the last we saw of this
family. Now for Amapala.
“I shall order a particularly good dinner on your account, as you will
dine before you leave us,” said Captain C., laughing. “What do you like
best? You know it will be long before you get a decent meal again.”
This hard fact had by this time been pretty well impressed upon me; but
as I am not one to “suck sorrow through the long tube,” I replied, “Do
not discourage a lone female, if you please; other people have passed
through rough travelling, and why should not I?”
The captain was too kind-hearted to intentionally cause me any alarm,
but recommended the only working part of the Honduras railway—that which
runs from San Pedro Sula to Puerto Cortez—as the most direct route to
get _out_ of the country.
We were seated at the promised good dinner when the port of Amapala was
reached. “Mr Bahl, the consul, will come on board,” somebody said.
“Don’t hurry; he will take his time, and so will we.”
Apparently the consul did take his time, for we waited long before the
custom-house boat put off from the shore. As it came nearer, we saw that
two persons occupied it, a little white man, and a very large and very
black man.
“The consul is not coming this time,” said an officer; “here’s his clerk
and the captain.”
“Captain who?” I could not help repeating.
“Oh,” laughed the purser, “that black fellow is called ‘captain’ on
account of his warlike performances. He has fought, he says, in three of
the revolutions in which this country delighted to revel some years ago;
and, according to his own account, he was the means of routing the enemy
on more than one occasion.”
“Do you believe this?”
“Not a word. The captain is an awful fellow to brag, but he can work and
does work; I will say that for him.”
“What brings him here?” I ask.
“He is the consul’s servant, and I daresay has been sent to fetch or
carry something for the custom-house. I hope to goodness he has brought
some fresh fish,” continued the purser. “Have you your letter of
introduction to Mr Bahl? As he is not here, you had better send it to
the clerk. That gentleman is transacting some business with Captain C.
just now, but I will see about it.”
Presently up came the clerk. He was a dapper little man with a large
white face, which did not impress me very favourably as to the salubrity
of Amapala. I found, however, on conversing further, that he was ready
to vouch that Amapala was a perfect sanitarium. “Fever! yah—no!”
exclaimed he, in drawled out English. “People die! Yes, some time all
must; but fever here—ah, no, no!”
“Nor snakes neither,” interposed the chief engineer, with a wink at his
neighbour.
“Nor yet snakes—no, no; mountain-leopards, one or two—never seen—all
nonsense.”
“But these mountain-leopards _used_ to be called tigers,” persisted the
engineer. “Why, that mountain over there is still called the Mountain of
Tigers—_La Montaña de los Tigres_. You have it in both languages.”
The little clerk would not admit the tigers, and knew nothing about the
reason why the mountain indicated should bear such an ominous name. I
was now told that my departure would be a matter of five minutes only;
and I employed these in bidding farewell to the captain and officers of
the good steamer Clyde. God bless them all, wherever they may be now.
They were very, very kind to “Soltera.”
When I was seated in the boat, the little clerk told me that I would
have to spend a night, or perhaps two nights, in Amapala. The consul was
a bachelor, and his sister-in-law was unfortunately away on a visit. “I
will give the note when we land; I don’t think the office will be
closed,” said he.
When we did land, it was quite dark. The black man took the luggage out
of the boat, wading with it to the shore, for the boat could not come
quite up to the landing-place. This done, he seized me as if I had been
a cat, without word or sign, and from his strong arms I was deposited on
the strand of Amapala.
“Wait, wait a bit, ya-ar,” said this huge porter. “Clerk him gone into
office to talk to consul, let him read letter. You brought letter
’troduction, eh?”
“Yes. I hope I shall not have to wait long.”
“No; consul read letter, and send him ar-ders.”
I suppose the consul did read the letter, for the clerk came out, and,
poking in the dark to find me, said—
“The consul will write or send to you early in the morning: the only
decent _posada_ in Amapala is close here. You had better leave your
heavy luggage in the office; I will take care of it. Now, captain, take
the lady’s portmanteau.”
My black friend shouldered the portmanteau, and with—“You follow me
close; I all right; you trust me; I as good as English,”—I threaded my
way through what in courtesy must be called the streets of Amapala. The
_posada_ was not quite so near as I had thought; and as soon as we had
quite quitted the shore the black man said, “You wa-ant to go into the
country, over the mountains?”
“Yes, I wish to get off as quickly as possible.”
“Have you got serva-ant? I know good serva-ant, speak English wa-al; he
knows all over the country—is strong—good cook. But it will cost you
money, ah.”
“Will it?” I replied quickly, for I saw at once what he was driving at;
“I do not intend going beyond a certain sum, and——”
“Wha-at will you call that sum in dollars?”
“Never you mind, you are the consul’s cook, and this is of no import to
you.”
“Ah, ya-as, ya-as; but if you make it worth while to ta-ake me ’long,
you find it will be good. I know country—I respettable serva-ant.”
We had arrived at the _posada_ by this time. Only one door was open, and
within could be seen, by the light of a solitary candle, a long brown
table on which some glasses stood.
A figure came forth from behind this barrier. He was a nice-looking lad,
and was, moreover, that _rara avis_, a very clean-looking lad.
“Oh, it’s you,” he said to the black.
“Ya-as. I bring this lady here. Consul sent me with her, ’cause I speak
English so well. Great comfa-art, have man about you that knows well how
to speak English!” continued this conceited fellow, turning to me.
“Will you arrange for me to have a decent room and some refreshment
presently?” said I. “Where is the woman of the house? I wish to speak to
her.”
“Oh no, I arrange,” continued the black man. “You see I speak English.”
“But I suppose the hostess speaks Spanish,” I replied, cutting him
short; and in that language I asked the lad to go and find her.
He did so, and a tall pleasant-looking woman returned with him. She said
she could supply me with what I required, and then the question of
charges came under discussion.
The “captain” here intervened and meddled to such an extent, that the
lad, evidently annoyed at his bad manners, said, “Hold thy tongue; the
Señora understands pretty well the language; she knows what is right to
pay.”
I really did not know, but I felt grateful to the youth for endeavouring
to quench this nuisance, and so answered that the consul knew that I
would pay what was just. Then I gave this very disagreeable porter a
peseta (English, tenpence) for carrying the portmanteau, and very
heartily gave him good night.
Two men came in as the “captain” went out, and we were much amused to
hear him informing them of the charge he was taking of the English lady.
“Grand thing to speak English,” I heard him say in that language, as he
finally took himself off.
The men naturally scanned me after this remark, but respectfully and
without showing any curiosity. They ordered “vino blanco,” and sat
themselves down to smoke.
“Pray excuse our taking you through the wine-shop,” said the landlady,
“but we have mislaid the key of the other door. It will be found
to-morrow. See, Eduardo, take that box into the room for the lady.”
A lantern was brought, and we passed through the back of the bar, and
came out upon a wide verandah, which was bordered by a narrow strip of
garden bounded by a high wall.
We entered the guest-chamber. Had I been qualifying for prison life,
here was an opportunity for commencing an apprenticeship. The room was
large, the aperture for the window closed by a heavy shutter with a bar
across it; red tiles, discoloured by dirt and grease, composed the
floor, and the dust lay in little heaps in some of the ridges of the
most uneven ones. A bed covered by a bull’s hide in place of a mattress,
and a leathern pillow, were the correct thing here to serve as a place
of rest. A wooden table placed against the wall, and a rocking-chair in
fair condition, completed the furniture. Not a vestige of toilet-ware of
any sort; not a drop of water nor any towel.
The lad deposited the portmanteau on the floor, and as this cheerful
apartment was pervaded by a frowsy smell, I asked him to open the
shutter. He hesitated, and looked inquiringly at the landlady. Not
understanding the reason of this, I said—
“There are iron bars, or a lattice, behind the shutter; nobody can get
in; I want air.”
“No, no,” answered the landlady; “but at night, it was possible—very
rare—once in a lifetime—a _serpiente_ (snake) might crawl through.”
“Keep the shutter close then,” I replied with energy. “I did not think
snakes came so near the houses. How dreadful!”
The boy explained that about a fortnight before a small _serpiente_ had
crawled one hot night through the lattice-bars, and descended into this
chamber. “There was a large growth of thick damp herbage under the wall
on that side,” he said, “and it might be that a snake’s hole was there.”
“But why on earth is it not cleared or burnt out?” said I; “it is very
dangerous for every one to let the herbage remain there.”
“Quien sabe?” he replied; and then the opposite door was pointed out to
me as being the one through which I could enter from the street. This
was a very strong door, but it was unlocked, the key being missing, as I
was told on my arrival. There was a latch, by which the occupant could
open it when the impediment enforced by the lock should be removed.
The landlady proposed to fetch a sheet and a pillow-slip, and then she
added, with an air of triumph, “I shall bring you some tea—only
think—tea. I know the English like that. What I have is very good, a
present from an Englishman: he was hard to wait on, and he abused
everything, but he had a good heart, Señora, and he gave me two pounds
of beautiful tea.”
“That was for your own drinking?”
“No, I don’t like it much. The Englishman said,—he was a coarse man,
Señora,—he would leave it for me to give to any poor devil of his
country who might come to stay here.”
She laughed as if it was the finest joke, and never seemed to perceive
the sarcasm which might be veiled in the guise of this speech and
present: under the circumstances I was very glad to represent the “poor
devil.” She went out laughing heartily, and the boy and I and the
lantern were left alone.
“Can you get me a little water?” I asked him, and a—here I could not
summon the Spanish for basin, so I had recourse to signs.
“Oh yes, I know—wash face; leave it to me, I will bring what you want. I
waited on an American lady once in travelling, and she liked much
water,” and as he spoke, he darted off with the lantern. I sat down on
the bed, hoping that the tea would be brought quickly, and wondering
what the beverage would be like.
The landlady returned with a candlestick in one hand in which was set up
a large wax candle; under her arm was bundled the promised bed-linen,
which, rather to my surprise, was clean and fine, the upper hem of the
sheet being bordered with wide lace. The pillow-slip was trimmed in like
manner; and when the bed was made up and a scarlet coverlet thrown over
all, the bed-place really looked like a bright spot in this desert, and
I began to expect other improvements.
Time brought the tea, and very good it proved. The English gentleman had
evidently taught the hostess how to make use of his gift. The boy, too,
brought toilet-ware piece by piece in spasms, and lastly a large red
earthen jar full of water. He had fetched it from a well close at hand,
and it was delightfully pure and fresh.
The lad withdrew, and then returning to the door summoned the landlady.
A great whispering went on for some minutes: at length my hostess
returned, and said in rather a mysterious manner, “You are going to
Comayagua, are you not?”
“I shall pass through that town,” I answered; “but why do you ask?”
“Oh, the boy comes from that part, and he does not want to remain in
Amapala. Why not take him as your _mozo_? He is a good lad, and I would
like to get him a place.”
“He is in your employ, is he not?” I asked.
“What you may call employ, yes; but there is nothing to do for a lad
like him. He sells wine for me, true; but I cannot pay him—trade very
dull, and very few come to stay at this _posada_. The lad only lives by
doing a little tailoring here and there.”
I thought this plan might do, as the landlady seemed so independent of
Eduardo’s services. She proceeded to give him a good character, and I
promised that the consul’s opinion should be taken on the matter. Good
night was given, and I went to the door to fasten it after the woman’s
departure. It was closed by a latch; but it was perfectly innocent of
either lock or bolt. There was nothing for it but to put the handle of
my tooth-brush across the latch, and within it; and retire to bed with
trust in Providence.
The next day came a note from Mr Bahl, telling me that I must wait one
day at the _posada_, and he would arrange everything for my travelling
onward; the lad Eduardo was required to attend at the office, if I would
signify my intention of engaging him; and would I call early the day
afterwards?
Little to do, nothing to see; heat and mosquitoes to endure,—such was
the portion of the waiting-hours. At the dinner-time I went into the
dining-room, thinking it would be well to eat something substantial, and
a number of dishes on the table seemed to offer a choice.
Variety there was, and very unappetising variety. The soup, called
chicken-broth, was nothing better than drowned hen; and the meat, cut in
strips, looked like leathern sandals from the remotest antiquity.
Everything that could be chopped up was chopped up; vegetables which
would have passed muster had they been served whole, were tormented into
squash, and little black beans in yellow dishes were the only edibles
which, owing to their small size, had escaped the universal carnage.
Some persons present, however, did justice to this feast. Long may there
be found some to do so! For myself, I was thankful when the time arrived
to pay a visit to the consul.
CHAPTER V.
The consul’s office in Amapala was a comfortable edifice, composed of
whole store, half office, and half court of justice.
It was situated near the water’s edge, and entered by a broad flight of
stone steps. These gradients were very much the worse for wear, being
persistently embroidered by detachments of the loungers of Amapala,
which consisted generally of idle young lads who stuck like mussels, and
peered within, and smoked and spat without, with intolerable
pertinacity. A sortie made from the interior sometimes succeeded in
dislodging them; but this effort on the part of the consul’s clerks more
usually ended in strong language and violent perspiration than in any
satisfactory result. I believe an earnest hope is daily avowed, that
somebody coming in may effectually clear away impediments by treading
the life out of some of these human pests.
Unfortunately also for the business public, a large _ceiba_ tree
fronting the right side of the building spread wide its arms of dark
leaves, and beneath this shade were clustered mules, water-carriers,
citizens in various styles of dress and undress, water-jars, melons, and
naked brown children.
The grouping certainly was picturesque. But how Consul Bahl has stood
for so many years, as he has done, the nuisance of a conversazione and
debating club combined, held within four feet of his house of business,
surpasses my comprehension.
Through a part of this assemblage I wended my way in the early morning
of the day preceding that on which I was to start for Aceituña. The
youths on the steps made room for me with some alacrity; and it was
whispered among them that perhaps it was not so sure that Eduardo
Alvarez was going with me. There had been no agreement drawn up by El
Consul, they knew; perhaps the Señora would choose some other _mozo_
(lad). The meaning of these remarks was simply this: Eduardo was a
little in arrear for his lodgings and other matters, and unless I would
advance him a part of his wages to pay his debts, he could not leave
Amapala. Concerning this, I thought it well to consult Mr Bahl, and
further, to ascertain whether that gentleman would recommend me to
engage him.
The little white-faced clerk who had brought me from the ship was on the
look-out for my visit. A curtain was drawn aside at a corner of the
office a few minutes later, and Mr Bahl stepped forth. He was tall,
gentlemanlike, and very kind in his manner. (The American men, all the
world over, are always kind to women.) He said I had a long journey to
go certainly, but I must not believe all the nonsense I may have heard
about robbers, and all the rest of it. Common caution, and to refrain
from travelling at dusk, were recommended.
“I sent you word last night,” continued the consul, “that I cannot
provide you with the mules you require here; and as for a muleteer,
there is not one in the place I can recommend.”
“You are sure that the custom-house officer at Aceituña can get these?”
I inquired anxiously.
“A man has gone over there to fetch some things I want from the
custom-house. I sent a note by him to Mr Z. asking if he can supply your
requirements. If he cannot, which I don’t think likely, there is nothing
to be done but to send or go to La Brea: very good animals can be got at
La Brea.”
“Why are they so scarce here?” said I.
“Just as it happens; there are plenty when not wanted. I hope you will
cross to Aceituña though; it will save you some leagues of rough road
travelling. My large boat will take you across in rather more than an
hour, and you could start as soon after landing at Aceituña as you
choose.”
I acceded gratefully to this proposition, and then made inquiry
concerning Eduardo Alvarez.
“He came down to speak to me last night,” replied Mr Bahl. “I suppose he
has told you that he wants a little money in advance, should you engage
him?”
“Yes; he wants to pay a few little debts, he tells me. The people of the
house give him a good character, and I like the lad’s appearance.”
“As far as I know, the lad is decent enough. Like all his race, he is
apt to be idle; but really there is little employment here for a tailor,
and that is the trade by which he supports himself.
“By the by,” continued the consul, “as he comes from Comayagua, I
certainly advise you to engage him, as you will have to take that route,
and it is a great thing to secure a guide who knows some part of the
country.”
Then a lounger on the steps was despatched to summon Eduardo Alvarez.
This youth soon made his appearance, and entered the office with a whole
train of his _confrères_ peeping in at the door. A rush was made at them
by the little clerk, which frustrated them, evidently, in the intention
of being within earshot. A chair was handed to me, and the consul and
the lad carried on a conference behind the curtain.
The result of the interview was to this effect: I was to engage Eduardo
Alvarez as my servant from Amapala to San Pedro Sula; to pay him fifteen
pesos (something under three pounds English money), and to allow him at
the rate of a peseta (tenpence) a day for his maintenance. I agreed to
advance eight pesos, to enable him to pay his debts; and so that
arrangement was concluded.
“I will draw up the regular official agreement before you start,” said
the consul; “it will be better for Eduardo not to be too sure of the
engagement; and I must be satisfied that he does pay what he owes. Never
mind about the money; I will give him the eight pesos, and you can
settle with me to-morrow.”
“Have you a hammock in your store?” I inquire; “it will be such a
comfort in the places through which we may have to pass.”
“A hammock will save you many annoyances, as you will not be obliged to
rest on the horrid bed-places of the country; and the lad can look-out
for a verandah to sling it in. I would advise you also to take a
mosquito-net. A coarse green net is best. White attracts the flies at
night.”
We go into the store, and I select these articles. “Then,” said the
consul, “you have brought your side-saddle with you, of course?”
“Side-saddle! No; I never thought of it. Can’t I hire that with the
mule?”
“I am afraid not here. A lady’s saddle is private property, generally
speaking. You may, perhaps, purchase one from some of the women about.
Some one may like to make a little money. Eduardo, go out and ask among
the women whether they know of any one who has a lady’s saddle to sell.”
As he went off Mr Bahl added, “I cannot come with you, but be sure and
don’t give more than twelve pesos.” The lad very soon executed the
consul’s bidding, and in a short time were collected ten or twelve
persons, declaring they all possessed the very thing. Eduardo found
himself suddenly an important personage.
“Bring all of you the saddles you have to sell, and put them here,” said
he, indicating a vacant spot, which looked like chocolate-powder. “I
must see what they are like before I advise the Señora to purchase.”
Away flew the women, and in a very short space of time several very
extraordinary specimens of the leather trade were exhibited. In the
general excitement, the lad had overlooked me altogether, and the others
did not know that I understood the idiom.
“What do you think she will pay for this?” asked one, as she held up an
enormous side-saddle, which was deficient in girths and stirrup, and
which burst out in all directions with lumps of hair and padding. “Say
fifteen pesos?”
An indignant “_vaya, vaya_” (get along) was the only attention bestowed
on this candidate.
“Here is a saddle—a splendid saddle,” said another, as she clutched the
article from the head of a boy, who was carrying it into the ring. “See
here! real Mexican; look at the embroidery. The English lady can have it
for eighteen pesos. Too much?” continued she; “no; these English can
pay. Say eighteen pesos, _mozo_, and there will be one for thyself.”
Eduardo stooped down and examined this last offering. “This might do;
but, see, the pommel is half broken through. Is there any way of getting
this repaired?” he inquired.
“Ah, without doubt,” replied the owner. “I can take it to Ignacio Gomez;
he will make it all safe by _mañana_” (to-morrow).
The indefinite space of time indicated by _mañana_ was known well enough
to Eduardo. He might very likely see no more of that saddle for a week.
He, however, said nothing to this, but assured the woman that the lady
would not give that price.
“Ah, but tell her that there is no other in the place,” suggested a
bright spirit.
“That won’t do, woman,” retorted Eduardo. “The consul told the Señora
that he knew there was a side-saddle belonging to the custom-house
officer’s wife at Aceituña.”
“She would not sell it,” suggested a man.
“She might hire it, though,” interposed a fat woman, crowned with a
bright yellow handkerchief. “No, no; the saddle must be bought here,
good lad: the widow Niccoli has a woman’s saddle. Wait here: I will go
and look for the widow Niccoli.”
She sped away, and returned with a side-saddle, it is true; but such a
rag! It could hardly hold together on the woman’s head.
Yes, it wanted this and that, she agreed, as Eduardo pointed out its
shortcomings. “Ah, yes, the rats must have eaten this piece of the flap,
and there are no girths. Well, we will put these on. _Mozo_, this saddle
will last for a little way; and then, you know, you can buy another
farther on. The English lady won’t mind. They can pay, these English!
Ah——”
What answer Eduardo was prepared to give to this free-and-easy
proposition, I do not know; and as my patience was getting exhausted,
and my back was beginning to frizzle with the heat of the sun, I
determined to cut matters short. Walking into the circle, I said in the
best Spanish I could command, “I will not buy one of these; and,
moreover, I will not give more than twelve pesos for the best saddle in
Amapala.”
Such an interruption in most places, and with most people in any other
part of the civilised world, would have called forth some excuses, or
necessitated a speedy retreat, on the part of even the most hardened.
Here, if the effect were electrical, it was in quite another way.
“Ah se habla nuestra idioma!” (she speaks our idiom) exclaimed the fat
wretch who had proposed to cheat me so unblushingly. “Como es ella
bonita, ed pequenita para una Inglesa”—(she is nice-looking, and small
for an Englishwoman). The others crowded round me, some taking and
stroking my hands, expressing regret that they did not know that I
understood their “idioma.”
It was difficult to know what to say, but I thought it right to express
my surprise that they should combine to take advantage of a stranger,
and that stranger a “Soltera,” I added with great emphasis.
“Ah, they were sorry; they did not know; and all English have gold. No,
they were wrong; a Soltera should have sympathy. But ah, they were so
poor! It was so hard to live! &c., &c. Have we not to live in all
countries, Señora?”
I told them I was poor too, and that to pay a fair price was all I could
do. So saying, I left them, and went straight to the _posada_.
The sun was now so powerful that it was a relief to undress and lie
down. Hardly had I settled for a sleep, than a thud resounded upon the
outer door, the one which opened on the street.
“Who is there? What do you want?”
“It is Antonio. He has a word to say.”
“I do not know Antonio. Has the consul sent you?”
“No, Señora. I want you to take me as ‘_mozo de mano_,’ for your
journey.”
“Thank you; but I have engaged Eduardo Alvarez.”
“Think it over again, Señora. I should suit far better. I am a man of
confidence, of maturity. Eduardo is only a boy, and ah! he knows
nothing. Let me see you, Señora.”
“It is impossible,” I replied, “I am going to rest for a few hours; I
cannot talk more.”
“Well, then, I return again,” contested the voice of Antonio.
“No, no,” I called out; “once for all, I have engaged Eduardo.”
“I know the agreement has not been signed;” persisted my tormentor,
“will you see me before you sign the agreement, Señora?”
“No, don’t come again,” replied I, in a very decided tone. There is a
lingering at the door, and at length Antonio takes himself off.
“Evidently no business is private here,” say I to myself, as I roll the
mosquito-net round me, and fall into a refreshing sleep.
A long time after this, as it appears to me, three gentle taps are heard
upon the opposite door, opening into the garden of the _posada_.
This is free from public intrusion, and I call “Come in” through the
mosquito-net. Eduardo appears, carrying on his head a side-saddle. He
brings it towards me, and I put out my hand to touch it. There is no
question of this: it is a beautiful, nearly new, lady’s saddle, and it
appears to be in excellent order.
I ask Eduardo whence he has procured this treasure?
“From the widow of the consul’s brother. Señor Bahl thought of her just
after you left the office, and he sent his _mozo_ to see about it.”
“The lady,” he added, “would come and visit you, but she lives a little
way in the country; and we go to Aceituña to-morrow morning.”
“I am really very much obliged to the lady,” I answered, as I looked at
the pretty saddle of scarlet leather, handsomely stitched over with a
flower pattern; “what am I to pay?”
“Twelve pesos, the sum the consul told you,” the lad replied; “and,
Señora, the lady is to give me a peso for carrying, and going to her.
You do not object, Señora?”
“Certainly not; you have earned the money fairly. Am I to pay you now?”
“No, Señora; you are to pay to-morrow to the consul. We have to go to
the office early, to get my agreement made out, I was desired to tell
you. Will you go into the _comedor_ (dining-room), or shall I bring you
something here?”
Recollecting what was the fare on the preceding day, I elect to stay
where I am, and ask the lad to bring me some coffee, and, if possible, a
roll of bread with it, and some bananas. Directly after I had discussed
this meal, which was all very good of its kind, I dressed and went out
to sit in the verandah on the garden-side of the _posada_.
Hardly had I sat there many minutes, when a lad belonging to the house
announced that the consul’s black cook wanted to see me.
“Ask him what he wants?” I rejoined. “Does he bring a note from Señor
Bahl?”
In these countries, the most trifling communications between
English-speaking people are always effected by note or letter. To trust
to messages here would be the height of madness.
“No,” answered the _mozo_; “the cook wants to see you himself.” Before I
could resolve whether I would receive him or not, the man stood before
me.
Pulling off his cap, he said, “Very faine night, ma’am—very fa-ine. You
comprehend me English?”
“Yes; what do you come here for? And, please, stand a little aside; I
want all the air I can get.” He smelt of fish and black man very
strongly; and this, combined with a _soupçon_ of kerosene oil, somewhere
near, was too much for my olfactory nerves.
“Oh ya-as, ya-as, suttingly. What I going say is very private. You go
way to-morrow?”
“Yes; what of that?”
“Wa-ay, you know, you want servant, ma’am, strong, fight the
way,—’sperience,—a very ’spectable servant, eh?”
“I have got one. Your master has made the necessary arrangements with
Eduardo Alvarez. You need not take any trouble about this,” I answer.
“Eduardo Alvarez. Bah I He worth nothing ’t-all; poor trash—only boy in
wine-shop; go about country mending clothes; he suit you! No. Besides,
Consul Bahl has not drawn out ’greement.”
“That will be done to-morrow morning,” I said; and, to get rid of him, I
rose to go into my room as I spoke.
The fellow, however, was too quick for me, and he planted his square,
powerful frame in my path.
“Look yaare,” said he; “you take me along. I sa-arve you well—good
fight—good cook. It will cost you money, but I am good serva-ant, ah. I
quite fit to take care of a lady.”
What I should have done I can scarcely say, as there was no one that I
could call, the household being all within doors, or clacking on the
other side of the verandah. Most unexpectedly I got immediate and
efficient aid in the advent of “Lobo,” one of the dogs of the house.
Now Lobo was a very delightful little beast, and we had become great
friends. He bore the character of being such a fool, that he would put
up with anything. Great, therefore, was my surprise when I saw him fly
towards the “captain,” every nerve in his body shaking with rage.
With a yell the “captain” bounded past me, and was away down to the
shore before I could speak. I had not been informed that Lobo had a
special dislike to black people; and to the “captain” in particular. I
felt very much obliged to the dog also, for giving me an opportunity of
seeing the “captain’s” good fight; the insertion of the letter “l”
describes the thing much more accurately.
Once more we go to the consul’s office at an early and punctual time.
Eduardo meets me, arrayed in a clean shirt and a large Panama hat. Kind
Mr Bahl takes me into his store, and gives me one or two edible matters,
to help out the rations; amongst which, two tins of portable soup were
particularly acceptable.
The boat is being got ready, and time passes, so that we are already
nearly an hour late in starting.
Mr Bahl asked me if I had not been a good deal pestered by lads
“applying personally” for the situation which Eduardo Alvarez now
filled.
I said that there had been some other candidates, and that one of them
was a personal friend of his own.
“A personal friend of mine? I have not the faintest idea to whom you can
allude.”
“A military character—one who has done wonders in three revolutions.”
“Ah! I see now; you mean that black rascal, my cook.”
“The very person. He has tormented me nearly out of my senses to take
him with me,” I answered.
“I wish you had told me this before,—the fat rascal. What I have done
for him—for he quarrels with most of his employers—would take too long
to tell. He gets good wages, very good wages; and now that he is used to
the place, he wants to go off.”
“I think this sort of thing is the fashion all the world over; but I
should never have taken the man. I don’t like him,” I replied.
“When you are fairly gone, I will speak to him about his conduct. He
never asked my permission, or hinted, even, that he wanted to leave,”
returned Mr Bahl, with great indignation.
There was not a chance of our being fairly gone yet awhile; for the boat
was not in sight, and there were no preparations going on either in
office or store, as far as I could see, to expedite matters. I ventured
to remark that it was getting late.
“Oh yes,” returned the consul; “we don’t mind for an hour or so here.
You will soon fall into the custom of the country. There is no fuss and
flurry, and things, in the long-run, turn out just as well. One of the
boatmen has not come round, but it will all be well. Just sit down in
the office, and wait a little.”
So I sat in the office, and Eduardo hied to the steps, and was soon in
high gossip with all the loungers in Amapala.
Another half-hour passed, and then the little clerk, seeing that I was
getting impatient, came from behind his railed-off space, and informed
me that the boat would be ready very soon; he had heard the boatman’s
voice. Would I not, in the meantime, take a glass of beer? Mr Bahl had
desired him to offer it.
I was very hot, and drank the small glass of Bass’s ale with relish; and
I was further quite mollified on seeing the boat at the landing-place,
and Eduardo pulling in the luggage. There was a good deal of delay
before all was ready; but at last everything was on board, and we were
seated in the boat and bound for Aceituña.
“You will not be able to get on to-day,” were the consul’s last words;
“better stay at Aceituña for the night, and start at daybreak to-morrow.
Good-bye. Take care of the lady, Eduardo.” So saying, the kindly
gentleman turned into his office.
Eduardo showed me his contract paper as we went along. I had the
original in my pocket, having signed it, as well as he, the first thing
after arriving at the office.
“Mine is a copy, I know; but the consul gave it to me, because I want to
show it to my friends when we arrive at Comayagua,” the lad said. “I
hope you will stay a day at Comayagua, Señora.”
“I hope so: you will be able to go to your friends for a few hours,” I
replied.
“And if I serve you well, will you keep me when we arrive at San Pedro
Sula?”
“That I cannot promise; but you may be sure that I will do what I can to
help you. If I cannot retain you, I daresay other people will require
your services.”
We had now got into the open sea, and only the red roofs and tufted
palm-trees of Amapala could be seen in the distance. There was a light
wind, and the fresh air was most invigorating, as we skirted some
mountainous land, which in some parts was thickly overgrown with
brushwood and dark herbage; in others the coast was nearly bare.
The place looked so bleak and solitary, that I was prompted to ask one
of the boatmen if any wild animals existed there.
“Oh yes,” he replied, “there are some; _muy malos, muy malos_” (very
evil, very evil).
“What are their names?” I inquired; for I thought here might prove the
solution of the tiger question.
“Serpents—one or two very bad kinds—and other creatures.”
“What are the names of the ‘other creatures’?”
“Tigers of the mountain. Ah! I should not like to walk in that
brushwood; would you, Candido?” said the man, appealing to his
fellow-labourer.
I afterwards learned, from reliable authority, that what are designated
“tigers of the mountain,” are, in reality, small leopards. But they are
fierce enough, and in many instances have taken human life. The skin of
these animals is very beautiful, and forms sometimes the chief ornament
of a Hondureian house.
After an hour’s good rowing, the boat was turned into a narrow creek,
bordered on either side with overhanging trees. This was, in a measure,
a relief from the heat of the sun, which, in spite of the awning, was
beginning to penetrate through my hat. Here was little to interest us,
save sometimes the having to exert ourselves in order to keep the boughs
of the trees out of our faces. The creek grew narrower, and at length a
short point of land gave evidence that we were in front of the
custom-house at Aceituña.
CHAPTER VI.
Mr Z., the custom-house officer, handed me out of the boat and conducted
me into his dwelling. This was a low thatched house, separated only by a
mound and a damp patch of grass from the edge of the creek. The entrance
opened upon the principal room, which was a combination of reception and
store room. The sides of the boarded walls were fitted up with tiers of
wooden shelves, and on these lay packages of all shapes and sizes. Bales
of cocoa-nut fibre seemed to predominate; and several layers of
cow-hides made great show on the low shelves. Bushels of what I supposed
to be grain, or seeds, were huddled here and there; and a great heap of
white beans, and a measure on the top of it, entirely filled one corner.
The ground was the usual earthen floor, stamped as hard as iron, and
depressed here and there; so much so, that it required some attention to
walk safely over it.
A handsome hammock, slung from the rafters of the roofing, and a wooden
table, were all the furniture of this department. For ornament there was
hanging on a nail a large-sized embroidery frame; upon the canvas of
this was in course of representation a very gay macaw contemplating some
remarkably fine grapes. A Berlin-wool-work pattern was displayed open on
a nail higher up, and thus could be seen in its entirety the magnitude
of the macaw’s temptation.
The custom-house officer, following the direction of my eye, said “_Mi
sposa_,—that is her work.” Somebody came to the aperture which divided
this apartment from an inner one. This was _mi sposa_, a pretty Indian
girl, who appeared to be many years younger than her lord, and who was
followed by a still younger girl, whom she presented to me as her
sister. They both wore the _nagua_ costume, though it differed a little
from the strict Mexican style. The _nagua_ costume consists of a
chemise, very fully plaited at the arms and round the shoulders, leaving
the throat bare. A thick strand of hair generally furnishes the back
expanse between the nape of the neck and the shoulders, and a shapely
bodice of some bright colour covers the person to the waist. The Mexican
girl here indulges in petticoats of various lengths till the feet are
reached; but these Hondureian women were content with one short garment,
comely enough, but not so picturesque; and they lacked the silver
ornaments and embroidery which add so much to the “make up” of the
Mexican lady.
The beautiful eyes and shapely feet of the custom-house officer’s wife,
however, were attractive enough; and her cultivated voice and elegant
pronunciation showed that she had received some education. I pointed to
her work-frame, and asked her where she had learnt to embroider.
“A la escuela, muy buena escuela,” she replied (at school, a very good
school); and added, in her beautiful idiom, “my husband is English; he
married me because I have had some education.”
And for more than that, thought I, as I glanced at this elegant
creature; but I looked very serious and practical, and remarked in reply
that “education is a grand thing for everybody.”
“Ah, yes,” cut in the younger sister, “when it is properly applied.”
I was so astonished at this remark, from such a person and in such a
place, that I was startled into asking her what she meant.
“I mean that very wicked things are often done by educated people,”
returned the damsel, with a jerk of her head. “I have my reasons,” she
continued, “but I will not say more.”
“Very wicked things are often done,” I replied, “by people who profess
much religion; we must not judge by individuals. These matters must be
viewed in a broad and general way.”
“No doubt the Señora is right,” was the answer; “but I have my reasons.
Ah, I have heard some fine tales, about people from Europe too!”
I daresay she had; but the subject dropped as the sister asked me to go
into her room and take off my hat. “You will sleep here,” said she,
indicating the hammock with her hand, “and the _guarda costa_ will look
to your _mozo_.”
“The _guarda costa_—what is that?”
“See here,” she answered, opening the door, which had been kept fast
closed for coolness’ sake; “these are the _guarda costa_” (coastguard).
A few very fine-looking men, some in shirts and drawers, some with
jackets in addition, and all bearing muskets of a very old-fashioned
pattern, were walking to and fro. One of them, a remarkably
strong-looking man, kept regular pace, and tramped up and down with the
regularity of a British sentinel.
Mr Z. here joined us. He said, “This is the man I propose to send with
you to-morrow. Will you speak with me when you have taken off your hat?
I want to tell you what I have done for the journey.”
I retired with the Señora. Her bedroom was boarded off from the room we
had quitted, and quite as miserable in its accommodations as the rest of
the dwelling.
On returning to the outer room, Mr Z. asked me to buy the animals
required for the journey, and named a price, which even I, in my
inexperience, knew to be exorbitant, and said so.
“The price of mules has risen considerably,” urged Mr Z.; “they are so
much required in the mining districts now.”
“Very possibly, but I will not _buy_ any mules; I shall be happy to
_hire_ those you have as far as Arimesine. Mr Bahl told you in his note
the price I ought to give.”
There was no more to be said to this, and the wife proposed that we
should go out and see the animals.
A coast-guard-man brought round a small chestnut mare, a nice-looking
creature, but “weedy” withal.
“There,” said the custom-house officer, “is the one I have arranged that
you shall ride. That belongs to _mi sposa_; it is a great pet; _mi
sposa_ often goes long distances on her without attendance.”
In the meadow was a very nice-looking _macho_ (male mule), which was
pointed out as being the one for Eduardo’s use.
“Where is the baggage-mule?” I inquired.
“Oh, he will come round in the morning. He is resting in a stable close
by.” Abel, the man who was to go with us, grinned. I thought there was
some mystery here.
The early dawn, which is lovely in this country, brought with its first
glimmer coast-guard-men, the mare, the mule, and the baggage-mule; the
latter we were particularly delighted to see. To my amusement Mr Z.
offered to sell me the three at a considerable abatement of the price
urged the day before. Fortunately I adhered to my resolution of hiring
only.
On being mounted, I found that the pommel of the saddle was fixed
immovably on the left side. There was no time to alter this, and in
consequence, on setting off, I began to realise that it was anything but
pleasant to ride faster than a walk at first.
“Never fear, Señora,” said Abel at length; “we have a long way to go,
and if we are to arrive at Arimesine to-night we must get on a little
faster.”
Being accustomed, or nearly so, to the motion induced by the difference
between the English and Spanish way of mounting, my confidence returned,
and I declared myself ready to increase the speed.
“Wait till we turn off to the left, Señora; there will be more shade,
and then we can get on well,” Abel remarked encouragingly.
Eduardo had ridden a good deal in advance; as he neared the road turning
to the left, we saw the baggage-mule suddenly break loose from his hold,
and dart at full speed among the trees, Eduardo following as hard as he
could gallop.
This made the mare a little restive, but Abel’s strong arm subdued her.
“Let us turn into the left path,” said he; “you will have to dismount
and wait whilst I go on. The baggage-mule has bolted.”
Turning into the road on the left, which was little more than a
bridle-path through shrubs and nice soft grass, the man dismounted me,
at the same time tying the mare to a low bush. There was plenty of
grass, and so this one of the party, at least, was very much at ease.
“You won’t mind being left a short time,” said Abel; “it is quite safe.
I had better follow Eduardo quick. Ah, it was time,” he said, returning
with something in his hand. It was my dressing-comb, in two parts; and
full of dirt and sand.
I accompanied him a little way, and had the pleasure of picking up one
of my slippers, part of a little book, and many other things with which
my handbag had been packed. Further on lay my long tin box, unfastened,
indeed, but stove in by what was unmistakably a violent kick in the
wrong direction.
“Ah,” said Abel, contemplating this, “the mule is wild; he has rushed
against the trees, and the baggage has got loose; I hope there is no
accident. Señora, I am sorry to leave you alone, but I had better get on
to Eduardo.”
So he sped away at a flying swing-trot, and I was left literally to pick
up the pieces.
A little further on was what I recognised to be a shirt which I had
bought at Señor Bahl’s store to present to Eduardo. The boy was so
delighted with it, that he had said he would wear it when he arrived at
Comayagua to visit his friends. Here it was, then, in pieces, and a part
of it torn quite out. The ground bore marks of hoofs in all directions.
All the little things I had collected for refreshment on the road were
destroyed without mercy. Here some biscuits ground to powder, and
amalgamating freely with mother earth; there some plantains and bananas
reduced to pulp; in another place was my tin of portable soup, stove in,
and almost unrecognisable.
Fortunately, perhaps, I had so much to do in getting these fragments
together, that I had scarcely time to think how unlucky this first start
of mine had been. Two hours at least would have been wasted, and there
would be no time for rest in the middle of the day. Having gathered
together all I could find, I sat down on a large stone close to the
mare, with the collection by my side, and with anything but satisfaction
in my mind.
Half an hour must have passed, and then the mare began to fidget and
look about her. She had heard voices, and she almost tried to put down
her head on my shoulder. It has been said that she was a pet animal; and
really her action seemed to say, “Don’t you hear that?”
I by this time had heard the voices distinctly; so I stood up beside the
animal and waited for the speakers.
Round a little winding projection, which jutted out on the principal
path, came two quiet-looking men towards me. Lifting his _sombrero_
(that ugly thing, the hat proper, is unknown in Honduras), the elder of
them said, “We are sent to help you, Señora, English lady. We have met
Abel and the _mozo_. Mule very bad—very savage; won’t allow itself to be
loaded again. Abel thought you would allow us to take you on. We are
woodcutters, and Abel knows us.”
I turned to mount, the younger lad helping me. As I did so, I expressed
a hope that Eduardo was not hurt.
“No; he is a good rider, and the other mule behaved well. But how are
you to get on—_quien sabe_? That mule is _el demonio_ himself.”
The men took the long box between them, and a parcel was made of the
_débris_. We soon reached Abel and the lad, who were sitting on a little
bank. The riding-mule was browsing calmly enough; the baggage-animal was
tied to a tree, and was still stamping with rage.
“What are we to do?” I inquired in despair. “Had we not better go back?”
“We will try and see if the baggage-mule will bear loading again,” said
Abel; “it would be such a loss to return. We will try.”
The four men approached the offender, and were most gentle in their
treatment. All was to no purpose. As soon as he felt the load on his
back, he started violently, and rushed against the tree, with the
determined purpose of pushing it off. Abel now pulled out his
handkerchief and blindfolded the animal.
This had the effect of quieting it, and as it was nearly exhausted from
kicking, the load was replaced without much exhibition of feeling on the
sufferer’s part.
Everything being packed, we went on our way, one of the woodcutters
undertaking to lead the refractory mule. As long as we went slowly all
was satisfactory; but the moment we attempted to get out of a walk the
mule showed fight. Even the baggage was of no avail.
The woodcutters were obliged to leave us; they had their work in another
direction, and they could not lose time. “I am very sorry—very much
ashamed,” said the elder, with emphasis on the last word, “that the
custom-house officer should have let you hire that beast. It is a
robbery; the mule is not half broken; it is quite young, and I do not
think it has carried a load more than thrice in its life.”
“Abel has not told me that,” said I.
“How should he? He is a soldier, and he has to obey the customs officer;
he must not speak; but he knows as well as I do that the creature does
not belong to the customs officer. Señor Z. has hired it from a
charcoal-burner who lives near him, and I have no doubt he has made a
good thing of it. You have paid beforehand?”
“Yes; I have hired these three animals to take us to Arimesine.”
“May you get there to-night! _Adios, Señora; muchas gracias_,” as I put
a trifle in his hand. Thus speaking, our two assistants wended their
way.
The situation was certainly very unsatisfactory, and Abel’s replies to
my inquiries did not tend to enliven matters. “At this rate,” the man
said, “we shall never reach Arimesine to-night; and I am under orders to
bring back the animals early to-morrow morning.”
“But the delay is entirely your master’s fault; he had no right to give
me an unbroken animal to carry the baggage. If we cannot reach Arimesine
to-night, what are we to do?”
“We must stay at a place called Goascaron; the head-man there will take
you in. He is an Italian doctor, and keeps a store. Oh, _muy bruta—muy
bruta_!” (horrid brute) broke off Abel, as the mule turned sharp round
and literally ploughed the earth with its feet, refusing to stir, though
Eduardo dragged it with all his strength.
Here was a nice state of things! It was equally impossible to advance or
retire. Fortunately, as we were consulting whether we really ought to
return to Aceituña, we met a countryman, who was riding a nice-looking
mule. To him Abel hastened with all speed. A short conference, and
matters were to go on well-oiled wheels I hoped. The baggage was
transferred from the refractory baggage-mule to the consul’s
riding-mule, and the countryman lent his animal for our use. Then our
rampageous friend was given over to the man’s keeping, and some
arrangement was made as to how this treasure was to be restored to his
owner. It was disgusting to see him go off as meek as a mouse the moment
that he was led away.
“These creatures are very wise,” Abel said; “that brute knows as well as
I do that he has had the best of it. I know that man: he is going to
take it to a stable.” Then he continued with a grin, “The master won’t
like our turning Carlos into a baggage-mule, though.”
“The master has behaved very badly throughout. Are you really obliged to
take the mules back in the night?”
“I must obey orders, Señora; I am a soldier.”
“We have lost so much time, that I am sure I cannot ride to Arimesine;
under the best circumstances it would have been a long stretch. Very
well; I will stop at Goascaron, and I shall write to Consul Bahl and
tell him how badly Mr Z. has behaved. He must have known that we could
not reach Arimesine to-night.”
“I cannot say, Señora; but it is a great many leagues off.”
“How many?”
Abel could not tell. In this country it is equally impossible to
ascertain correctly either the length of a distance or the time of day.
A wholesale importation of clocks and milestones would certainly prove a
national benefit in this direction.
The sun was now fierce, and we had quitted the shade of the forest and
scattered trees. Eduardo dismounted and offered Abel his turn to ride;
but this strong, cheery man declined. “Let me ride when I am tired,” he
said. “I will stay by the Señora; it is very tiresome for her to use a
saddle with the pommel placed on the side opposite to the one she is
accustomed to; the mare, too, is fidgety.”
So she was. A passing bird, a stray cow tearing at a hedge, all startled
her; and farther on, when we met a drove of mules, she rushed into the
middle of it, turning round and round, and exhibiting a strong
inclination to bolt. Abel explained that horses have in general a very
strong dislike to stranger-mules; for this reason—they are seldom
stabled together. The mare agreed very well with the mules at home,
because they were accustomed to each other and had been reared together.
We got on, however, at a fair speed, halting two hours afterwards by a
pretty running stream to take some refreshment. Eduardo sought among the
huts of the country village near, and succeeded in obtaining some milk,
_tortillas_, and a delicious water-melon.
The men went to a little distance to smoke, and I took advantage of the
opportunity to bathe my feet in the lovely stream. They were burning
from my wearing black boots, a most unwise article of dress to adopt in
tropical countries. I had a little tin case, containing a square of
soap, which, fortunately, was in my pocket, and so it escaped the
devastation caused by the baggage-mule; and with thankfulness for this
comfort, I revelled in the pebbly delicious water.
The painter of river scenery can nowhere in the wide world find more
charming subjects for his brush than the lovely water-courses of Spanish
Honduras. The cascades among the mountains are simply magnificent, and
deserve to be classed among the finest in any land. The lowest and
dirtiest of villages in the interior can generally show a beautiful
running stream in its midst; and it is, I think, in consequence of this,
that typhoid fever and blood-poisoning are unknown.
These pests are not at this time the correct thing to die of in
Honduras, as appears to be the case in our own land. Can it be that
polluted water is in reality the mainspring of half the ailments of the
English people? My fervent wish for Honduras is that she may ever
deserve her name. _Hondo_, being interpreted, means a pond or brook; and
the brooks of this fair region are so pure and health-giving, that when
the iron hand of progress penetrates here, may its mission be other than
that of tainting, for commercial greed, the life of a country.
Ah, how many in our own England turn to spirits and to beer, because the
only water to which they have access is poisoned by chemical drugs, or
is made the receptacle of all foul things!
A weary ride in burning sun and over rough road brought us to the
outskirts of Goascaron. My strength was nearly spent, owing to the
badness of the road and the uneasy motion caused by the manner of
riding.
Strong, kind Abel more than once carried me over the smaller streams;
for, as the darkness came on, the mare plunged unsteadily, and sometimes
carried me into very deep water. The heat, too, had been very
prostrating; and so it was with a feeling of relief that I heard a clear
incisive voice call out, “Is that the lady from Aceituña?” Eduardo had
ridden on in advance, and the Italian doctor was standing at his side
waiting to receive us.
CHAPTER VII.
Weary and wayworn on the outskirts of Goascaron, and depressed by my
misadventures with the baggage-mule, I was right glad to hear the voice
of the doctor calling out, “Is that the lady from Aceituña?”
“Señor, si,” responded Abel on my behalf; “and a very weary day the lady
has had. I will tell you about it presently. Come, Eduardo, hold the
mare whilst I lift her from the saddle.”
The Italian doctor, however, anticipated the attention; and somehow (for
the power of assisting myself had left me) I was seated in a
rocking-chair, and a short man with finely cut features was looking
steadily in my face.
“You are faint from over-fatigue,” he said; “there is nothing more the
matter. You want a little cognac.”
He went to fetch this, and I was soon revived by swallowing a portion of
the stimulant. But I was aching with a dull pain from head to foot, and
it was with difficulty that I could speak. It was as from a long
distance off that I heard Abel recapitulating all our misfortunes,—small
enough, perhaps, in the temperate zone, but with the sun at 102° in the
shade, _otra cosa_ (another thing), as the Spaniards say.
“You should have rested in the middle of the day,” the doctor added
decisively. “It was a shameful thing to send an unbroken animal; and—you
don’t mean to tell me that you are going to take the cattle back
to-night?”
“Such are my orders,” replied Abel.
“But the lady has hired them, and I suppose has paid for them, to take
her as far as Arimesine?”
“She has, Señor; but, you see, she has not got there. I am ready to go
on now, but I think it will be too far for the lady. I am very sorry.
What can I do?”
The doctor pondered a moment. “You had better return: stay, and refresh
for a couple of hours. There is a good moon too. I can provide mules
here to carry the lady on. Better that she should lose a little than get
ill. By the way,” continued the doctor quickly, “was this lady told that
she had hired animals by time, or did she understand that you were to
return with them to-night under any circumstances?”
“She says, Señor, that she understood that the mules were at her
disposal until she should arrive at Arimesine.”
“Ah, well, I am glad it is a Briton, and not any one of this country,
who could behave so badly to a woman, and to one travelling alone too.”
“Trust the British for cheating and swindling one another whenever they
can get the chance in an out-of-the-way country; mind I say in an
out-of-the-way country,” shouted a voice, which was undoubtedly an
English one, though employing the Spanish language with more force than
accuracy.
“I wonder who on earth this can be!” thought I to myself, as the speaker
went on to question Abel with more or less bad Spanish, garnished with a
round British oath here and there. It was not long before the mystery
was solved; for a large, red-faced, choleric-looking man, with a merry
twinkle in his eye, stood before me. He looked what he eventually turned
out to be—a retired captain in the British merchant service.
“I beg your pardon, madam,” he said; “but I heard that travellers had
come in, and one of them an English lady. I am sorry you have had such a
day of it—very sorry. Now if you would like to go on with the animals in
a few hours, I will take precious good care they don’t return to
Aceituña till you have done with them. I am a match for Abel, though he
is a big fellow.”
“Oh no, thank you,” I replied hastily; “Abel has been so good, so
attentive to me, I would much rather not go on. In fact, I am so tired
that I am thankful to rest here.”
“All right, then; but if I were you, I would write to Consul Bahl, who
_is_ an honest man, and tell him how this precious custom-house officer
has behaved. Bah! what makes England send all her rubbish out here?”
“Not all, surely,” I replied—“there must be many exceptions.”
“Just you look at that Honduras railway, madam,” he went on. “That
railway was planned and carried out by a parcel of fellows sitting in
their offices in London. The prospectuses they issued were all
deceptive; people were deluded into investing their money and taking
shares in it; a great crash came, and many of the best people here were
utterly ruined. Some of these fellows, I know, subscribed to the Society
for the Propagation of the Gospel, and others for the Conversion of the
Jews. Bah! yah, yah! bosh!”
The doctor intervened. He remarked that the captain had lost greatly in
this Honduras railway himself, and the very mention of the subject made
him nearly _bola_.
“_Bola_; what does that mean?” I inquire.
“Drunk. He is morally so now; and perhaps,” added my new friend, “he may
be a little so physically: it is his weak point.”
A very pretty Indian girl, with sweet eyes and a timid manner, now came
forward. She said, “We cannot make you very comfortable to-night,
Señora, but to-morrow it will be better. Don Graciano says you must stay
over to-morrow.”
I went with her into the house, and there, partitioned off, in a corner
of the long low store, was a comfortable bed, screened from the public
view by some clever arrangement of blankets and coverlets. Eduardo, by
desire of the host, had put in some toilet-ware. This was a great
comfort; for the Hondureians, as a rule, are quite independent of this
necessity of life: indeed, in the interior of the country, to possess
even the meanest article of crockery, is to be accredited with more than
the usual means of supporting life. Thus, in the opinion of many, Don
Graciano would be accounted a well-to-do (_hombre de bien_), if not a
rich man.
Abel came to take leave of me before I retired, and it was with real
regret that I parted with this honest, kindly guide. I pressed a little
remembrance into his hand, and thanked him sincerely for the help he had
given me.
“I shall keep this for my next little daughter,” the stalwart fellow
answered. “I will put it round her neck, and call her _Inglesa_.
_Adios._”
The tramp of the mare and the mules told us that Abel was on the way
back to his gracious master; and so we all turned to our beloved sleep.
It was strange on the next morning, in looking through the blankets, to
find myself lying in bed in a general store. Yes; there were the shelves
laden with jars of pickles, bottles of wine, tea-canisters, and
kerosene-lamps. Other shelves held a variety of articles, all suited to
the requirements of country life; and a compartment was entirely fitted
up with drugs and medicine-bottles, supported at one end by a pestle and
mortar, and at the other by a large glass machine, which in shape was a
cut between a hotwater bottle and a pillar post-box. A curling
projection, also of glass, rendered this article a subject of my earnest
scrutiny. A small chair in the angle of this compartment, and a tiny
table before it, seemed to announce that this was the professional part
of the establishment.
A knock from somewhere brought me to my manners; and I had just time to
close the loophole in the curtains when I heard a voice from somewhere
follow the knock from somewhere.
“Excuse me, Señora,” called my host, “but you had better rise now. We
open very early in these parts, and people may be coming into the store
earlier than you may like. Are you better?”
“Much, thank you,” I called out in response, “but still very tired, and
my bones ache.”
“I have prepared some medicine for you to take later in the day. Your
_mozo_ will bring some water.” Almost immediately a large red pitcher,
of the form they used long years ago in old Egypt, was poked under the
blanket, and I quickly proceeded to avail myself of this, to me, the
greatest comfort in life—viz., cold-water ablution.
I got dressed in time to avoid coming in contact with some men who had
entered by the large oak door of the store; they were all talking
“mule,” and were smoking like limekilns.
The doctor had been hovering about somewhere, and finding me ready, took
me, _sans cérémonie_, into an inner apartment. There, on an iron
bedstead completely covered by a mosquito-net, lay the young girl I had
seen the night before, fast asleep, with a naked brown baby of about
three months old lying on her bosom. Don Graciano, with a smile which
singularly softened his hard well-cut features, put his hand beneath the
curtain and brought out the little creature, which he hugged with the
fondest pride. “My little daughter—my first-born,” said he. “Look,
Señora, she is plump and very clean. I follow the English fashion, and
my little one has her bath night and morning. Is it not so, my pearl?”
“My pearl,” who was as brown as a berry, danced and kicked and _looked_
great things. This infant had certainly much “speculation in its eyes;”
and its dark nature’s costume never seemed to make me aware that this
little specimen of humanity was entirely “in the nude.”
Passing through this room I was conducted to the back verandah; here
were tables and chairs, and some coffee-cups put out in array,
apparently for immediate use. In an incredibly small space of time the
mother of the infant was at my side: she seemed to be washed and dressed
by a feat of legerdemain. She called a _mozo_, who was evidently in the
service of the house, and handed the child to him, speeding her way with
great alacrity into the _cocina_ (kitchen).
The _cocinas_ are always built apart from the dwelling-house in these
countries; they are composed principally of the baked mud called
_adobe_. The _batterie de cuisine_ is not extensive, the chief utensils
being, usually, a small furnace, a portable grate, a stone for rolling
and baking _tortillas_, a plate or two, and a coffee-pot. The smoke may
escape from the hole in the roof, or it may gush out at the door, just
as it happens: nobody cares for such a trifle as this.
Don Graciano came out on this verandah. “We shall have coffee directly,”
he said; “but the regular breakfast is a little before mid-day. _Mozo_,
place the chairs.” And he took the infant as he spoke.
Some delicious coffee and maize-cakes were brought, and we sat down to
the table. I hesitated a moment, and then said, “Should we not wait for
the Señora?”
“Oh no,” replied the husband; “she is busy in the kitchen; she does not
take her meals with me. Now I want to tell you I think I can get mules
and a muleteer for you: I have been speaking to Eduardo. Not a bad lad,
but he is idle; mind you keep him to his work, and make him wait upon
you. Well, as I was saying, there are some very good muleteers in
Goascaron just now, and I can recommend one especially. He is a good
walker, and a first-rate man in his way. Will you allow me to see him
for you?”
I reply gratefully, “Yes, by all means.”
“Possibly I may be able to manage for you. Marcos is not cheap, but his
mules are thoroughly good; and as you have some awkward rivers to ford,
his strength and his knowledge you will find valuable. _Mozo! mo—zo!_”
“Estoy aqui, Señor” (I am here, sir), gasped the little lad, as he
emerged from the _cocina_ with his mouth crammed with _tortilla_, and
his hands full of some mess of cake and honey.
He was ordered, as I gathered, to summon Marcos somebody, and Vicente
somebody else, and above all the “Sir,” and to be quick about it. The
rapidity of the Italian must have been like an electric shock to the
semi-Hondureian, semi-Spanish lad; but he was evidently accustomed to
it.
Eduardo had a lazy, lounging, happy-go-lucky way of going about his
business, which made him appear to be more indolent than he really was.
The doctor fell upon him as he observed him lounging beyond the
verandah,—“Have you looked after the lady’s baggage?” said he.
“I have received no orders,” replied the _mozo_. “What am I to do,
Señora?”—with a slight emphasis on the Señora.
I looked at Don Graciano, who remarked, “Your tin box is very dirty, and
the rest of the baggage looks as if it had been rolled in clay. It is in
the stable; and you,” added he, turning to Eduardo, “had better go and
clean it; you have nothing to do.”
The youth bowed himself out of the way with the usual placid composure
of the Spanish race. “Ah,” said Don Graciano, with an air of disgust,
“these fellows won’t hurry themselves for anything under the sun: this
is one of the true breed. Now mind, Señora, mind you make him stick to
his work.”
Don Graciano here left me, being inquired for from outside; and
presently I heard his voice in full swing—short, decisive, and
incisive—taking the lead amongst several others, whose numbers seemed to
increase as the minutes passed on.
“No; once more no, Enrico,” said my host; “you will not do. Your animals
are bad, and you are idle in starting. The Señora must not take you. Ah,
here is El ‘Sir.’ What do you say, ‘Sir’; do you advise this man to
travel with your country-woman?”
A rampaging and snorting, together with the answer, instructed me that
the individual addressed as El “Sir” was no other than the English
captain.
“My goodness, gracious, patience, _no_!” responded El “Sir.” “There is
only one of these fellows fit for this kind of journey; that is Marcos.
Where is she?”
The “she” was supposed to indicate me; and Don Graciano came out, and
brought me into the little coign of vantage which served as the
consulting-room.
The present business being “mule,” the company were convened at the
lower end of the store. There were some respectable-looking men among
these; they had evidently been summoned to hold this _convenio_, and I
felt sure that the Italian doctor would do his very best for me. Somehow
I relied more upon him than upon El “Sir,” although the latter was an
Englishman.
“May I go beyond the price you mentioned last night?” asked the doctor,
in a low tone. “Marcos is here: he demands more than any other muleteer,
but his mules are far superior to those of the others, I think.”
I thought the matter over, and gave the doctor full authority to arrange
as was best. “Remember,” I added, “that money is an object to me.”
By this time the man alluded to as Marcos had entered the store, and
seated himself on the low counter in a free-and-easy manner. The rest
stood round, and, with _cigarillos_ in their mouths, talked and
bargained and gesticulated in a manner which would not have disgraced a
market-place in Paris. Here and there a man would make some reference to
“la Señora”; and one fine fellow made a short run at me, in order to
impress upon my mind that El “Sir” knew nothing about the business, and,
in fact, would be very much better in the sea.
The Hondureians, I observed, consign their obnoxious or troublesome
acquaintances to _El Mar_ (the sea), very much as we consign our own
“objectionables” to Jericho or to Hong Kong.
About half an hour passed in this way: no actual business was done, and
some of the men left, promising to come back and resume the subject
later in the day. “The Señora does not set out till to-morrow morning,”
one of them said.
“And not then, if she is not quite rested and well,” said the kindly
host.
One by one the muleteers left, talking outside upon the subject of my
journey.
Marcos then sprang off the counter and came towards me. Taking my hand,
he brought me to the principal door of the store. “Señora,” said he,
“look at that mule; she is a noble mule. Luisa will carry you till she
drops. So gentle, too,” the man continued, as he stroked her head. “La
querida!” (The dear one.)
She was a handsome beast, mouse-coloured, with black ears and large
intelligent eyes. I really admired her, and delighted Marcos by
repeating after him, “La querida.”
“You will take me?” said the man. “I am half Indian, and the Indian
always has the fine ear and the rapid tread. I can write too, and I can
read,” added he. “A good priest held an Indian school. Some of them are
bad here, Señora, but this one, O Señora! he was good to the Indian
race.”
“I will speak to Don Graciano. He thinks, however, that you ask too
much.”
“Then, Señora, I will put it like this. You shall pay me the sum I shall
agree on, and you can ride at leisure; no hurry. I will bide your time;
and if you like to go quick one day and slow the other, all the same to
me. I should like to go with you.”
“Will you be careful in crossing the rivers, and assist me in the
difficulty of passing the rough places? I am afraid you may be impatient
with me, Marcos, for I am not a bold rider.”
“By the dear Christ that died for us,” said the man, making the sign of
the cross, “I will serve you faithfully and well.”
I felt that he was sincere; and so, on going into the house, I requested
the Don to draw up the necessary agreement.
“Now take this draught I have prepared for you,” said this active man,
who never seemed to forget anything or anybody. “Rest a little now, and
after that I hope you will accompany me to the bull-chase.”
“What! a bull-fight?” said I, in astonishment.
“I said a bull-_chase_, Señora; quite a different thing.”
“What is the difference?”
“It is the custom here annually to allot three young bulls to the
hamlet, in order to improve or raise the farm stock. On a certain day
the bulls are let out of the corral, and the young men of the parish
chase them, the bulls having a fair start.
“The animal, when caught, is brought into an enclosed space, garlanded
with ribbons, and adjudged publicly to the victor. It is a pretty sight;
for, whilst the chase is going on, the other men dance with the girls to
the sound of a very fair brass band. I want you to see how well we can
conduct our _fiestas_ among the mountains.”
This _fiesta_ was the cause of the presence of so many muleteers in
Goascaron: they were to take part in the dance, but none of them, I
think, entered for the chase.
Late in the afternoon the doctor, in gala costume, knocked at my
enclosure, and was ready to escort me to the meadow where the dance was
to be held.
“Where is the Señora?” asked I.
“She is not coming. She must remain and attend to the infant. Our female
servant is to go to the general ball in the evening, and all the _mozos_
are gone to see the chase.”
The sound of a clarionet and horn playing a lively measure announced
that we were near the scene of amusement; a rushing noise, and voices
shouting from afar, proclaimed that _el toro negro_ (the black bull) had
been loosed, and was far away, flying up the hill, with a score or more
of young men provided with lassos tearing at full speed on mule-back
after him.
The first dance was the graceful _ronda_ of the muleteers.
This is called _ronda_, because the dancers are surrounded by their
mules, which are all decked with their gayest trappings; some of these
bearing panniers, sometimes filled with flowers, sometimes filled with
babies. These last generally accompanied the band vocally, and _ad
nauseam_.
It was very interesting to watch the evolutions of this graceful dance,
and the unerring precision with which the men and women mazed between
the quadrupeds, waltzed back, formed a ring in the centre, and finished
all by the head muleteer raising his _machete_, as he stood alone in the
centre of the ring and shouted, “Evviva la ronda de los mulateros!”
(Long live the muleteers’ dance!) After that there was some very good
waltzing, the step being accurately turned, although the men wore their
mountain boots, which are heavy. The dance was held under two immense
trees, just in the hollow formed between two slopes; but still the heat
was great, and I wondered how they could work away as persistently as
they did.
The women and girls wore the white mantilla, in honour of the day, short
white dresses decked with some bright embroidery worked in the material,
and all wore flowers. The elder women and _chaperons_ were dressed
usually in dark raiment, with the graceful black mantilla thrown over
the head. I grieve to say that this elegant article of dress is giving
place to a style of horrid little hat, which a French commercial
traveller, some two years ago, had introduced into the country. A young
stumpy girl, arrayed in one of these, I saw pegging away with a _mozo_
of Don Graciano’s; and as she appeared to have put everything she
possessed in the way of ribbon and flowers upon the said hat, I
earnestly hoped that the awful spectacle she presented would alarm the
beholders into declaring for the mantilla for ever.
Shouts and huzzas and a rush of the dancers to an enclosed space,
announced the capture of the black bull. He had run well, it was said,
and therefore all the more merit for the captor; and so they both
received a wonderful ovation. As the stranger, I was requested to place
the red cord, which is usually thrown round the bull’s neck after the
chase, into the hand of the victor. As I did so, some one in authority
proclaimed that this _toro_ had been fairly chased and lassoed by
Trasquito Gomez, and was now his lawful prize. Did any one deny it? No;
and so Trasquito and the _toro_ went off to their dwelling-place.
Another bull was let out of the corral, and given seven minutes’ start.
The young men and the mules and the lassos were hard at work, and the
dancers and the band returned to the great chestnut-trees.
I was getting tired, so after drinking a glass of mountain wine to the
health of Goascaron, Don Graciano conducted me back to his home. On the
way he told me that he had made a fair arrangement with the muleteer
Marcos, as to my journey. “He is as wild as a hawk,” said Don Graciano,
“and will have the uttermost farthing; nevertheless, take him, for he is
a splendid muleteer, and his beasts are first-rate.”
The Indian girl with her baby—this time covered by the white linen scarf
which depended from the mother’s head—opened the door. She told me there
was to be a dance on a large scale in the evening, for the _gente
ordinario_ (common people), and that Marcos and Eduardo would both be
there.
“You will not start very early, then,” said Don Graciano with a smile.
At break of day I was out, as I wanted to look at the scene of the dance
and the chase, but to my disappointment a heavy mist hid all from sight.
I had not been in the village church, so I wended my steps to it, and
pushing the door open, I walked in. Small and poorly furnished; but
kneeling before the little altar were two or three worshippers gathered
together. That half-hour was sacred to them and to me.
The mist by this time had entirely cleared away, and now, behold the
sky! a sea of opal light, upon which floated minute masses of soft pink
colour. One of the largest of these rested for a time upon the summit of
one of the lower mountain-peaks, as if a rose had fallen thereon and
waited to be kissed.
A few moments later and the whole of the rosy tufts had faded away like
a shower of leaves, and a blue-green light shimmered in their wake, the
herald of the sun.
He rose at once in the full glory of his strength, enveloping cloud and
colour in his golden robe; flushing high mountain and lowly cañon with
his regal tints, and upon all things making his presence to be felt. I
wondered not, at the moment, at the devotion of the ancient Persian, nor
at that of the Indian, whose morning “prime” was the worship of _El
Sol_.
My own (weak woman’s) tribute was a gush of tears. It could not be
restrained, all was so beautiful and so grand; and Nature seemed to
greet, with a mother’s love, one who was alone in the world!
A hot day was imminent! The prearranged hour of starting was already
long past, for I had wished to be in the saddle before the air became as
heated as white steel. The axiom that time was made for slaves, is very
rigidly enforced by example in these regions; and nobody ever is or can
be punctual to an exact or specified hour. Forty minutes’ “law” is by no
means considered to be a liberal allowance.
Doubtless the ball of the previous evening had been late, and both
Marcos and Eduardo might be sleeping the sleep of the “danced out.” I
remember, too, that I have been young myself, and how often a servant
has had to wait up for me and mine till we should return from a friendly
“hop” or a county ball. Poor fellows! they have a hard life, and a dance
to them only comes once or twice a year. Let them sleep on.
Thus musing, I refrained from tapping on the wooden shutter, beneath
which Marcos was stretched on a bench, prone and motionless.
Presently there arose sounds of hurry-scurry in the little piazza in
front of Don Graciano’s house, a stamping of mules, added to the chatter
of some four or five women who were full of gossip, probably about the
preceding day’s _fiesta_.
[Illustration: SE DUERMA—HE SLEEPS.]
Opening the shutter full wide, and looking through the iron bars which
did duty for a window, I saw that the muleteer had risen, scared awake,
no doubt, by the women’s tongues. Nobody had aroused him intentionally,
for the Spaniards and most others allied to them by blood have a
particular objection to awakening a sleeper. The most important business
can and must wait: El Señor is asleep, and cannot be disturbed. No
matter whether the slumber be in regular course; whether of fatigue and
exhaustion, or merely the temporary _siesta_ induced by heat and
languor, or—idleness. “_Se duerme_” is conclusive: leave the sleeper in
peace, till Nature in her own time shall unclose his eyes.
There was plenty to attend to; for to load a baggage-mule requires some
skill and great care. Much suffering is often caused to animals through
carelessness in this respect. It was very interesting to watch the
proceedings of Marcos. How carefully he arranged the cloths which are
first placed on the animal’s back before the luggage is strapped on, and
how cleverly he weighted every article, in order to give the burden an
equal poise! Eduardo assisted in this, and Don Graciano looked
attentively to the saddling of the mule that was to carry me.
“I will now go and take leave of the Señora,” I said, and betook myself
to the back verandah. The girl had her little naked baby on her arm; I
took it from her, and kissing it, said, “You will have so much pleasure
in rearing this little one; and from what Don Graciano has told me, you
must be in the way of making a nice fortune for her before many years
have passed over your heads.”
“Perhaps so,” she answered, her quiet equable tones being somewhat
broken, as I patted her naked shoulder and pressed her hand, to thank
her for her hospitality. “I shall never forget you,” she went on to
say—“never. The sound of your voice, Señora, falls like the drop of cold
water when one dies of thirst.”
This elegant compliment, expressed so simply in the loveliest language
in the world, touched me much more than it flattered me. It was the
outcome of woman’s sympathy with woman. I had taken her hand with marked
respect, and treated her as the mistress of the house; and the avowal of
my indebtedness, addressed to herself directly, seemed to give her the
utmost satisfaction. “Va con Dios,” she said, after a short pause, and
turned into the _cocina_, evidently not venturing to accompany me to the
front court. A thought flashed into my mind like lightning; I wonder it
had not occurred to me before. This must be the case. Don Graciano is
evidently a man of superior station and education, and a pure white; the
girl is as unmistakably of Indian blood. Here is an example of following
out “_el costumbre del pais_”! (the custom of the country.)
Whether my conjectures were ill-founded or not (and I only based them on
the state of subjection in which this young woman seemed to live), I had
no time for speculation, as the object of my rumination was waiting, hat
in hand, to assist me to mount. To lift a lady guest into the saddle,
and to walk at the head of the mule and conduct it and its burden some
way into the open, is one of the duties of hospitality in these far-off
hamlets. It is a remnant of the courtesy of the ancient races: the
lowest as well as the highest all rigidly observe this custom.
The last arrangements for departure were soon made, and I, a timid
rider, felt that Luisa the mule, and myself, would travel amicably
together. Gentle, handsome beast! It says well of her that she carried
me nearly one hundred and sixty miles without hap or hazard.
This happy result, on my part, was more of good luck than of good
guidance.
The _macho_ was a little tiresome to start, and he danced about
vigorously, with Eduardo on his back. It then transpired that he was a
young, high-couraged animal, and that Marcos was taking him this long
journey in order to tame him and complete his education. It came out
afterwards that Marcos intended to sell him on the return journey, and
would no doubt be able to do so at a high price. I was glad to hear
this, as it secured good treatment to the animals; not that I think
Marcos was naturally cruel, but he was a hard man, and I do not do him
injustice in saying, that to make money by the service of his mules was
his first and paramount consideration.
“Marcos is a good muleteer,” said Don Graciano, in allusion to him in
our parting words, “but he dearly loves money. Mind everything is
included in his contract with you; and be sure you do not give him a
_cuarto_ to pay for forage or stabling of the mules in the places you
may have to stay in. He will try this, probably; but be sure there is
generally plenty of grass and water, and the animals are always better
when they feed out at night.”
Marcos and Eduardo then came up, and received from me a _peseta_ each
for their daily expenses; and it was agreed I should dispense this sum
to them every morning on starting, and thus save difficulty in the
accounts. We were now fairly on our way to the mountains, and, in a few
words more, Don Graciano gave me “God-speed.”
“Marcos will bring me word of you when he returns home with the mules,”
he said lastly. This hospitable stranger now bent his way to his
dwelling-place, and I felt as if I had left a friend.
CHAPTER VIII.
We travelled a few miles in silence, for the men were evidently languid
from the want of sleep, and I was too much engrossed by the beauty of
the scenery, and in admiration of the glorious country through which we
were passing, to need conversation. Luisa, the mule, carried me well,
and her even pace left me at liberty to enjoy the sweet air of these
magnificent Hondureian mountains, so little known to the outside world,
and so little appreciated by those who dwell around them.
[Illustration: PASS BEYOND GOASOARON.]
Here, rock, wood, tree, shrub, and water are on a grand scale—all, so to
speak, the best of their kind; and the humble wild flowers, adorning the
far-stretching fertile valleys which slope between the clefts, are rich
in colour, and far from wanting in perfume. The varying lights—the
glimmering opal and the deep purple haze alternating with the fairest
blue of the heaven and the blackest depth of the cloud—as we passed on
our way, presented a scene, the like of which I had never seen before,
and never expect to see again.
I may write, perhaps, with some partiality; for what the sea is to many,
the mountains are to me. I was born amongst them, in the grand Pyrenees,
and so I am their daughter. When sickness of body and sorrow of heart
fall upon me, I will arise and flee to the mountains. My strength surely
comes from them.
We ascended higher, and in the elastic air the men became refreshed, and
as hunger and noonday approached, we agreed to halt. There was a
_hacienda_ picturesquely built in a cleft of the ranges. To this we
wended our way, and were glad to see the chestnut-trees stretching
grandly in front of this demesne. Here was shelter for the animals,
since the grass and shade were deep all around; and we human beings
could sling a hammock on the lowest branches of the fine trees.
The baggage-mule was disencumbered of my hammock and the little bag of
provisions only.
“We have only a short time,” said Marcos; “and as it is her first day’s
journey she will not be distressed if she is not unladen until night.”
Soon after, the lady of the _hacienda_ came out. “My servants saw you
camping,” she said with a charming smile. “We have illness in the house,
and so my cousin and I have come to pay our compliments here. I regret
that I cannot ask you under my roof.”
The young lady alluded to as “my cousin” was a most lovely daughter of
old Spain, about fifteen years of age. She said little, but seemed
interested to meet, for the first time in her life (it appeared), an
English lady, travelling through Spanish Honduras.
This simple courteous welcome quite relieved me; for I confess I had
felt somewhat abashed at walking, literally with bag and baggage, into a
stranger’s territory, and using it as if it were an inn.
“I will send you some milk and coffee,” the lady said; “and after that,
I would recommend you to take a _siesta_. You seem to have good guides
and animals. Ah, you want them in these parts! _Adios._”
The milk and coffee, so liberally promised, came by the hand of a _mozo_
of the place. He told us that his mistress possessed large herds of
cattle; indeed, as far as eye could range, the fields and slopes were
dotted thickly with kine. Then after helping me into the hammock, this
_mozo_ laid himself down between my two companions, and the whole three
of them slept soundly with only the fallen timber for a pillow. I, in my
more elevated position, simply rested, and bestowed a benison upon the
soul who first invented the hammock.
Exactly as two hours had passed, Marcos was on his feet. A muleteer is
warranted to awake at any moment, and so he almost always does. It is
the only action of punctuality in the whole republic.
The _mozo_ gave us a helping hand, and we started at a good round pace
for Arimesine. It was nearly dark when we rode up to the principal house
in this place. The village was merely a broken square of thatched and
yellow-washed hovels; the principal one was _posada_, general store, and
forage “emporium” combined. Nothing of interest here, as my journal
runs:—
“Reached Arimesine at seven. Passed a fairly good night, as the woman of
the house possessed some notions of propriety. Quite in clover, for I
had a railed-off space wherein to swing my hammock, divided from the
public room by my travelling rug and a shawl hung on a high
clothes-horse. The men slept in the verandah. There was a white basin in
the establishment, and Eduardo got this filled with water, and in a
manner I managed to wash.”
We were on our way very early the next morning, and travelled at a good
pace. The country had become a little more broken, and foliage in great
luxuriance was beginning to disappear. Marcos gathered me some bunches
of the quinine tree, which is a graceful shrub in all its stages. The
flower is white, and is in shape a cross between the pentstemon of our
gardens and the stephanotis. The latter lovely parasite we saw at
various intervals in great profusion. The peculiarity in the growth of
the stephanotis is that it requires a background of some other climber
to support it, and at the same time give it a slight protection from the
sun. Thus aided, the plant will reach to an immense height, and I have
seen it winding round the trunks of large trees, and spreading rich
bunches of its blossoms far and wide, even if it have the slenderest
stem of some other parasite round which to wind itself. Quite alone, the
plant usually shrivels up, and at best deteriorates.
As we rode onward the sandy ridges became toilsome to the mules’ feet,
and it was here that we first found a specimen of the water-giving
plants of the country. Eduardo recognised it instantly, and as he cut
its thick stringy stem with his _machete_, a watery fluid oozed out,
which had rather a sweet taste. The _mozo_ had forgotten the name of
this plant, but said it was common in Honduras. He mentioned another of
rarer species, which he termed _peligroso_ (dangerous) and which from
its description must, I think, have referred to the _Mimersopa balata_,
an india-rubber water-giving plant.
A story is told that a Frenchman passing through Guiana met with this
curious production of nature. The coolness of the fluid as he tasted it
induced him, as a precautionary measure, to qualify it with some kind of
alcohol. The juice of the shrub coagulated in the unfortunate
traveller’s stomach, and after a time of intense suffering he died. An
examination took place, and it was found that the internal organs were
literally closed up by india-rubber.
Thus it should be well understood by travellers in tropical countries
that every care must be taken in the use of these wonderful vegetable
alleviators of human misery—thirst.
The increasing heat, and the disappointment of not being able to meet
with any refreshment in any one of the cottages which we passed, were
making us all feel more or less out of sorts. Passing a narrow rivulet,
I asked Marcos to fill me the gourd-shell, which wayfarers here always
carry at their girdle, with water. “I am so thirsty,” I said; “please
attend to me quick.”
Instead of complying with my request, the man turned round, and
resolutely refused. “Not a drop, Señora,” said he; “it would hurt you.
Your muleteer must not let you drink here; it would be bad for your
health.”
“Why, Marcos?”
“Because, Señora, the bottom of this rivulet is muddy; there is no sand
nor gravel; and look—see! you would not like to risk swallowing one of
these!” He pointed to a plant near the mule’s hoof: it was covered with
dark-brown blossoms, which turned out, on inspection, to be leeches.
“No, no,” said Marcos,—“not of this for you, Señora, nor for Eduardo, or
the beasts. I know my duty.”
I was sure that he did; and though my thirst was great, I said no more
on the water question, but instead I proposed that we should share a
bottle of wine, which Don Graciano had generously given me, as he said,
“for emergencies.”
The bottle was soon produced from the canvas saddle-bags carried by the
baggage-mule, speedily uncorked, and a draught poured out for me. No
sooner had I tasted it than I returned the gourd to Marcos, with an
expression of disgust.
Marcos tasted, and then did Eduardo: wry faces and sputtering were the
immediate effects of the taste of the potion on both.
The matter soon explained itself. The heat of the sun and the jogging
pace had turned the wine into very strong and very stringent vinegar.
There was no help for it, and it was decided that we had better get on
to San Juan del Norte as fast as possible.
We had met a peasant in the morning, on his way to work in a
maize-field: he directed us to San Juan del Norte, as being a good
station whereat to pass the night and replenish our commissariat, which
was becoming very low. It was therefore with great vigour that we pushed
on to San Juan del Norte.
The character of the land had now greatly changed, and we passed through
marshy grassland, which presented no interesting features, and was very
heavy for the mules’ feet. We travelled through this for some time, and
a thick soft rain, which fell with the dusk, did not improve matters. At
length, in a downpour, we did reach San Juan del Norte, Eduardo having
ridden forward to secure accommodation, and search out the most decent
dwelling.
I saw by the expression of the lad’s face, as we rode into a little
square of mean houses, that he was far from being delighted with the
quarters which necessity had forced upon us. “It is a dreadful place,
Señora,” said he, in a whisper; “I have been to two houses, but this old
woman’s seems the best.”
I looked round before dismounting, and perceived an old woman, who might
be any age she liked to call herself after seventy, with white hair, and
a very handsome pair of black eyes and eyebrows. She was followed by a
train of men, who might be her sons and grandsons; and beyond these were
several girls, mostly of the lowest class, who stared with all their
might, but said nothing. These were waiting to see me dismount.
Whether the cause was fatigue, combined with the long fast and the damp,
I never could explain, for I had not felt ill; but as soon as Marcos had
placed me on the ground, the whole of San Juan del Norte seemed to
revolve on a pivot, and I fell down in a dead faint. A sensation of
being dragged forward, and the sound of voices a long way off, was the
last perception of my senses. For many minutes all things were lost in
utter unconsciousness.
The return to life was not effected in the usual method of administering
cold water, smelling-salts, or other restoratives suitable to the
attack; but the pungent _aguardiente_ (brandy), which Marcos not only
applied to my nostrils but forced down my throat also, was strong enough
to rouse a rhinoceros from the deepest swoon.
My eyes quickly opened, and half raising myself in the hammock, I gasped
out, “Oh, give me air! Marcos, send these people away; and where did you
get that horrid stuff?”
The old woman here advanced, and stood on her dignity. “Señora,” said
she, “do not be offended; these people come to receive you after the
fashion of the country; it is our custom when the stranger enters our
village for all the inhabitants to come out and offer welcome. The rain
has prevented many from being here; but see, there are still some few.”
Looking past her, I saw that a number of persons were standing in a
group near the door, and evidently with the intention of staying there
until something should be said or done. So, getting out of the hammock,
weak and giddy enough, I managed to bow to the company, and say to the
old woman in particular, that I hoped the inhabitants would excuse me,
for I was really ill, and it was imperative that I should be alone for a
while.
The company in general seemed inclined to linger; but Marcos strode
amongst them, and with a sweep of one hand opened the door, whilst with
the other he signed to them to make speedy exit. This was done with the
air of an emperor, and without the utterance of a single word.
Marcos then asked Eduardo to go and look after the mules, and turning to
the woman said—
“Hay leche aqui?” (Have you milk here?)
“Nada” (none), was the reply.
“Hay carne o tortillas?” (Have you meat or bread?)
“No,” was the decided reply.
“Hay cafe?” (Have you coffee?)
“Tampoco.” (Nor that either.)
Here was a state of things; and though the woman was perfectly civil,
she did not make the slightest attempt to alleviate matters.
The muleteer, with a shrug of his shoulders, then went out, saying he
must go and buy food, wherever he could find it, and I was left alone
with the “lady” of the house.
“Can I not have some place where I can be private?” I asked her gently.
“Any corner will do, as I have brought my own hammock.”
“You can sling your hammock from these hooks,” she replied, pointing to
two large iron bars which projected from the solid beam running along
the roof.
“But have you no sleeping apartments for the females of your family?” I
inquire.
“What for? We all sling our hammocks at night in this room. I have a
bed-place, because I am too old to move about much. We lie down in our
clothes, and when the men go out to work in the morning, then we dress.”
The guides coming in soon after the close of this dialogue, I consulted
with them as to what was to be done; and asked if my hammock could not
be slung in the verandah at the back of this dwelling.
I was told that this was impossible. The rain was pouring steadily down.
I must lie down in my clothes, and we would get away as early as
possible on the morrow. Meanwhile Marcos had been able to get some
coffee made, and he suggested that in the absence of my guides to fetch
this, I might change my shoes and arrange my dress as best I could.
There was nothing else to be done; and after my hammock was slung, and
the mosquito-net thrown over it, I was supposed to be “quite private,”
although in the course of the evening six persons of different sexes
stepped into the other hammocks, and laid themselves down for the
night’s rest. The old woman took off her upper garment, tied her head up
in a cotton handkerchief, stepped into her bed-place, and without
curtain or mosquito-net travelled off to the land of Nod.
The rain had driven the mosquitoes into the dwelling, and at a later
hour these pests became intolerable. A stir from without arrested my
attention, and presently a lad with an iron brasier entered, lighted a
candle which was stuck against the wall, and returning to the brasier,
seemed to stir it up. At that instant a smoke and a most fearful smell
pervaded the whole room, suffocating and nauseous in the extreme. I drew
my net over my head, and lay wondering what this could mean; but nobody
else seemed to be annoyed, or even to take notice of the nuisance. A
more miserable night I never passed; and it was with the greatest
thankfulness that I saw a gleam of the morning’s light through the door
which opened to let the first riser out.
Eduardo soon entered, and expressed a hope that I had not suffered from
the smoke, a flavour of which still pervaded the apartment. “It is worse
than peat,” he said, “for it is the droppings of the stable and
cow-shed, which, when dry, are burnt, and are the most effectual remedy
known against an invasion of mosquitoes at night; but I know, Señora,
you must have been nearly poisoned by the smell.”
Soon after, the mules and baggage were ready, and Marcos informed me
with great satisfaction that he had been able to procure a supply of
_queso_ (cheese). This “cheese” is really nothing better than curd, very
sour and hard, turned up with yellow borders. Being very much
compressed, it takes up small space, and is usually eaten with
_tortillas_ in all parts of the interior.
We took leave of the woman of the house, and as I pressed a small
gratuity into her hand, I thanked her for the shelter her roof had
afforded us. This was but right, as it was quite in her power to have
refused us admission altogether; and it was not for a traveller to
grumble when the entertainment provided was such as the highest and
lowest in the country are accustomed to as a matter of course; and,
indeed, they know no other. A bowl of milk had been procured, which I
drank before mounting, and thus I felt provisioned for the day.
Our journey, after some miles of travel, began to be on the ascent, and
shortly we were far up the mountains. Here, losing the luxuriance of
herbage and grass, we came upon rock, and cedar and pine trees. Clumps
of these last grew in great profusion, scenting the air with the
peculiar healthy smell of the Aleppo fir, which, alternating with masses
of the elegant deodara tree, gave a magnificent clothing to tracts of
land which might otherwise be bare. The mountain was not a high one, but
the descent on the other side was so abrupt that I was glad to get off
and walk, notwithstanding that the path was little else than an
assemblage of loose stones, mingled with gravel and dust. Gradually this
path narrowed, and we entered a high defile, so full of rock, and holes,
and enormous roots of trees, that every step had to be picked with care,
and our wary baggage-mule slipped for the first time, and more than once
seemed on the verge of tumbling head over heels.
Here I could not help admiring the wonderful skill, and, I may say, the
tact of both mule and muleteer. Did Marcos run forward, and, by the
short rope which was attached to the head, guide the baggage-mule to
another part, or jump with her from stone to stone, Luisa would stop,
look at what was going on in front, and imitate precisely what her
companion was being led to do. The _macho_, being younger, required all
Eduardo’s care, and it often displayed an inclination to kick every
stone to pieces that came in its way. Sometimes the beasts would decline
to walk where Marcos guided them; and when they refused the path, it was
always because insecure stones or a hole were in the way, or some
obstacle which the muleteer had overlooked. Marcos, on his part, never
insisted where the mules steadily refused to go onwards. “They are very
wise,” said he; “they know better where to walk than I do. They like my
help when they really need it, poor mules!”
Then with a touch or a pat the mules were told conversationally how hard
it was for us others; and further on the man called, “_Mulas, mulas_, do
you not hear the sound of the water? On, my _mulas_, on.”
A grateful sound we all heard, that of a low rushing noise, rising and
falling like the murmur of the wind. It was the voice of a brawling
stream, which flowed at the outlet of the defile. Save the rush of
little children’s feet over an upper floor, there is no sound sweeter to
me than the rippling of a running stream over a pebbly bed in the hot
summer-tide. Weary and travel-stained as we were, what in nature could
give us kinder welcome than the call of the delicious water, with its
wealth of cascade and spout and gentle flow? Water that here contained
within itself a myriad of loving voices, one of which specially seemed
to tell us that it was waiting to lave our feet, and spread out wide a
veil of argentine drops, should we descend further into its depths to
bathe and live.
We had heard its call from afar; and now the mules quickened their pace
and snuffed the air, and we human things pulled ourselves together, and
marched bravely forward, for down a winding path in front we had
descried a glint of the tossing stream—a friend indeed.
Eduardo ran forward, and, boylike, dashed into the brook, danced from
stone to stone, and danced again, and plunged his head into the water,
and shouted, “_La agua, la querida agua!_” (the water, the beloved
water!) and then, between him and Marcos, I was taken from the saddle,
and in their strong arms I found myself seated on the bank on the
opposite side, wondering.
A moment or two afterwards a gourd-shell was filled for my use, and I
was asked to drink to _El Hondo_, the water-god of this lovely region,
from whom old legend saith the name of Honduras is derived.
Dear water-sprite, whoever you may be, or whoever you may have been, I
did drink to you with a benison; for did I not feel thankful that at
last in your sweet domain I could indulge in the salutary life-giving
bath? I forgot San Juan del Norte and all its woes, as I called to my
attendants to search for a secluded spot in which I might wash and be
clean. Right willingly did I drink to _El Hondo_.
The mules were taken across and unloaded. There was plenty of grass, and
we decided to remain two hours in this shady spot; for here it would
seem that the sun had retired in favour of _El Hondo_, and we were
willing to take advantage of the comforts which were poured upon us.
Eduardo routed from among the wraps an old blue bathing-gown, which had
generally served as a mattress for my hammock; and armed with soap and
towels, I made my way to the primitive bathing-place.
“Now, Señora,” said this good young fellow, “you will be as private as
possible, and we will go a good way off, and will be sure to watch and
prevent anybody coming near you. Marcos and I will light a fire and make
the coffee, and we can eat our breakfast before you are finished. And I
will have your breakfast ready; we have got eggs; and then when you
breakfast, we can smoke and sleep; eh, Señora?”
This arrangement suited me well, and I found my way a little up-stream,
to a curvature in the bank, which served admirably for the purpose, as
it was screened by a mass of low-spreading bushes, and in its centre
stood a high stone, over which a mimic cascade just made impetus enough
to act as a shower-bath. It would be ungracious to pass over the
enjoyment of the delicious luxury, without a word to those who sit at
home, and perhaps cannot believe that a bath can be taken in this wise
in the open air without some infringement of delicacy.
“My friends,” I reply to such objectors, “there is much more immodesty
in the bathing-places of Brighton, Havre, Dieppe, where the meretricious
costumes displayed under the name of ‘bathing-dress,’ are enough in many
cases to strike terror into the most hardened beholder. Witness the fat
objects who crusade down the beach in bolster-cases, short at knee, and
denuded at bosom; and who know, and are not unwilling to know, that
their masculine acquaintance are looking on with more or less of
criticism, according as their feelings may be benevolent or malevolent.”
Here there was no gaping, grinning crowd, and I felt strong in the
conviction that my guides would abhor the slightest attempt to look upon
me until I should be dressed. Had I gallivanted about in a harlequin’s
attire, such as is seen constantly on the persons of the bathers at
fashionable watering-places in England, they, in their uncivilisation,
would have regarded me with the greatest contempt, and perhaps would
have called me mad. So my bath was begun and ended in enjoyable ease and
privacy; and my bathing-gown being taken to a bush whereon the sun did
shine, I had nothing to do but eat my breakfast spread on soft grass,
about which grows, in great profusion, many varieties of the
_Digitalis_.
The mules had also undergone a rubbing and scrubbing; the harness and
baggage were neatly stowed away under the trees; and the men, after
attending to my wants, turned to a smoke and a sleep.
They had earned the luxury well and fairly, and so I promised to act
sentinel; and whilst they slept, I sat under a tree, and arranged the
pages of my journal, a little grey bird, with scarlet-tipped wings, just
looking near now and then to see that Soltera was doing the thing
fairly.
The delicious coolness and silence of the place were more than
compensation for the late wretched night; and it was with real
reluctance that I called out “Time,” when the two hours allotted for
rest had passed away.
The sun was fierce when, after a careful reloading, we again set out:
the journey was to be all hill-work, up the side of a grand mountain,
which in a short time became so toilsome, that it was all I could do to
keep my seat, and even Marcos was glad to ride longer in his turn with
Eduardo than was his wont.
Our accommodation on this night was more comfortable, it being at a
farmhouse a little off the highroad. The next day presented no
particular features; and the day after that I had occasion to take
advantage of Don Graciano’s caution with respect to Marcos’ propensity
for making money in all shapes and ways.
We arrived at a small village, to find that the public schoolroom had
been most kindly placed at our disposal by the master. My hammock was to
be slung in the room, and the men were to sleep in the verandah on
benches.
I had just settled myself for the night, when, to my surprise, Marcos
lifted the latch and walked in.
“Señora,” said he, “I want half a dollar, please.”
“What for? Why do you come at this time?”
“I have put the mules into the stable of the place, and I want the money
to pay for them.” This with a very decided air.
“No, Marcos,” I replied, “I will not give you the money. In the first
place, you had no business to put the mules in the public stables
without consulting me; in the second place, you know you expressly
promised never to do so unless there were a scarcity of grass and
water.”
“There is a scarcity of grass and water here.”
“That is strange, Marcos; the schoolmaster told me that there was
abundance of both; besides, I saw Luisa feeding in a meadow not an hour
ago.”
“Then you will not pay for stabling, Señora.”
“Most certainly not; you can do so if you choose,” I replied.
“Señora,” answered Marcos, “if you do not give me the money, I will
leave you and go home when we get to Comayagua.”
“No, Marcos; if you leave me, you will go to-morrow morning. We can
settle at the office of the _alcalde_ here; you will have broken your
engagement, and so I must place the papers before the _alcalde_, and he
will arrange what I am to pay you. Good night; shut the door behind you,
and don’t come in here till I call. Now go.”
The man stared at me, but said nothing. After waiting a moment, he
turned on his heel and went out, shutting the door with a clang.
The situation was uncomfortable enough, but I was determined not to be
victimised. The matter certainly was small, but to accede to this demand
would only be to open the way to further extortion. I plumed myself,
too, on the way I had dragged in the _alcalde_, as I had not the
faintest idea whether such a functionary existed in the place or not. My
sheet-anchor was in reality the schoolmaster, who had promised to call
upon me in the morning. But _alcalde_ sounded legal and formal, and I
felt sure that the word had vanquished Marcos utterly.
Eduardo knocked very early in the morning, and brought in a large red
jar of soft water and some nice towels sent by the worthy schoolmaster.
The lad looked at me as if something was to be said, but I resolutely
held my peace. Had I not heard voices in confabulation under the
verandah?
“Go and find out, Eduardo, where the office of the _alcalde_ is,” I said
at length; “we cannot start till I have seen him.”
“Señora, the mules are saddled, and we are going to take our
coffee,—and—Señora, Marcos would like to speak to you—now—Señora; it was
the _aguardiente_.”
“Let Marcos come in at once,” I replied, throwing my large shawl over
me, and looking as if I had never heard of the man in my life.
Marcos came to me. “Oh, Señora, do not mind the foolish words I said
last night,” the muleteer exclaimed, looking quite subdued; “it was all
a mistake. I am ready to go. The mules are saddled. Señora, I will take
care of you, and see that you cross the Juan.”
“Very well, Marcos,” I answered, “you can do as you please, and I want
to start early. Go and get your breakfast now, like a good fellow (_buen
hombre_). I am sure you will take me across the river safely.”
This time the man went out with a laugh, and I laughed in my sleeve,
thankful to have escaped the necessity of consulting the _alcalde_, and
all the annoyances which the interview would have surely entailed.
We were soon on our way, led out for a short distance by the courteous
schoolmaster. He had heard from Eduardo, it appeared, all the
particulars of the little skirmish with Marcos, and he congratulated me
on my victory.
“The men tell me you are a brave little lady,” said he.
“I ought to be. I am the daughter and the sister of two brave men who
fought and died for their country.”
“God rest them! Go you with God.” This was the schoolmaster’s farewell.
Fairly now on the trot, our object was to cross the river Juan before
night, as reports from various persons had agreed as to its being much
swollen by recent rain, and that its condition was not favourable for
passing over. We therefore travelled fast, hardly waiting to take food.
After a few hours we found ourselves on the banks of a wide river, in
company with some Indian women who were filling their water-jars at the
stream.
CHAPTER IX.
There was the river Juan. As the true Portuguese speaks of the Tagus as
“El Señor Tajo” (the Lord Tagus), so do the Hondureians, in another form
of speech, accord the greatest dignity to the river Juan, although it is
not, by any means, the most important stream of the country. “El
hermoso! el rey de los rios de las Honduras” (the beautiful! the king of
the rivers of Honduras). Mr Stephens, in his ‘Central America,’ alludes
to this river as the “tortuous river Juan.” Well, there it was,—broad,
turbulent, almost defiant. I felt that this love of the Hondureians was
likely to be too much for me, as, on looking across, I discerned what
might be a low hurdle of rocks, standing almost in its centre, very
irregular in form, and literally showing their teeth, for they were
jagged almost to a point.
The water leapt and swirled over and about these in all directions. The
very sound was a laugh aimed against us, and the solemn dark trees which
bordered the side were very far from being an enlivening feature in the
prospect. The sun had become overcast, and the only colour in the scene
was the strip of yellow path down which we had wound, our noble selves,
and the crimson handkerchiefs on the heads of two Indian women, who were
squatting on the river’s edge watching their naked children, busy making
“mud pastry,” much after the fashion of the small people whose dwellings
are on the banks of the Lea, Trent, or Thames.
A cross macaw, whose frequent and discordant screech fell on my ear like
a “jeer in the voice,” was evidently secreted somewhere.
“Here you are; the river is very much swollen, you’ll perceive, there is
no ford, and you will have to pass over how you can. Ya—ah!” Thus
croaked the bird; and the human voice of Marcos was of still more dreary
portent, as he exclaimed to his comrade, “No hay vado; y mas, no hay
canoa” (no ford; and worse, no canoe). Eduardo remained silent, and
walked to and fro, looking at the water as if he had a personal quarrel
with everything around, and with it in particular. At length I said,
“There ought to be a canoe here; where, I wonder, is the man who owns
it?”
A shrug of the shoulder and a flourish was the only reply, and then
Marcos solved the difficulty with the usual Hondureian platonism, “No
hay remedio” (there is no remedy). The action that accompanied these
words further intimated—“There is nothing for it but sink or swim: the
river must be crossed, ford or no ford, and the sooner we go the
better.” Obviously there was no remedy; and the men turned their drawers
up to their knees, folded their jackets on their heads, and prepared to
walk into the water. The elder of the two Indian women now came towards
me. Placing one small brown hand on the mule’s neck, and almost
caressing my knee with the other, as I sat humped up to keep clear of
being wet, she said, “Es muy peligroso, señora, muy peligroso; no anda”
(it is very dangerous, lady; do not go).
I knew instinctively, and as well as she did, that it was very
dangerous; but what could be done? And I turned to Marcos with this
inquiry.
The man replied in his usual incisive and somewhat peremptory tones, “We
must cross at once, Eduardo, and I will go first; he will lead the
baggage-mule, and I will follow on the _macho_. When Luisa sees the
_macho_ well into the water, the creature will follow at once. Now stick
on hard” (this being expressed as “apargate muy fuerte”). With this
admonition he seized the hem of my dress, and began to roll it up in a
rough fashion, to prevent it being immersed in the water.
The Indian interposed: “Let me do that for the lady,—you must not touch
her in that manner;” and pushing Marcos aside she arranged my garments
most comfortably. Then she said, with oh! such pathos in her voice, “The
river is so strong—it is very dangerous. You _will_ go; but ‘ay di mi,’
you have much courage.”
Much courage! Had she felt my throbbing pulse; could she but know, kind
soul, the struggle that was going on in my proud English heart not to
appear to be afraid! True, my words were measured, and I smiled because
I felt I must not give way one inch; but if this were courage, it was
merely the desperation of “no hay remedio”: nothing more nor less.
The men, meanwhile, had driven their beasts into the water. The mules
here went straight enough; and having got them safely to their work,
Marcos turned round and hailed to me to follow close on. I patted the
woman on the shoulder, saying as I did so, “Adieu, good friend—all will
be well,” and gathered up the reins to ride away. Luisa, however, would
not move, and as I urged her towards the water, she trembled so
violently as to shake me perceptibly where I sat. The touch of the
switch and all my adjurations, sole and combined, here fell unregarded
on mind and matter. Luisa would not stir, but gathered her four hoofs as
close as she could beneath her, and stuck them in the muddy soil. The
fact that this high-couraged and gentle creature continued to tremble,
and appeared to be paralysed with terror, scattered all my resolution,
and I turned myself half round to avoid the sight of the water.
The Indian woman now darted towards me with a cry, followed by her
companion, and raising her arms in the air. “La muleta no se va. Señora,
por amor de Dios no anda!” (The mule won’t go. Lady, for the love of God
remain!)
Whatever I might have done it is impossible even to conjecture, for the
mule had taken all power of action out of my governance. She still stood
like a rock, looking sideways now and then at the water, and shaking
with fear.
Marcos had turned round, and evidently understood the position. Coming
back to within speaking distance, he shouted—“Stay where you are;
Eduardo and I will get to the other side, and then return for you.” So
they went; and as they swayed from right to left, and in their course
across described a semicircle, it was plainly to be seen that the
current was very strong. It was a regular buffet for a while. At last we
saw that the men had landed safely, and soon I espied the _macho_ tied
to a tree exactly opposite to where we were standing for the especial
benefit of Luisa. A few shakings and a little further undressing, and
then the guides came across for me.
As they neared the shore, I took up the tremble which Luisa had at this
juncture discarded; but I managed to appear calm, and to thank the
Indian women for their companionship, giving them at the same time a
_peseta_ (English shilling) to remember me by. The elder kissed my hand;
and in that glorious language in which the Emperor Charles V. is
accredited to have said we should pray to God, she took her
farewell—leaving me to God. “Be not afraid, dear one” (her words may be
interpreted); “the good Father will take you over the river—the Father
whose love will grant you many years. Go with Him. Adios.”
The love of the Father! Ah! fellow-men and fellow-women, do we not
somewhat and sometimes, in our worship of the Son and in our veneration
of His Mother, totally pass over the love of the Father? I repeated the
Indian’s words, and I am not ashamed to add that I learned a lesson from
them.
The strong hand of Marcos was now on the rein, Eduardo was ordered to
the off side, and the mule and her burden were dragged forwards into the
stream with but scant ceremony. Soon the might of the waters fell on us,
together with the swirl and the swim of the rushing current, as we
neared the centre of the river. Luisa stumbles on a stone, the men prop
her up lustily; but the mad racing of the current makes me blind and
dizzy, for more than once we are half turned round; so I clutch the
muleteer’s head in answer to his injunction of _apargate bien_, and feel
sure that this water is to be my last bed. However, Luisa bears up, and
seems to have lost her fears, thanks to the supporters which gave the
animal confidence; and this in its turn, in some magnetic force, rouses
me to exertion, and I hook my knee against the pommel of the saddle, and
sit as firmly as I can in obedience to the reiterated command of
_apargate bien_! Luisa staggered here and there, and at one time it
seemed as if we must be swept away. We had not described a large enough
circle, it appeared, when passing the middle rocks. There was a
prolonged struggle on our part, stimulated on the mule’s part by a
terrific bray from the _macho_. In a few moments his bosom friend, with
her legitimate rider on her back, was hauled safely to land.
A gasp and a sob, and I stood between the men, as they dismounted me. My
boots were like soaked sponge; and the smell of wet leather was the
pungent odour which recalled me to my clear sense. We looked across the
water, to see the Indian women with their children grouped around them,
looking eagerly towards us. One of them raised her arm, and pointed
upwards. Then every one of them waved their hands, and turned swiftly up
the path. Kind, simple people, I shall never see them again! May the
love of the Father keep them ever from harm!
“We have passed a great peril, Señora,” said Eduardo, after a few
moments’ silence, as he made the “holy sign.” The men both bowed their
heads reverently, and I think we all thanked the Lord in sincerity and
truth. I, however, could not help shuddering as I looked at the river;
and to get rid of the feeling, I took to walking up and down, telling
the men that I was very cold. We had nothing with us, save a few
_tortillas_, which the men ate as they rubbed the mules and arranged
their furniture. Fortunately the baggage-mule had come off better than
any of us. This was owing to the perfect manner in which she had been
loaded, and also from her being a very tall animal.
“You must mount quickly, for the sun will soon be down,” said Marcos;
“we shall scarcely have time to get to Narango.”
A little delay to arrange our own toilets, and we were on the route
again, the beasts and their riders being none the worse for their bath.
Marcos had soon returned to his usual equanimity, and, as usual, he
“improved the occasion” to his own benefit.
“Señora,” said he, as we rode along, “we both got very wet, both Eduardo
and I, in the river, and you have nothing here to give us. There is very
good beer in Comayagua; when we arrive there, will you give us a bottle
of beer for getting you over the Juan? It is a proud thing to have
forded the Juan; that is worth a large bottle of beer, Señora.”
“Oh yes, yes,” I replied hastily, vexed at his cupidity, and not being
inclined to talk. “You shall have the beer when we get to Comayagua.” It
was a rash promise, for a bottle of beer in Comayagua costs four
shillings!
It was some time before we could find accommodation, however humble; and
it was only by taking a side path and riding into the interior that we
could discover a single dwelling. At length a thatched farm-looking
dwelling of the poorest description, but prettily situated on a rising
knoll, came in view; and with some trepidation we inquired if we could
be sheltered for the night. A pleasant-looking young woman came out,
followed by some fine children and two lean dogs.
“My husband is over the mountain,” she replied, in answer to our
inquiries: “if the lady can put up with me and the children, we shall be
proud to receive you. Here, Vicente!”
The individual so hailed was a wonderfully handsome boy, more Spanish
than Indian. Without a word he began to unload the mules, and by this
act he secured the goodwill of my attendants at once.
“Come into the kitchen, lady,” said my hostess; “oh, how damp your
clothes are! There is a good fire there, for I have been cleaning up
since the man went away.”
She led the way to a building a little apart from the principal part of
the house. It was only an erection of baked mud and sticks, but there
was a bright wood-fire burning on one side, and a kind of oven in the
centre. The woman brought out the only chair, and then knelt down to
help to draw off my boots, which were really little better than pulp.
“If you will send the younger of my guides with the little _maleta_
(portmanteau), I shall be very much obliged to you,” I said; “and can
you give me something to eat soon?”
“Yes; I will kill a fowl for you, Señora: for the men there is dried
venison (my husband hunted it last year) and _tortillas_. I can let you
have some light wine, if you would think it good enough.”
“Thank you, but I would rather have some coffee.”
“You shall have it, Señora. Now you dress here, and I will go and catch
the fowl.”
In a few minutes Vicente poked my portmanteau into the room, and on
looking about I found a jar of water; and so, with a little management,
I made a decent, and certainly a much more respectable appearance than
before.
Whilst the fowl was cooking, I strolled into a kind of orchard, where
there was a round table and a seat. This, I found, Eduardo had placed
for me, he knowing by this time how much I hated the usual household
smells of these parts. A small kerosene lamp was brought also, for it
was beginning to get dark; and when the meal appeared (the fowl stewed
in rice), I ate with such a relish, that I am afraid the two lean dogs
must have looked upon me at the time as a very hopeless addition to the
household. I should add, however, that they _did_ get the remains of
this feast.
The night was fairly comfortable, and it was with a feeling of gratitude
that I wished the hostess good-bye. “I would not accept any pay,
Señora,” the simple creature said; “but we are so poor, and we have so
many children to feed.”
We inquired about our way to Comayagua, and she told us that we ought to
arrive there the day after at farthest. “Go to the Posada Victorine,”
said she; “it is a good place, and Madame Victorine will make you
comfortable. Ah! she has got money, has Madame Victorine.”
[Illustration: COMAYAGUA.]
I was glad to hear of a comfortable, decent place, as I was anxious to
remain a day or two at Comayagua, in order to refresh the whole party.
Eduardo, too, was anxious to see his friends who lived there; and as he
was to go on with me to San Pedro Sula, it was but natural that a day or
two’s halt would be especially pleasing to him. Marcos was totally
indifferent on the matter.
Our march being now entirely in the lowlands, the heat had become most
oppressive, and to travel in the middle of the day was a risk to health
and strength. The mules, too, were showing signs of fatigue, and grass
and water were beginning to fail, and had become very inferior in
quality. It was therefore imperative to get quickly into Comayagua.
It was a joyous sight, when, between rich ilex trees, we saw the walls
and fluted tile roofs of the ancient capital of Spanish Honduras. The
city is picturesquely built, but its silent, grass-grown streets, its
air of poverty, and the absence of busy stirring life, all announce that
its glory has departed. There is consequently much jealousy of
Tegucigalpa, the present capital, wherein the President, Dr Soto, now
dwells.
It was about noon when we wound in from some pretty country by a
circular path, and arrived baked and weary at Madame Victorine’s
_posada_. The great heavy gates were closed, and a bell, ponderous
enough for a cathedral, clanged the intelligence that strangers were
waiting without. A _mozo_ came out, looked at us, speedily shut the
gate, and vanished.
In a few moments a plump, nice-looking woman came through the gates, her
head covered with a pocket-handkerchief. “Entrez, descendez, Madame;
descendez vite, je vous prie. Le dîner nous attend. Ah, ma foi, le
soleil vous a mal traité! Mais entrez.” So saying, she nearly pulled me
off my mule, and took me through the court-yard into the house.
A younger woman was seated at a table upon which the noonday dinner was
spread. She gave me kindly welcome, and told me not to talk, but to sit
down and eat. “I have looked at you through the little window in the
court-yard,” she added, with the utmost frankness; “you are going to
stay, so eat now, and take a _siesta_ afterwards.”
There were stewed pigeons, I remember, and some macaroni before me, but
I could not eat; I only felt a longing to lie down on the floor. The
elder woman was equal to the occasion. She went to a cupboard and
brought out a bottle of cognac. “That is what you want,” said she in the
French language; “drink of it—it is quite pure; you have been too long
in the sun.” So speaking, she thrust a tall, narrow glass of
brandy-and-water into my hand, and stood over me like an amateur
policeman till I had swallowed its contents.
“Now, eat of the pigeon; don’t refuse; you will be drunk, and that would
be shocking, you know,” continued she, with a humorous twinkle of the
eye; “shock-ing, eh, my friend?”
I laughed, for the remedy had already “fetched up” my spirits; and I
found shortly that both pigeon and rice-pudding were, after my late
experiences, very luxurious fare.
Some hours after we were again seated together, and then Madame
Victorine informed me that she and her sister were going away to France
in ten days, and that the establishment was in some confusion, because
they were packing up, and preparing to make over the concern to a
manager, who was to act for her for a year.
“So you are welcome to stay for a day or two; but I cannot treat you
well. We are killing the old poultry and pigeons now,” continued Madame,
“and there are not many provisions of any kind in the house.”
I hastened to assure her that one day would do; but she insisted upon my
remaining two days. “Eduardo is with his friends, and Marcos is at a
muleteer’s _posada_. The mules are in my stable; they cannot be turned
out here. Now, come into the verandah, and we will take our coffee
there,” said she.
“I think,” said the sister, whose name was Mathilde, “you are the lady
who is going to San Pedro Sula; indeed our _mozo_ learned this from your
guides. Do you know the doctor?”
“Not personally, only in the way of business,” I replied. I thought I
saw a look of intelligence pass between the sisters, but it was so
slight that I was perhaps mistaken. Then the elder said: “You promised
the men some beer, did you not, after crossing the Juan? The muleteer
has been twice here asking for it, but I would not have you disturbed,
and he will come this evening.”
“Trust Marcos for forgetting to claim anything that will save his own
pocket,” I thought; and then added aloud, “Can you supply me with some,
and allow me to settle with you?”
“My stores are quite exhausted, but when the man returns I will give him
some of my best wine. I am the only importer of good beer in Comayagua,
but your guides will be only too glad to get wine. I will see the man,
and you can pay me for the wine. Do not let the muleteer purchase it; he
will make you pay a fine price.”
A bath and a clean bed quite restored me, and I was able to go out and
look about. The fine old church is in bad preservation, and the bells,
which are said to be made of silver, give forth anything but a musical
sound. The edifice was, however, clean, and it contained some curious
relics. On my return I found Eduardo waiting to see me.
“I thought,” said Madame, “that you would like to pay your respects to
the Bishop. The palace is close by; send the _mozo_ with your
compliments, and inquire at what time his lordship will receive you.”
Eduardo was despatched, and returned with a message to the effect that
the Bishop would gladly receive me at four in the afternoon. At that
hour Eduardo attended me to the palace, which was enclosed within a high
wall, and entered by a plain handsome gate. This opened on a court which
was surrounded by a garden. The centre part of the garden was laid out
in parterres, intersected by low cane fences. These were interwoven and
nearly hidden by large masses of convolvuli in luxuriant flower,—blue,
striped, white, pink, and the loveliest of all, the pure white bell,
with a touch of mauve colour in the depths of its corolla. These spread
themselves in all directions, and a little clipping here and training
there would have been an improvement. A splendid specimen of the
date-palm—a tree which seems to be honoured above its fellows in all
parts—grew at each corner of the plot, and afforded plentiful shade. The
court was open to the sky, and a widely paved portico ran round it: on
this opened the doors of the several rooms occupied by the
establishment. The roofing of these was composed of the usual red tiles,
fluted in wavy form,—the common covering of Hondureian houses. The
building was of one storey, the better to be able to withstand a shock
of earthquake.
A youth, in resemblance something between an acolyte and a gentleman
usher, admitted us. This official wore black knee-breeches, and black
silk stockings, which were partially hidden by a black silk gown—his
robe of office probably. He was bareheaded, and his hair, which was
raven black, seemed to grow from the top of the scalp only, and hung
straight downwards like a large tassel. He reminded me of a Christ’s
Hospital boy who had been dyed. This young gentleman’s face lacked
refinement somewhat, but his manner was very courteous without being in
the least servile.
“You are more than welcome,” he said; “El Señor Obispo [the Lord Bishop]
is always so glad to receive strangers, and a lady from England is a
rare visitor indeed. You are the first of that nation that I have seen,
for I have never been out of Comayagua.”
He passed before us, and ushered me into a room which seemed to serve as
a place of waiting for visitors to the palace, and others who could not
be left standing in the outer court. The furniture of this apartment was
very simple; but some beautifully woven matting covered the floor. The
book-shelves contained works of devotion principally, and on a side
table stood a stereoscope, a French newspaper, and some photographs. I
think the only picture here was a very fine engraving of the Cathedral
of Leon in Old Spain. A rocking-chair stood out comfortably near the
door; and a bunch of lovely oleander-blossoms was lying upon it, just
giving a touch of colour to the cool tones of the surroundings.
A few minutes elapsed, and the attendant reappeared to take me into the
Bishop’s presence. Eduardo came forward and made as if he would like to
accompany me; but he was waived back, and told to wait till the Señora
should summon him.
We crossed to the opposite side of the court, and I was shown into a
large cool apartment, which was very sparsely and poorly furnished. A
few pictures covered with glass were its only decorations. Shortly
afterwards a tall spare man entered the room, vested in the dress of a
dignitary of the Roman Catholic Church. This was the Bishop of
Comayagua—a man of gentle manner and peace-loving disposition, but now
bowed down with years, and a sufferer, like many other unoffending
persons, from the ruin which successive revolutions had wrought upon the
country.
The first salutations ended, the Bishop congratulated me on being an
inmate of Madame Victorine’s establishment, and then inquired if I was
going far?
I replied, “I am on my way, my lord, to San Pedro Sula,”—then seeing
that this information only caused a look of surprise, I continued: “I
wrote to your lordship announcing my intention of going to San Pedro
Sula, on the Doctor’s invitation, to superintend his school there.”
“I never received that letter. He has never either personally or
otherwise mentioned the subject to me.”
“Perhaps your lordship will kindly inform me whether the doctor had
obtained your sanction to open a school for the colonists; and also,
whether he was authorised by either yourself or the Government to select
the teacher.”
“Señora, I never heard of the proposition.”
“But surely you are aware, my lord, that in the pamphlet published, and,
as I believe, sanctioned by the Government, your signature appears to a
document which tells the world that you heartily approve of all that
this person is doing for the education of the colonists, and you further
pledge yourself to support him as much as you can.”
“That is true in a general sense; and eighteen months ago, every one of
the undertakings with regard to the immigrants seemed in a prosperous
state. But things have changed, lamentably changed.”
“Why, my lord, what is the reason of this change? I have the letter,
written to me at Sydney, a very short time ago, which gives a very
prosperous account of the settlement.”
The Bishop moved uneasily, and said something about some persons being
possessed of a sanguine temperament.
“It is true, is it not, that the Government of Honduras gave a grant of
land some time ago for the express purpose of building a schoolroom?
Moreover, the Doctor is written of as being a personal friend of Dr
Soto, the present President,” I affirmed decisively.
“You are right. Dr Soto was very ready, when the colony was first
settled, to afford the promoter every encouragement. He looked upon his
efforts in introducing labour as a very great step for the improvement
of the whole country; but I believe there is a diminution in their
personal friendship. This,” continued his lordship, “is what I hear; I
do not state this last on my own authority.”
“Has the Doctor influence to secure me a plantation; or does the
assignment rest entirely with the Government?” I asked.
“The assignment of land is entirely in the hands of the Government, and
the concessions made are generally very liberal. There is plenty of land
to be had, but care should be taken in selecting it,” replied the
Bishop.
“I should so like to have a place of my own,” I replied. “I am fond of
teaching; but it is not pleasant to live in other people’s houses,
generally speaking. To make a home of my own was the chief reason that
induced me to come to Honduras.”
“You can, I assure you, be very useful,” said the Bishop, with more
warmth of manner; “the mothers in the country are very anxious to have
their children educated. You might easily find private pupils, should
you prefer this.”
“At present, my lord, I consider myself under engagement to the person
who wrote to me; I am only sorry that I set out without hearing from
you.”
“Will you have any objection to tell me what position he offered you,
and also what salary?”
“In answer to my letter saying that I must secure pupils, or even
boarders, if I took up land in Honduras, in order to pay the first
expenses, he wrote that he would immediately make me teacher of the
colonists’ school at a moderate salary—the amount was not given; and
further, that I could increase my means by playing the organ in his
church.”
At this the Bishop stared, but said nothing. He might well be
dumbfounded; for I found, on arriving at San Pedro Sula, that neither
organ nor any other instrument of music had been seen in the church
since it was built long years ago.
The Bishop might have given the Doctor the credit of having lately
introduced that “modern innovation,” the harmonium, into the church.
This, of course, I have no means of knowing, as the old gentleman
persevered in the utmost reticence, and he did not give utterance to any
speculative opinions. He looked down, and then suddenly raised his head
with the inquiry, “Have you sent any money on to the Doctor?”
“No, my lord; I am expending money enough in travelling so far.”
“True.” And as if anxious to change the subject, the Bishop spoke of her
Majesty the Queen of England. “We, as Catholics,” said the gentle old
man, “were so touched to hear of the sympathy shown by Queen Victoria to
the ex-Empress of the French on the death of her son. Ah, ah!” continued
he, “the old stay, and the young are taken away. Your royal family loved
the poor young lad, and they did the kindest thing of all—they attended
him to his grave! _Ay di mi!_ But your Queen makes no difference between
Catholic and Protestant in her friends; she treated the Imperial Prince
with noble kindness. I have prayed for her: she has a large heart.”
After some observations about the Ritualist party in England, in which
he seemed to take an intelligent interest, the Bishop rose. He passed
with me to the threshold, pointing out one or two pictures as he did so.
These were very old, and represented portraits of remarkable ugliness.
Then the old man gave me his blessing, and I was again standing in the
outer court.
CHAPTER X.
“Well, Señora, how do you like our Bishop?” was Eduardo’s eager inquiry,
as the portal of the palace was closed against us. “Is he not good and
gentle?”
“I like the Bishop very much, Eduardo; but I think he appears to be
rather old for his important position.”
“He wants money, like all in Honduras. The revolutions and the Honduras
railway have taken all the money. I am glad, Señora, however, that the
failure of the railway was caused by British mismanagement, and not by
ours. My father lost much by it, and they say that the Bishop held a
great many shares in that railway.”
The Honduras railway had been so often flung in my face whenever the
subject of honesty had happened to come under discussion, that I always
changed the conversation as soon as possible. This time I said, “Have
you seen Marcos?”
“Yes, Señora; and he tells me that he has heard in Comayagua that you
are a relative of the Doctor at San Pedro Sula. Is that true, Señora?”
“Certainly not: I never saw the man in my life. Tell Marcos this. I
suppose he is living with the gossips of the town, who invent news for
want of something to talk about.”
We found Madame anxiously awaiting our return; and as I entered she
darted forwards and exclaimed, “Ah! the Bishop has told you all about
the Doctor; ah! indeed he must have said a great deal about him. Do tell
me, Señora,—I am interested for you, although I have not spoken. I
suppose his lordship told you much, eh?”
“On the contrary, his lordship said very little. That which renders me
now very uncomfortable, is what the Bishop did _not_ say,” I replied
sadly.
“Ah!” replied Madame, speaking as fast as possible, in the French
tongue, “he must have the prudence, the caution; you know so little, and
perhaps he thought that I was wise, and had not informed you much. Did
his lordship ask you of me?”
“I told him that I was in your house; he said you were a kind-hearted
woman.”
“Ah! no more: well he did not tell you, and it is possible that it would
be of much difficulty to state the things in a foreign tongue. His
lordship not altogether comprehend you; and, on the other side, you not
quite understand him. Is it not?”
This was more than likely, and would account very strongly for the
Bishop’s reticence; so I replied, “I am afraid the Bishop did not quite
make out my Spanish here and there.”
“Very possibly, yet you do well—fairly well. Confide to me; the Bishop,
did he not tell you one thing about the Doctor?”
“Only that the colony was not nearly so prosperous as it was at first,
and that things are changed. His lordship either could not or would not
say wherefore. One thing,” I continued, “the Bishop did assert, and that
was that your President, Dr Soto, is by no means satisfied with the
Doctor, and seemed to infer that he (Dr Soto) is not friendly with him.”
“Ah! how could he be? But I won’t say more. I don’t want to gossip about
the man in my house; and perhaps after all, Señora—after all, he may not
be so bad. I don’t know him,” she answered.
“I wish you would tell me honestly what you have heard about him, or
what is your reason for saying he may not be so very bad.”
“Well, it is for yourself to judge how to act. He is no longer a priest
of the diocese of Honduras. That is what the rumour is. Myself, I do not
know; but if this is true, the Bishop would have said. Eh?”
“His lordship certainly ought to have done so,” I replied, greatly
startled at this news; “but why is he no longer a priest of the
diocese?”
“Ah! that I cannot say. The Bishop was obliged to suspend him, because
the petition from the people of San Pedro Sula was so strong that his
lordship could not act otherwise. You see?”
“No, I don’t see. If he be suspended, he would hardly be living at San
Pedro now.”
“Oh! that is the difficulty. The church is locked up; there is no one
officiating. I tell you what; you turn your mule’s head and go back,
that is my advice.”
“I cannot; I have not money enough,” I answered. “My expenses are all
paid or provided for to San Pedro. The men’s agreements are signed for
that. If things do not suit, I will get private pupils, and return to
England as soon as I can.”
“That will cost money,” said Madame.
“Yes; I shall have to wait till I can get funds sent from England to
bring me away. But I will not think that things are so bad: the Doctor’s
suspension may be only temporary. If otherwise, he would never have
written and engaged me to come to Honduras.”
“I think he must have got into trouble after he had written to you to
come. That is very likely. You have not put any money into his hands,
have you?”
“Not any; I expect him to put money into mine,” I answered with a laugh.
“Oh! I am glad he has not any of your money,” said the kind-hearted
Frenchwoman.
Thus, between Madame’s knowing and not knowing, added to the reticence
of the Bishop, I had learned enough to make me very uncomfortable. I
resolved, however, to act in a straightforward manner, and so I said to
Madame, “There is a telegraph line between Comayagua and San Pedro Sula,
is there not?”
“Certainly—not very good; it breaks often, but it does work. Do you want
to send a telegram?”
“Yes; I shall telegraph to the Doctor to announce that I am setting off
for San Pedro, and to request him either to meet me there, or send some
one to represent him.”
“Good—very good; write the telegram in Spanish. Stay—I will do so for
you; I have more experience: and let me add that you request an answer.”
“There will be scarcely time, I think; but, at any rate, he will have to
prepare to receive me. There is nothing for it now but to make the best
of the situation, and try and shake off evil impressions.”
With this resolution I buried myself in the depths of a wide clean
hammock, and rocked away “dull care” till the call for supper came.
The lively chat at Madame’s table served for a while at least to dispel
a tendency to a despondent state of mind, and after supper I was too
busy in making preparations for the onward march to dwell upon what I
had heard; and so night drew on, and in the early morning afterwards I
was fresh, and willing to continue the journey to San Pedro Sula.
“One word more I have to say to you,” said Madame, as she stood with her
sister in the court-yard looking at the preparations for departure. “You
may remain at San Pedro, or you may find it wiser to leave it. Now Mr De
Brot, the consul at Puerto Cortez, is an honourable, kind man, and he
does banking business. You write to him; he will know how to get your
money from England; but, dear lady, do not allow any one but him to have
anything to do with business of any kind for you, whether you go or
stay. I mean money business,” she continued, with a knowing waggle of
her head.
“Now I must transact my own little business with you,” I said. “Let me
know what I am indebted to you for my board and lodging.”
“Ah! bah! nonsense!” returned Madame. “You pay! No, indeed, you won’t; I
am too glad to see a lady. You can settle for the mules in the stable;
but for entertainment in my house,—no,—never—never. See, too, we are
going away; you have taken only the remnants of food—old pigeons, end of
this, scrap of that; no,—such is not my usual table for strangers.”
So I settled a very modest score for the stabling of the mules, and then
Madame informed me that she and her sister would be a night in San Pedro
Sula very shortly, on their way to Puerto Cortez, from whence they were
to sail to New York. “We shall meet again,” said Madame Victorine, “so I
shall only say _au revoir_.”
We issued out at the great portal of the shady court into a blazing sun,
but we were all refreshed and comforted by our rest; and Luisa was so
frisky that it was difficult to hold her in. I gave my grateful thanks
to both of the ladies for their hospitality; and the last words I heard
from the Posada Victorine were the stringent tones of Madame repeating
her injunctions as to caution.
The _macho_ was so wild that he and Eduardo were sent on first, and
enjoined to keep out of Luisa’s sight, as that animal seemed very much
inclined to “bolt”; for she persistently imitated her mate in all his
ways, good or evil, and he evidently had come into the world as a racing
character. Marcos placed the staid baggage-mule in front of Luisa, and
at a quick trot we passed on our way.
Madame Victorine had put down on paper the names of the places wherein
it would be best to stop. We had left the grand scenery here, but still
we passed through some fine country very badly cultivated. At this point
my journal runs: “Halted for a few moments, fifteen miles from
Comayagua, at the house of Don Somebody Navarro,—a sickly man, who
hospitably gave me some milk and bread. This Señor is reputed rich, but
his surroundings are most miserable. He spoke English, having lived in
Cuba. The men got provisions in the village, so our store is ample.
“Crossed rather a dangerous but narrow river in the afternoon. I managed
the mule pretty fairly and without help: in consequence, Marcos
condescended to inform me that I was much improved in my riding. The
fact is that Luisa is getting to know me, and the kindly beast does her
best to travel gently. Arrived at a place called ‘Quevos.’ Here we spent
the night; and the house which we had selected was quiet and
respectable. It was kept by a poor widow, and it was the cleanest house
I had seen. In the evening the woman asked me if I would object to
joining in the evening prayer?
“‘Object!’ I replied; ‘I am only too glad to join with Christians in His
praise and His worship.’
“She told me that the revolution had swept away the church of the
village. The late cura of the parish was dead, and there was no money to
pay another, as the present Government refused all aid. ‘So,’ said she,
‘a few of us join in the morning and evening prayer. We will not live
like heathens.’ The room was carefully swept out, and shortly afterwards
about a dozen persons of both sexes entered the room, and dropped on
their knees. A curtain was drawn aside, and displayed a small altar on
which stood a cross, and before it a little vase filled with lovely
flowers. A few prayers were said, and a hymn was sung, and then all
silently departed. It was a simple heartfelt service; truly that of the
two or three gathered together in Christ’s name.”
This from my journal, July 25:—
“A long ride was before us on the following morning, as we were anxious
to cross the river Blanco by daylight; and I was told that the stream,
though very narrow at the crossing-point, was dangerous on account of a
peculiarly rapid under-current, which it required some dexterity to
fight against. It was a comfort to hear, however, that a canoe was
always on the side of this stream. It was arranged that we should sleep
at Santa Yzabel after crossing the Rio Blanco (White River). The Rio
Blanco here is little more than a narrow and deep strait reputed to be
very dangerous. An Indian sits all day in a canoe, to be ready to convey
passengers and their baggage to the opposite side.
“The mules and cattle are sent into the stream, and they swim to shore:
the bath is very refreshing to them, as they get but scanty attention,
generally speaking, in the matter of cleansing. However, it is looked
upon as a great nuisance to have to take all the baggage from off the
sumpter-mule and the saddles from the others, only to replace all,
twenty minutes later, on the opposite side.
“The crossing-place at this point is very picturesque, the bank rising
to a mound on one side of the path, whereon the interlaced branches of
two magnificent tamarind-trees threw their arms far over the water. The
lovely crimson creeper, _Prendas de Amor_ (Links of Love), carpeted the
ground in great profusion. This creeper has no perfume; but it is an
error to suppose that all the wild flowers in these countries are
scentless. At this spot, too, the grass was unusually soft and green;
and at the root of the trees grew a cream-coloured flower, bearing a
violet eye, the name of which it was impossible to discover.
“Save the quinine tree, I had never been able to ascertain the name of
any shrub or flower, from either Eduardo or Marcos. The former sometimes
characterised a bird, and he was always on the alert to gather any
edible fruit that might show itself from out of the hedge or
thick-growing foliage.
“Now, crossing the river Blanco is to be undertaken, and remembering my
experience of the Juan, I look upon the canoe and the Indian with the
utmost satisfaction. Two Spanish herdsmen with a flock of superb cattle,
a peasant with his wife and mule, and lastly, a long string of
charcoal-laden mules, attended by their drivers, had convened here from
other directions, and waited to cross the stream. One boatman and one
canoe for the work! It was lucky that the great proportion of this
assemblage could be independent of the Indian’s aid.
“The _personnel_ and baggage would cause fetching and carrying enough,
and, of course, with so much business on hand, there must be a
_convenio_ on the matter. So the men got out their _cigarillos_, and we
two women, after being dismounted, bowed to each other and exchanged
some words, and then looked about for a seat under the tamarind-trees. I
had already selected my spot, but Eduardo intervened. ‘Not so near the
roots, Señora; there may be snake-holes about them. Come farther down
here; there is plenty of shade, and the grass is short: there is nothing
here wherein a serpent can hide.’”
The trail of the serpent is over it all, then? But I remembered that
these reptiles are in general very fearful of the human proximity, and
the most audacious _culebra_ would hardly dare to come among so many.
There was plenty of shade under the tree, as Eduardo said, far away from
the roots; and the longing for rest was strong upon me. No wonder that
so it was in such a place, so cool and secluded,—a spot, too, wherein,
for a short time at least, we were safe from the bite of insects, and
where myriads of butterflies of every shape and form and size served to
brighten the scene with gorgeous colour, and add their quota of
cheerfulness to the hard work of life, round which they whirled and
fluttered. We deserved our rest, for all of us had ridden many leagues.
However, before I seat myself under the friendly tree, I must see that
Eduardo unsaddled Luisa properly. This supervision was necessary, as the
young fellow had a habit of letting the saddle slip to the ground,
pommel downwards. What would become of me should this most useful of
projections become damaged or broken off at this stage of the journey? I
was feeling weaker, so every risk which would incur discomfort was to be
avoided.
The saddle was carried into the shade of a shrub, and then I took my
seat and signed to the country-woman to come and sit near me. A little
brandy-and-water in the travelling flask and a few _tortillas_ were all
the fare I had to offer. This I proposed to share with the stranger, to
which she readily assented; and on her own behalf she produced some
_queso_, and some dried-looking green fruit which was far from inviting.
A few slices of roasted plantain rolled up in leaves gave a better turn
to affairs, and the final appearance of a bottle of milk was really to
this feast _crême de la crême_.
The men meanwhile unloaded the mules, chattering and gesticulating as
they did so. The delight of the animals as their packs disappeared was
curious to witness, and our usually staid baggage-mule gave expression
to her satisfaction by kicking her neighbours right and left, and
lashing at everything she could lay heels on.
The first excitement of freedom being over, she rolled on the soft sweet
grass, and then walked in among the charcoal mules and began
deliberately to bite and kick at them. A shout from Marcos and a
tremendous whack from his stick acted as a deterrent; and with the
objurgatory, “Ah, mula redonda!” (O fool of a mule!) our friend was
“chivied” up a bank, and made to wait there until her turn for the swim
should come. This was well for the human as well as for the animal kind,
for a stray blow might have fallen upon some of us; and it is well known
that a kick from a mule is far more severe, in degree, than a kick from
a horse.
My companion expressed the opinion that the refractory beast had been
bitten by the mulefly, for it was still running about, and rubbing and
kicking against the bushes. The agony from the bite of this fly is very
great, and in passing through swamps the insect is sure to be lying in
wait. It is large in size, and bears some resemblance to the
bluebottle-fly; generally it makes its attack near the eye. “I know a
little about the matter,” continued my informant, “and I assure you a
fly will hang about one particular mule for many leagues after its
‘habitat’ has been passed. A good muleteer always looks out for this
pest, and is careful to take it off the animal, for not only does it
sting deep, but it also draws a good deal of blood.”
We talked and rested for nearly an hour. The Indian who owned the canoe
had been invited to land and to partake of the men’s rations, and the
poor fellow seemed to enjoy most thoroughly the kindness and good
companionship which he had fallen in with. The country-woman told me
that her husband bred mules on a ranche in the interior, and that they
were on the way to Santa Cruz to receive the money for a sale of animals
which he had made to the engineer of the railway works near that town.
“They would not stop at Santa Yzabel, as we intended to do,” she said,
because they had friends in the interior some miles farther on, and they
could reach the place before nightfall.
The crossing was effected, but it took a long time, owing to the
troublesome current. This was so rapid, that even our audacious friend,
the _macho_, refused point-blank to enter the water, and had finally to
be lugged forward by the head, and pushed vigorously from behind, to get
him afloat. When fairly in the water, he refused to come out, and amused
himself by swimming round the canoe, to the utmost peril of that frail
transport. The Indian, agile as a monkey, at a sudden turn leapt on his
back; and so, with the help of another man, this wretch was hauled,
braying and stamping, to the opposite shore. The observations of Marcos
on this occasion are not fit to be recorded to ears polite; but
nevertheless, he never laid a finger on the beast.
Was not the _macho_ a valuable animal, and was not Marcos expecting to
sell him well on the return journey?
All being at length happily managed, we friends of an hour took farewell
of each other, and sped on our several ways. A few miles’ distance
brought my party to Santa Yzabel, which, instead of being a village, as
we had expected, was merely a half farm, half hut, lonely dwelling. It
was particularly rich in grass, and this delighted Marcos for his mules’
sake. I, on my own part, revelled in the pure milk, in strolling among
the cows, and inhaling the air, which here was quite redolent of wild
thyme.
The woman of the house was very obliging, but she possessed little
wherewith to replenish our commissariat. A tough fowl, and a few
_tortillas_ which she baked expressly for us, were all that she could
procure. The night was wretched, and this had the salutary effect of
causing us to strike our tents very early on the following morning. A
bowl of milk was my own breakfast, and it was a chance if I could get
anything more for many hours.
My journal of July 27, may be admissible here:—
“We rode several miles, and passed some glorious cedar-trees. Here, for
the first time, I saw that lovely bird the _Cardinalis rubra_, which is
remarkable for being so nervous concerning its own safety as never to
build unless it feels itself to be perfectly safe. It will sometimes
choose five or six different places before it finishes its nest. The
highest and darkest cedar-tree is its usual habitat, and its song is
very peculiar, something between a warble and a whistle. It derives its
name from the splendour of the crest, which is of a brilliant scarlet
colour, intermixed here and there with a few tips of peacock-green hue.
The female has no crest, but she is an elegantly shaped bird.
“It was the peculiar note of this songster that first drew Eduardo’s
attention to our beautiful neighbour. As the ground was soft, and we had
been treading upon a thick layer of fragrant cedar-needles, it was
possible that there had not been noise enough to startle the bird. His
magnificent crest glanced through the background of dark cedar foliage
with great effect. We stopped simultaneously; and Eduardo, stepping up
to me, said—‘Señora, will you lend me the revolver? I can bring him
down.’
“‘No, Eduardo, it would be cruelty; besides, the bird would be torn to
pieces; don’t think of shooting it.’
“‘But, Señora, I would like the feathers.’
“‘Very well, Eduardo, I can only say, if you shoot that bird, I will not
give you the revolver, as I had intended to do, when we arrive at San
Pedro Sula.’”
This settled the matter, and Eduardo returned the little case to the
canvas bag from which he had half withdrawn it.
We had never, as yet, had occasion to use this implement as a weapon of
defence, but I had from time to time allowed the lad to discharge it;
for, by the generosity of the officer of the Clyde, suitable ammunition
had been also supplied with the little case. Eduardo had taught me the
use of the weapon, and I had more than once discharged it for practice;
but I never was quite happy when handling it, and I rather looked
forward to the time when I could safely get rid of it.
Marcos was beginning to be impatient at the delay, and suddenly raised a
shout. This had the effect of scaring the birds, one or two of which
flew with a shrill cry to some more distant trees. We saw them more
perfectly by this means, and thus satisfied, I cared little for being
peremptorily hurried on by the muleteer.
My journal goes on to say that we arrived next at a place called
Maniobar. Very pretty, but the inhabitants were holding some races, and
this being the case, we could procure neither food nor shelter. These
were the most churlish beings we had encountered. Nothing for it but to
ride to Coalcar.
In another way Maniobar was remarkable: it was here that we saw a large
poisonous snake. The reptile literally crawled between the feet of the
baggage-mule; and Luisa, with the instinctive horror which all mules
have of snakes, nearly jumped her own height from off the ground. The
men drew out their _machetes_ quickly; but the reptile was too quick for
them, and raising its crest with a hiss, it glided beneath some bushes.
This was rather a narrow escape.
The night was particularly wretched; and the place at which we halted
was so uninviting, that I proposed, as the moon was full, to travel at
night.
The _mozos_ evidently feared, as they always had feared, to travel after
dusk, so this was negatived. The result was—“I had my hammock slung
outside, and made the best of it. Swarms of mosquitoes, and very little
to eat and drink.”
[Illustration: MANIOBAR.]
The next entry records a far more pleasant experience. “After a weary
ride, we arrived at Santa Cruz. This town is built with some regularity,
and is far in advance of many that we have passed. We went first to the
principal inn, but finding that the proprietor owned a farmhouse in the
neighbourhood which was on our route, we decided to go there. As Marcos
wanted to linger in the town, he readily agreed to go to the farm with
me and the mules, if I would grant him and Eduardo leave of absence till
nine o’clock in the evening. I agreed to this; and by three o’clock in
the afternoon I was left in the hands of a cheery Spanish woman, who was
wife of the landlord of the inn at Santa Cruz.”
It was a great treat to meet with one of so much refinement as this lady
proved to be; and when I had bathed and dined comfortably, I quite
enjoyed the walk with her in the cool of the evening. She was the very
description of woman which Honduras wanted, and as we sat in the
verandah taking coffee, I could not help telling her so.
“We have had many misfortunes of late years, Señora,” she said, “and
many bad examples from those who assume to teach us progress in
commercial transactions. Just look now at that Honduras railway! It
might have made the country! Ah, Señora! we have to thank the British
people for ruining our trade and commerce for many years to come. Ruin
and loss make women hopeless, Señora, and that has been the case in
Spanish Honduras. However, we are hoping now for brighter days. America
is bringing in both labour and money. Yes, I think better times are
coming. God grant it!”
CHAPTER XI.
When the hour came round for starting on the following morning, I, for
the first time during this journey, evinced the greatest reluctance to
depart; for never had I been so comfortably lodged, or enjoyed so much
privacy.
I could not help saying this much to the _padrona_, when she brought me
a capital breakfast, nicely laid out on a tray covered with fair linen.
“Put off the start for an hour,” said she; “your men are languid this
morning, for they made the most of their holiday yesterday, and are
disposed to rest. I will take you round the farm; the morning is cool as
yet.”
We went to the dairy farm, where there were a large number of beautiful
cows with their calves, which gave plenty of occupation to four or five
lads and girls, who, though poorly clad, looked healthy and bright. Two
young women were busy in the laundry, from whence the clean smell of
wood-ashes boiling in a caldron to make the lye announced that linen
washed in that establishment would get fair play, and not be bedevilled
with chemical soaps and other abominations, the only use of which is to
save the necessary hand and arm work of the washerwoman (so called), and
destroy the material.
Skirting a small bakehouse, we passed through a gate into the garden.
This was only in course of formation, and was evidently the pride of the
_padrona_. It was delightful to find sweetpeas and mignonette growing in
a nicely laid out border; indeed, in this delicious air and at this
elevation, many English flowers would flourish luxuriantly. My hostess
possessed a large collection of garden seeds, and she was trying
experiments with all in their turn.
Among the deciduous plants, I was shown a pretty flowering shrub called
the “Spinarosa.” I perceive, by the way, that a perfumery-house in
London is advertising a new scent which bears this name. May all success
attend it! for nothing can be more delicate than the fragrance of the
Spinarosa flower; and, like pure water, its specific virtue is
imperceptible, though perfection is the virtue which characterises it as
a whole. The _padrona_ had imported two of these shrubs from Guatemala,
but I believe the plant is to be found in the Honduras also.
Time will not halt even in Vera Cruz, and soon Marcos hunted me to the
garden, with the intimation that I must mount speedily. On returning to
the house to complete preparations, I found amongst my effects some
cotton print, which I presented to my kind hostess, as it was enough to
make a dress for her little girl. I had bought the material, together
with some good embroidery, to make a short dressing-gown for myself—so
this, fortunately, made the gift a respectable one. As to accepting any
remuneration in the shape of money for my entertainment, the kind
creature quite repudiated the idea. “She was so happy to receive one
with whom she could converse,” she said; “and was I not a ‘Soltera’? And
why was this? And oh! the world was so hard.”
Thus speaking, the _padrona_ walked at the mule’s head, and led me down
through the broken fences which bounded the untidy land outside her
domain into a lovely dell, down which sparkled a running stream,
babbling musically, and seeming to cast up diamonds of yellow light upon
Luisa’s hoofs, as she splashed into the centre of its bed. There we
parted, with the sisterly kiss of peace, and I carried away with me a
very tender memory of Vera Cruz. _Ay di mi!_ Vera Cruz; True Cross. May
not its signification in part be realised in all the realms of earth,
where parting, even with a stranger, gives the heart a pang?
The path became very stony in a couple of hours after leaving the dell,
and we pronounced it to be only inferior in disagreeables to a valley of
flint, some miles in length, which we traversed after we had long left
Comayagua behind us.
Here Luisa was startled by a heifer which plunged out of a hedge on
hearing our approach, and so took me into the depths of a thicket,
wherein I lost my veil and the brim of one side of my hat. This loss may
appear too insignificant to record; but the effect of this slight
accident was, that at night, the skin of the one side of my throat and
face was peeled away in strips, and it was some days before the pain
quite left me. Such is the strength of the fierce heat of the noonday
sun in Honduras.
The penalty of our late start was paid not only by having to suffer
great heat, but also by the necessity of rapid travelling. We had
literally wandered up hill and down stream. As the evening waned we
found ourselves entering upon a large tract of plain, upon which nothing
seemed to grow but tall grass of a pale-green colour, and a few
distorted shrubs.
What was that in the distance? It appeared like the monument of a woman
placed on a high pedestal, and nearer was another which bore the form of
a lion couchant. Now we passed a group of enormous boulder-like stones,
some of which presented an uncouth and grotesque resemblance to lions
and to dogs. Far away on the plain, detached and scattered, rose up
those enormous figures; some without any definable shape, others, again,
gigantic and weird-like in the deepening shadow of the evening. I
remembered that we had to cross over a bend of the river Palenque, and
the thought darted through my mind that these stones might in some way
belong to the curious ruins found by Messrs Stephens and Catherwood in
their researches through Central America, and at Palenque especially.
But so far as I have seen, these stones bear no sculpture, nor do they
convey the idea that they have ever belonged to temple or palace, or
that they have been connected in one building of any kind.
Presently I halted with the intention to examine a small stone, close to
which I passed; but Marcos prevented this, with the strongest
determination expressed in the grip of his lean brown hand. “Es un mal
lugar” (it is a bad place), said he; “un lugar de los muertos” (a place
of the dead). I attempted no more, for the increasing darkness and the
silence of my attendants communicated a chill to my own spirits. The
only clear idea in my mind was, that we were not far from Omoa, and Omoa
is not many miles away from Copan—the place whereat Mr Stephens, if I
mistake not, met with the most elaborate of the sculptured idols.
My attendants, though they made no sign, were evidently scared. They
kept the animals closer together, and we proceeded at a very brisk trot.
One of the shapes reminded me so much of the story in the ‘Arabian
Nights’ of the man who was transformed partially into marble, that, in
association with the surroundings, I began to wonder if this also were
not an Arabian Night’s dream.
The rest were a little in front of me, for the path had narrowed, and we
were passing on the side of a clump of trees. Suddenly a dark mass,
preceded by a rush, fell on Luisa’s neck. She nearly jumped her own
height from the ground; and I mechanically drew the revolver from the
leather pocket which hung at my girdle and fired, throwing the weapon
down in a fright at what I had done. The _machetes_ of the two men were
in the body of the mass simultaneously, and I learned that I had fired
into the tail of what on inspection turned out to be a coyote. A coyote
here is said to be the offspring of the dog and the fox. They are
dangerous if met with in packs. This turned out to be a half-starved
creature, which might have been attracted by some dried venison-meat
which was dangling at the saddle of the _macho_ mule which Eduardo was
leading just in front. To my surprise, Luisa was not in the least
restive; the _macho_, on the contrary, made violent attempts to wrench
the rein from Eduardo and bolt.
“Now, Señora,” said Marcos, as he picked up the revolver, “you must ride
quick, very quick; this beast may have a mate. They are seldom alone,
and that might be perilous. _Vamos, despacheo_” (Let us go with speed).
We mounted accordingly, Marcos flying ahead with rapid step, and we
following at a good pace, till we had left the plain behind us. It was
nearly dark when we drew up at the gate of a maize-field, through which
Marcos passed; for he had with his hawk’s eye descried the roof of a
dwelling jutting out just beyond it.
Riding through the field, we came in front of the building, which was
low and covered by an overhanging thatch—this serving evidently as a
verandah. The whole place looked so miserable that I urged the guides to
ride on, or even to try and reach Potrerillos (our station for San Pedro
Sula), as the moon was full, and the road perfectly plain. By this time
an old man, followed by his family, came to the edge of a wide trench,
which separated the garden and hut from where we waited, and inquired
what we wanted.
Marcos told him to put back his three lean dogs, which barked furiously
the whole time, and then he would tell him.
A discussion ensued, and the upshot was that we must decide to remain
where we were, at least till daybreak.
“It is not safe to go on,” the old man said; “the _malagente_ (bad
people, or robbers) are about in these parts.” It was for that reason
that he had dug this wide trench before his garden, and put his dogs to
sleep in it at dusk.
Discretion at this juncture was certainly the better part of valour; and
the plank which belonged to this excavation being laid across it, we
entered the dominions of Señor Juan Masaveo. This individual prided
himself upon being a Spaniard of pure race, and told us that he belonged
to Catalonia. A cursory glance at the premises convinced me that I had
better lie down, as I was, in my hammock; and so this article was swung
in the cart-shed, which had been newly thatched. The youngest dog turned
out to be a most friendly little beast, and a few scraps which I gave
him made him a firm ally; whereupon, an intimacy being established, he
laid himself down under the hammock; and I think he was quite equal to
making a dash, on my account, upon any intruder who might venture into
the shed, or molest me in any way.
At the earliest glint of dawn Eduardo thrust in his face, and announced
that there was nothing to eat, and that the mules (which had certainly
been better off) could be ready in an hour.
“We cannot get any milk here, Señora,” the lad continued, “until the
_vaca_ (cow) comes down from her pasture on the hillside.”
“When is this _vaca_ likely to appear?” I asked. “Does not the woman
know?”
The reply was conveyed in that inimitable shrug of the shoulders and
flourish of the hand with which the Hondureians answer inquiries and
solve difficulties.
“What do these people live on themselves?” I persisted; for I was weak
from want of food, and I thought the cow might be as necessary for some
of them as for me.
“Oh, raw plantains, dried venison, and a kind of soup made of maize. The
men had this before going to work.”
“Then there is nothing for us to depend upon but this _vaca_” I said.
“Can she not be searched for? I would pay for it.”
“She will come when she chooses,” replied Eduardo, never making the
least attempt or suggestion that he might go and seek the animal
himself. “I have brought you some water, Señora,” he continued; “they
have a nice well here.”
The water was a blessing, and after using it freely, I felt better, and
able to start for Potrerillos. The idea of getting away was a tonic in
itself.
The men had fallen back upon a few strips of dried venison, but the
mules had been fully fed and watered; and I was pleased to find that, by
dint of good travelling, we might reach Potrerillos by ten o’clock in
the morning.
My host, old and poor as he was, accompanied me over the chasm, mounted
me, and walked a short distance at the mule’s head. I asked him if he
could tell me anything about the stones and the plain we had passed
through on the preceding night. He shook his head, and only replied that
it was a place of the dead—dead many centuries ago. That was all he
knew, he said.
At the parting, on a turn between two slopes, Eduardo handed up the
little dog, and the old man literally glowed with pleasure when I put a
_peseta_ (10d.) between his paws, and gave him a tender pat. His owner
promised to be kind to him for my sake, and then, with the benison, “El
buen Dios le guarde mûchos años!” (May God spare you many years!), the
old man doffed his cap and went his way.
Ten o’clock found us at Potrerillos, and after making inquiry, we rode
up to the house of Monsieur St Laurent, who, it appears, held the
position of head-man of the town. This position throughout Honduras is a
post very difficult to define or explain; and how the individual
occupying it arrives at this dignity, I found it equally impossible to
fathom. It depends neither on age, nor talent, nor length of residence
in the place. I drew the conclusion, at last, that some one individual
possessing a little more energy than usual, combined with some
commercial stake in the country, assumed the leadership of the
community, and the community fell in with the arrangement as a matter of
course, it being a convenience generally, and a saving of trouble to
all.
Monsieur St Laurent received us very courteously, but he imparted a
piece of information which, for the time being, was highly
unsatisfactory to me, and this was that the railway between Potrerillos
and San Pedro Sula was quite unserviceable; in fact it had become so
broken down that for some months the railway plant had been taken away,
and nothing was left but the rails and a broken-down bridge or two. “We
have now to ride to San Pedro Sula,” said M. St Laurent; “the road is
very good, and it is under fifty miles’ distance. Rest here, if you
like, to-night, and set off at four to-morrow morning; you will then
reach San Pedro easily in the afternoon.”
But Marcos here intervened. He had been engaged, he said, by contract to
take the lady to the railway station at Potrerillos. Well, there was no
railway station; further, he was to be paid in the head-house of
Potrerillos in the presence of the head-man. Well, there was the
head-man; let the lady fulfil her part of the contract and pay him, and
let him depart.
In vain did Monsieur St Laurent urge the muleteer to finish the journey,
and take me on to San Pedro. He was obdurate, and even an appeal to his
self-interest was, for a wonder, quite superfluous. He had gained as
much as he wanted, the man said, and the lady could hire fresh mules
here. It was not worth his while to cross the Palenque either; he wished
to return quickly, for he hoped to sell the _macho_ and the baggage-mule
at Vera Cruz. So pronouncing, Marcos drew his copy of our contract from
his pocket, and flourished it before Monsieur St Laurent.
For the benefit of those who have not made mule-journeys, I subjoin a
copy of this contract, which may prove useful to intending mountain
travellers. No one should travel far without being provided with a form
of this kind; as it, being stamped with the Government seal, serves as a
protection in out-of-the-way places, besides acting as a restriction, if
necessary, on the muleteer.
_Copy of Contract (Translation)._
“I, Marcos Carcamo, undertake to conduct Señora ‘Soltera’ to the railway
station at Potrerillos for San Pedro Sula, charging twelve _pesos_
(crowns) for each one of three mules, and eleven _pesos_ for myself as
muleteer and confidential man of the said lady,—the whole amounting to
forty-seven _pesos_.
“And we both and each agree that this money shall be paid to me by
Señora ‘Soltera,’ in the head-house (for the security of each of us) at
Potrerillos at the end of the journey.
“Given at Goascaron, this fourteenth day of July, one thousand eight
hundred and eighty-one.
(Signed) “MARCOS CARCAMO.
“MARIA ‘SOLTERA,’
“or MARY LONE.
(Stamped)
“Twelve _reales_.”
_Here follows the receipt._
“I have received the amount of forty-seven _pesos_, as promised above,
and I am thoroughly satisfied.
MARCOS CARCAMO.
“_Witnesses._
“EDUARDO ALBAREZ.
“ALFREDO ST LAURENT.”
Marcos signed his name in such good handwriting that M. St Laurent
inquired where he had been taught.
“The good priest who was kind to the Indians taught me,” he answered. “I
knew more some years ago; but now he is dead and gone, I don’t care to
learn from any one else; besides, I am too old.”
He then turned to me, and asked me to furnish him with a certificate
testifying to his efficiency as a guide, and also to his having served
me with fidelity.
This I did cheerfully, and then he went out with Eduardo, and dismounted
the luggage, and took off my saddle from Luisa’s back. I came out to
wish this tried friend a kind good-bye, and Marcos was so pleased that
he said he should tell of the incident in Goascaron. The English lady
had kissed his mule!
Doubtless it might be considered a gushing thing to do, but I am not
ashamed of the action, and I shall ever feel grateful to this patient
intelligent creature for the way in which she carried me—never flagging,
never sulky, and wanting no reward but a handful of bread and salt. Had
Marcos been as tender-hearted as she, I might have ridden her to San
Pedro Sula. The knowledge of this made my adieus to her owner rather
frigid.
“As you oblige me to hire other animals and another guide, Marcos,” I
said, “I cannot add any present to your pay. Good-bye to you, and take
care of Luisa.”
Madame St Laurent now joined us, and invited me to come into the private
part of her house and take some refreshment. Eduardo was handed over to
the _mozo_ of the house, and we were both so thankful for our quarters
that the question of getting to San Pedro did not for the moment trouble
us. I found Madame St Laurent very agreeable and friendly, and she was
also a woman of advanced education. Our conversation soon verged round
to the gentleman in whom I was so much interested. “Do you know that he
is expected here to-day?” she inquired.
“No,” I replied; “unless he has come to meet me, in answer to a telegram
I sent him from Comayagua.”
“I do not think that is likely; as we hear that he is on the way to
Comayagua. He stays at a house in this town when he passes through, and
if he arrives to-day, I shall know of it, and will let you know. If he
does not appear, it is possible that you may meet him on the road
to-morrow.”
“Very strange, is it not, that he should be leaving San Pedro just as I
enter it?”
Madame smiled, and looked at her husband, and then said—“There has been
a great change in the colony during the last few months: several of the
colonists have returned home; others have gone to Guatemala; very few
remain there now.’
“Are you sure of this, Madame?” I asked.
“Quite sure, for many families pass through here, and they speak more or
less freely; it seems they have been deceived in many ways. They
complained solely of one person; and the only fault they find with the
Government is, that it has allowed itself to be hoodwinked by this man,
and is so slow in redressing their wrongs.”
“What are these particular wrongs?”
“It is said that when he chartered the vessel to bring these colonists
here, he made the majority of them confide their money to him, and that
they cannot get a settlement. Then there is a notion abroad that he is
no priest, but a former Protestant minister, who came here with
questionable recommendations. However, there is no doubt about his
suspension, as another priest is appointed to his cure. I am glad of
this for your sake, for the new priest is a quiet and earnest man.”
“I was told at Comayagua that the person in question does not recognise
his sentence of suspension,” I answered.
“That is absurd,” replied Madame, “for the church is locked up, and the
_alcalde_ will only give up the key to the newly appointed priest. It is
said that his predecessor will never be reinstated. Indeed, how can it
be otherwise? It is a great pity, for no one entered upon an undertaking
with finer prospects. The Government was liberal; the Presbyterian
_alcalde_ and the Protestant Consul at Puerto Cortez both helped, and
were anxious to receive the colonists.”
“And these,” interposed Monsieur St Laurent, “were mostly of a
respectable class of Irish small farmers. They brought a little money,
and I think with a different leader they would have done well. Land has
been given whereon to build a school, but the school is not even begun.”
“What could induce him to write and engage me to come and superintend
this school?” I inquired.
Madame laughed. “I cannot say,” she said at length; “but I daresay you
will get that explained at San Pedro. Now, if you will go and rest, we
will see what we can do in getting you mules. I know of one which you
can ride, and that is the principal part of the business.”
A room like a small barn was assigned to me, and Madame had sent in a
bath, water, and towels; and Eduardo having looked to my comforts, asked
leave to go with Monsieur St Laurent’s _mozo_ to look after a mule for
himself and a baggage-mule.
“There is a very good muleteer in Potrerillos just now,” the lad said;
“he has only been back one day from a long journey; his name is Andreas,
and he is well known. I am recommended to apply to him.”
I did not meet my kind hosts till sundown, and then Madame knocked and
entered with a glass of white wine and a biscuit in her hand. “Will you
come and see my garden,” said she, “and then take supper with us at
eight o’clock?”
This invitation was most acceptable, and the garden was in every respect
a pleasant garden, and one which testified most thoroughly to the clever
and perfect manner in which the French all over the world utilise space,
and ornament unsightly places. The vine and some luxuriant creepers
shadowed the deep embrasured windows, and the palisades round the house
were painted a cool green, through which the lovely fringe-tree,
shortened and pruned, was twisted thickly enough to thoroughly shade the
plants within. A large barrel kept for watering the garden was so deeply
shrouded by clematis that it appeared to be literally embedded in a huge
white muff. Rows of magnificent balsams, mostly of red and orange
colours, were planted regularly on either side of a broad gravel-walk,
and here it was that Madame and I walked and talked until supper-time.
At that meal Eduardo waited, and I found that everything was prepared
for the start at five o’clock on the morrow. The muleteer, Andreas, was
to come with us, and the Palenque river would be crossed in a canoe: the
only trouble on the way would be the loading and unloading the animals,
and to this we had become accustomed.
Even here the demon of unpunctuality held its sway, and notwithstanding
all the efforts of Monsieur St Laurent, it was fully an hour past the
appointed time before we started for San Pedro Sula. In spite of the hot
sun, Madame came out with a mosquito-net over her head to say good-bye,
attended by the _mozo_, bearing a cup of coffee made in the perfect
manner which seems to be a heaven-born gift of the French.
A kind adieu did these good friends give me, and as Andreas was swift of
foot, we were soon well on our way.
Save that the country was better cultivated, it presented no very
remarkable beauties, but we passed some fine macaws in the trees;
indeed, some of the smaller bushes were literally covered with these
living jewels. Passing through the woods, the cooing of the doves, and
the whistle of the _Cardinalis rubra_ assimilated well with the distant
murmur of the river, which they bounded to the extent of some miles. At
length the crossing-place was reached; Andreas hailed the canoe, and the
boatman, taking me over first, seated me in a shady wood-house, in
company with a calf and two kids. Looking between the cracks of the
planks, almost sheer down into the river, I felt disappointed at its
muddy and unpicturesque appearance at this point; so inferior to the
lovely Blanco. The banks plastered with mud and sedge, with here and
there a few unhappy-looking reeds penetrating the ooze, in company with
shreds of leather and rope (remnants of former crossings), gave me the
idea of a river in ruins: Palenque in all its variations seemed to
breathe nothing but mystery and desolation.
Our halt for the day was on the outskirts of a pretty little assemblage
of houses, all built with very high conical thatched houses. We
bivouacked under some magnificent trees, and Andreas fetched from a
garden in the neighbourhood a supply of the most excellent watermelons I
have ever seen. A few pence bought six of these, and the owner of the
garden kindly sent a rock-melon in addition, for the especial
delectation of the Señora.
We thoroughly enjoyed our lunch; and as the grass and water were good,
our animals also fed in comfort, although the halt here was necessarily
a short one.
Our way was now through the real palm-forest of Honduras, lovely,
tangled, uncultivated, damp, and picturesque.
All trace of path being lost, we mazed in and out where the ground was
firmest, and free from the sprawling uncovered roots of trees, and the
festoons of parasite plants which trailed from above, bidding fair
sometimes to encircle us and lift us off our mules. Absalom here would
not have required an oak-tree.
We had just passed through a piece of marshy land, and emerged more into
the open, when we saw two mounted figures coming towards us, the one on
a handsome mule, the other on a well-bred-looking mare. The rider of the
latter was an elegant-looking man; the other short and stout, but
bearing what is called a good-natured-looking face.
Andreas exclaimed, “Here is Dr Pope, Señora—the short one; the other is
Don Jésus Gonsalez, the Justice of the Peace of San Pedro Sula.”
I immediately urged on my mule, and struck across the path in front of
the riders. Bowing to the short man, I said, “I believe I have the
honour of addressing the Rev. Dr Pope. I am Maria Soltera. Have you
received the telegram I sent you from Comayagua?”
CHAPTER XII.
The individual thus addressed hastened towards me, but it was plainly to
be seen by his countenance that this meeting was the reverse of
pleasant. Hastily rallying himself, he began to explain in a rapid tone
that he had not replied to my telegram because he had hoped to reach
Comayagua before I left it. He thought I would wait till I heard from
him, and so forth.
I replied that I assumed he had left for Europe, and reminded him that
in his last letter to me he had mentioned that this was probable, and
that in consequence his agent would be left with full power to act in
his stead.
“Oh yes, yes,” replied Dr Pope; “but my departure for Europe is delayed.
I have a great deal of law business to attend to—indeed I am going to
Comayagua at this moment on a most important lawsuit, and cannot be back
for a fortnight; in the meantime I have arranged with a lady at San
Pedro Sula to receive you till I return.”
“The delay is unfortunate,” I answered; “but as I am nearly knocked up
by much travelling and hardship, I shall be glad of a few days’
idleness. Will you be good enough to give me the address of the house
that I am to go to?”
The gentleman, turning round, addressed himself to the muleteer,
speaking in remarkably good Castilian; then, continuing his conversation
with me, he added—
“I am afraid you will find everything very rough, as I have not had time
to order a mattress for your bed; but you have in your journey been
accustomed to sleep on bare boards,” he added, in a jaunty tone, “and so
you will not mind.”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” I replied; “I have been provided with my own
hammock; and I take leave to say, that at the end of so long a journey,
decent accommodation should be provided for me.”
I spoke slowly, looking at him steadily; for by his later tone I felt
that he could be very impertinent both with and without provocation.
“Doña Engracia will do all she can to make you comfortable, I am sure,”
he said apologetically; “but you must not expect English customs here.”
To this I made no reply, but inquired how soon it would be before he
returned to San Pedro Sula?
“It depends upon business,” he replied. “I have also to attend a Synod
to which the Bishop has summoned me; but I daresay I can get excused
from being present at the meeting.”
“Very strange, the Bishop did not mention this when I saw him at
Comayagua,” I answered.
“Have you seen the Bishop? Did you tell him you were coming here,” he
asked quickly, his face lighting up with a mingled expression of
suspicion and interest.
“I paid my respects to his lordship, and I told him I was coming here.
To my surprise the Bishop hardly spoke of you, and certainly he was
quite ignorant of your having arranged to bring me here,” I replied.
“Well, this is not the place wherein we can carry on a conversation on
the matter. I regret,” continued he, “that I cannot turn back with you
now. Kindly go to the house of Doña Engracia, and I will write you an
explanatory letter from Comayagua, and send it by special messenger.
Your neighbour will be Don Pedro Sturm, a Norwegian doctor, who has
lived many years in San Pedro Sula; he will gladly be of service to
you.”
The Justice of the Peace, who had waited patiently during this
conversation, now came up and made some polite observations, and then we
took leave and went on our several ways. But still the thought ran
through my mind,—What could induce him to invite me to San Pedro Sula?
[Illustration: POSADA NEAR SAN PEDRO SULA.]
Leaving the plantations, we splashed through a broad stream, and, after
riding over the ruins of a part of the late Honduras railway, we at dusk
entered into San Pedro Sula.
The environs of this town are far from unpleasing, and several
respectable houses, erected mostly by German merchants, lent an air of
stability to the town which could not fail to impress a stranger
favourably. It was some little time before we found the house to which
we had been directed; and when we did so, it seemed to me that the name
of Doña Engracia did not command much respect. We made our way to a
mean-looking dwelling, and at our summons a most unprepossessing woman
made her appearance at the door.
“Are you Doña Engracia?” inquired Eduardo, looking aghast.
“Yes,” replied the woman, who was bare-necked and bareheaded, and had
her chin bound up with a dirty rag; “and I suppose this is the lady I am
to expect?”
“You are right,” I answered. “Have you prepared any accommodation for
me?”
“Enter, and see,” was the reply.
I dismounted, and was ushered through an outer room furnished with
shelves. Upon these were laid a few vegetables and some plantains.
Opening another door with a flourish, an inner room was revealed, which
contained two beds, one of which was furnished with bedding of some
sort, whilst the other was perfectly bare, with the exception of a large
bull’s hide, which was laid over the bars of the bedstead as an
under-covering. Not a vestige of matting, or of any other furniture, did
this apartment contain. It was miserable in the extreme.
“Is this the room assigned to me?” I asked at length, my heart really
sinking into my boots.
“Si, Señora, si, y conmigo” (Yes, lady, yes, and with me). The _conmigo_
was drawled out with a flourish.
“This will not do for me,” I answered. “I _will_ have a room to myself,
and shall go straight to the best inn; where is it?” And I turned to go
out.
The muleteer, Andreas, who had been standing on the outer step, now
spoke, and with some indignation in his tone. “This is no place for you,
Señora; you had better come to Chicaramos. I know Chicaramos; you will
be much better off there.”
Eduardo was with the animals, and in high converse with a nice
intelligent-looking lad, dressed in neat white raiment, wearing a Panama
hat and a gay _pugaree_. “I am Don Pedro Sturm’s servant—the doctor next
door. He has sent me to show you the inn,” the lad explained. “Permit me
to accompany you to the Posada Chicaramos.”
I thanked the lad gratefully, and we were soon on the march again. “What
an extraordinary name!” I said to the lad. “Is Chicaramos a village or a
suburb?”
“No, Señora,” he replied; “Chicaramos is a woman.”
“A woman!”
“Yes, Señora. Her real name is Francisca Ramos; the contraction of
Francisca is Chica, and so the name has all got run into one. She is
called Chicaramos all over the country. She is a wonderful woman.”
I was too exhausted to inquire in what might consist the wonders of
Chicaramos, but contented myself by inwardly hoping that she might turn
out to be an entirely different person from the one we had just left;
and thus hoping, we rode up to the portal of the Posada Francisca Ramos,
which was its polite designation.
The house was built in a square, the later and new addition being a
_salon_ and a billiard-room, which the owner had erected out of the
money made by boarding and lodging the engineers and others concerned in
building the Honduras railway. On this night this _salon_ showed to the
greatest advantage, as a ball was about to be held therein, and the long
room was gay with light and flowers and brightly painted cane seats. It
was for this reason that we were kept waiting a little at the
half-opened door, although voices and exclamations were heard in all
directions, and in all keys of the gamut.
Our guide proposed that we should go round to the other side, and enter
the court-yard through the great gates, where we would most probably
find some one to attend to us. This being done, a _mozo_ flew towards
us, declaring that the hotel was full on account of the ball. The Señora
could have refreshment, but not a room—all were engaged, &c., &c.
Never heeding this, we rode into the centre of the court-yard and
dismounted. A handsome untidy-looking woman, dressed in a bright blue
muslin dress, came up and looked at me, then turned away, and went into
the house through a door on the right-hand side of the square.
“That is Chicaramos’s daughter-in-law,” said our new friend; “the wife
of the _hijo mayor_ (eldest son). They live on this side of the square,
and their front door opens into the business street. She has gone to
look for her husband.”
Almost as he spoke a plain genteel-looking young man came out and
advanced towards me. “My mother is busy,” he said, “preparing for a
ball, which is to take place here in an hour. The house is full, but if
you will accept a bedroom in our part of it, it can be made ready at
once. You will have to pass through our room, but you will not mind
that.”
This was the best thing I could do; and accommodation being found for
the muleteer and Eduardo, our guide took his leave, saying that his
master, Don Pedro Sturm, would call on me on the morrow.
After a slight supper, which I took at a round table, with the son’s
wife staring at me from the opposite side, I was making ready to go to
rest, when the door opened, and a lady, in a yellow silk dress, black
lace trimming, and rich gold ornaments, entered. As she closed one door,
the son’s wife rose quickly, and rushed out at the other.
It seemed probable that these two women were not _d’accord_.
Chicaramos—for it was she—came forward in a graceful manner, and
apologised for the negligent way in which I had been received, but
expressed a hope that “_mi hijo mayor_” (my eldest son) had represented
her properly.
She was a handsome woman; and from the manner in which she looked about,
I saw that she managed well the affairs of her household. She then added
that I might be kept awake by the music and the rattle of the
billiard-balls, but to-morrow, being Sunday, would be a quiet day.
I was conducted to a room on the ground-floor, which was paved with red
tiles, and was as mean as possible in its surroundings. However, it did
contain some crockery ware, and this fact of itself announced Chicaramos
to be a well-to-do woman. Two window apertures, filled by massive
shutters, which served to keep the room dark and cool, rejoiced my
sight, as the window-frames were so wide that plenty of air could always
enter, and mosquitoes, _ad libitum_, at night.
A voluble young Creole woman had been sent to help me, and she was loud
in her expressions of surprise that a gentlewoman should have come to
San Pedro Sula to superintend the school.
“But the doctor is quite done up now,” added this damsel; “and you have
had a long journey for nothing.”
“Why did he bring me, I wonder?” was the answer I made.
She could not say.
“Where does the agent, Mr Brady, live?” I inquired. “I wish to see him
the first thing in the morning.”
“He lives very near this,” was the reply; “and I will go to him
to-morrow morning.”
“Thank you. Good night.”
In spite of the drawbacks to repose enumerated by Chicaramos, I did
sleep, and that long and well; and it was late (for Honduras)—almost
seven in the morning—when Eduardo knocked, and announced that Andreas
must return at once to Potrerillos, and that he only waited to be paid.
This business was transacted through the window; and then I told Eduardo
that I would pay him during the day, and that he must look at once for
other employment, for I could not afford to keep a servant longer.
“I have thought over this, Señora,” answered the lad; “and as the
billiard-marker is going to leave in a day or two, I shall apply for the
place. You see, by this I can be near you, and do many little things for
you till you leave for Puerto Cortez and for England. This is not a
place for you, Señora.”
“But I have not money enough with me to get out of it,” I answered;
“and, Eduardo, though I like to have you near me, I would rather you
were not a billiard-marker: it is not good for you. Cannot you get some
other occupation?”
“Not at present. I have made inquiries, and I am told, Señora, that
Chicaramos’s service is the best in the place.”
Everything about the premises was very quiet, the day being Sunday, and
the inmates being tired also with the dance of the preceding evening.
Some large patient oxen were looking out of their open stall at the
lower end of the court; and some cocks and hens chased one another in
various directions; whilst a number of pigeons flew to and fro, and
settled on the roofs of the various out-houses which surrounded this
enclosure. A large pepper-tree overshadowed the lower buildings, and an
impudent _lora_ (small parrot) walked about and kept the whole in order.
Altogether it was a pretty court for an inn.
The next sign of life was a rattling sound, and the voice of woman,
neither soft nor low, calling upon the household, and _hijo mayor_
especially, to arise. Soon the voice travelled in my direction, and my
hostess looked through the aperture at me, pushing the shutter back on
its hinges as she bade me “Good morning.”
“I am glad to see you, Señora,” I said. “I want to arrange to stay here
a short time till my business is concluded. What am I to pay you for
board and lodging?—by the day, we had better say, as my affairs are
uncertain.”
Señora Ramos reflected a moment, and then said: “My charges are 5s. a
day; but if you remain by the week they will be a _peso_ (4s. 2d.) per
day. I hope you will stay, as I hear the charge of the public school is
to be offered to you.”
“I have not heard of this, Señora.”
“I daresay not, but the matter was discussed among a few last night
after the dance was over. Don Pedro Sturm, the head doctor here, is one
of the municipal council, and he will call upon you to-morrow. They all
talk before me,” continued Chicaramos, elevating her head, “as I am one
of the principal people in the place.”
I bowed at this, and told her that I did not feel justified in doing
anything till I had come to an arrangement with Dr Pope.
“Oh, as to Pope,” continued the Señora with the greatest contempt, “he
can’t do anything here. Ah, the money he owes me! And when I sent in my
bill he threatened me with the law-courts. Ho, Vicente!” holloaed the
Señora to a fat _mozo_ who was slinking along the other side of the
yard, “you have been too long in your bed. Chop up some wood, and tell
Elenita to bring the Señora here a glass of milk.”
Then she darted into my side of the house, and I heard her rattling up
_mi hijo mayor_ and his wife without the smallest ceremony, at the door
of the room next to me.
A glass of milk was brought by the trim little girl called Elenita; and
she told me that her grandmother bade her say that I had better dine in
my own room always, as Señora Ramos never allowed meals to be taken in
the _salon_ under any circumstances. And she thought the English lady
would not like to dine in the public room, over which her
daughter-in-law presided.
I thought it well to close with this arrangement, and had subsequently
reason to congratulate myself that I had done so.
Mr Brady called the next morning, and it was very much to his own
surprise that I informed him that he was Dr Pope’s agent. He was a
good-natured-looking young man, with some means, I was informed; and it
was between him and Dr Pedro Sturm that Dr Pope was now living.
An entry in my journal of August 2, 1881, runs as follows: “Don Pedro
Sturm called, and we had a discussion about my taking the public school.
Nothing, however, can be arranged about this until the Governor of Santa
Barbara comes here, which may be in a month, or in two months, or next
year. Everything seems to be a matter of _mañana_,—and salary, a very
unknown quantity.”
Don Jésus Gonsalez also came to see me on the same subject. This
gentleman seems to have influence with the governor, and expressed his
intention of writing to that dignitary, and urging the matter. By the
way, I got set down by Chicaramos for taking exception at the name of
Jésus for an ordinary appellation (although it is pronounced “Hesooz”).
“I thought you were superior to cant, Señora,” flared up my hostess.
“You northern people have your Christian; and pray, what is the name of
Christina but little Christ? _Caramba!_”
I confessed that I had not sufficiently studied the meaning of Christian
names, but stuck to it that Christian seemed less familiar than the
other sound.
For some mornings I had observed several little children in the
court-yard, and I inquired if these belonged to the house?
“Not exactly,” Elenita answered; “but we take care of one or two. That
little Félipe is a poor orphan, and grandmother has adopted him; that
other is not a child of _matrimonio_, but the _pobrecita_ (poor thing)
cannot help that, and we promised the mother when she was dying to take
care of her. Of course,” continued the girl, “the father cannot come
here, for the mother was our friend.”
Ah! respectable, moral England, is it not too often the case with you,
that the betrayed girl and her child are spurned to the dust, whilst the
man goes free, and society opens her doors wide unto him, and even
caresses him for the wrong he has done? I have often admired the
kindness of the Hondureians to deserted children; most houses have one
or two in charge, and the charity is given without ostentation and as a
matter of course. These outcasts are received really as members of the
family, and I have never heard of their entrance causing vexation or
annoyance to any of the other members of it.
Dr Otto, the latest imported medical practitioner in San Pedro Sula,
also called upon me. He was a young man of strong opinions, and never
evinced the slightest qualm in calling a spade a spade. He was a German,
and spoke English remarkably well. Being of very “advanced” opinions, he
seemed to have but one object, and that was to make money as fast as
possible. Chicaramos was a patient of his; but she was a match for him,
as, his fees being high, she raised the rent of his house accordingly,
the doctor being her tenant. The humour with which the lady confided
this piece of diplomacy to me was enough to make a cat laugh.
With such a character, my correspondent, of course, could not be let
off; indeed the young gentleman said so much, that I at last asked him
if he were not afraid to venture such and such observations. “Not a
bit,” was the reply; “and now, can you bear to hear an unpleasant
truth?”
“Really, sir, I have had to bear so much lately that I think I can stand
anything.”
“Very well. Now, you wonder why Pope brought you here; I will tell you.
He is played out; he thought if you came that he would get a footing in
the schoolhouse which would have been assigned for your use. This would
give him a home; for the rest, he hoped you would bring a little money
wherewith to set a plantation going; in fact you told him so in one of
your letters.”
“How do you know this?” I asked aghast.
“It is simply told. A young lad, whom I know something about, was
sitting with the fellow when the runner brought your letter. Pope was in
an indiscreet mood, so he read a portion of the letter out, remarking,
‘The lady has a little money, so I shall invite her to come.’”
This was, as I found, the true explanation; and as Dr Pope had no house
of his own, the Government refusing to assign him one after the first
year, the idea of taking up his abode in the schoolhouse must have been
a most convenient scheme. All was frustrated by the people rising _en
masse_ against him and demanding his expulsion.
That a colony was never more recklessly ruined, let all the officials,
English, Spanish, and Hondureian, tell.
Don Jésus brought his wife to visit me, and a very sweet young woman I
found her to be. She often sent preserved fruits and chocolate, and good
Don Pedro Sturm sent in some light wine. These gifts were most
acceptable, as Chicaramos’s table was of the most coarse and meagre
description, and the cooking was filthy. Many a day an egg and a cup of
coffee were my only meal. My living could not have cost her more than
fourpence a day on the average; but it was in these ways that Chicaramos
proved herself a wonderful woman. As Dr Otto often remarked, a mat, some
raw plantains, and a stream of running water in the midst of the
village, were all that was necessary to keep the inhabitants of San
Pedro Sula alive. What could other people want with more?
The _alcalde_ often came to see me in the evenings, and to him I owe
some of the pleasantest hours I spent in San Pedro Sula. He was a
Scotchman by birth, but had become quite a naturalised Spaniard,
speaking the language well. He it was who was keeping the key of the
church, and this he handed over to the new priest one sunny morning,
singing a pæan over the fact that this act completely ousted the late
incumbent. “And now, my dear lady,” said he, “a ball is to be given in a
night or two to celebrate the fourth anniversary of the Government of
Honduras, and I am charged by the municipal committee with this letter
of invitation to you.”
So saying, Don Juan pulled out an elegantly written note of invitation,
addressed to me as Señora Maria, the English stranger.
At first I felt inclined to refuse, but, on reflection, I saw that it
would be ungracious to do so. The hand of friendship had been so
cordially held out that it was with lighter heart that I selected
evening raiment to wear—the first time for many weeks—wherein to appear
at the ball, given, as usual, at Chicaramos’s _salon_.
Whilst I was dressing, I thought I heard voices in dispute in the part
of the house occupied by _hijo mayor_; a door was banged with more than
ordinary force after a scuffle from within; then all was silent. It was
some one, perhaps, who had forced himself in to see the preparations.
Thus I dismissed the subject from my mind. I should hardly have noticed
this, but I fancied I had previously heard footsteps approaching my
apartment.
My toilet finished, I went into the _salon_, which was really very
tastefully decorated and lighted. As nobody had come in, I drew a
rocking-chair to the large entrance door, and sat watching the
fire-flies as they powdered the grass opposite with their golden sparks.
Brilliant lightning flashed in the far distance, which contrasted in
fantastic guise with the gloom of an unusually still night, there being
neither tingle of guitar nor rattle of billiard-balls, and few people
were moving about.
Presently my attention was attracted to a white object moving in a
straight line towards the house. What it was it was impossible to
discover: perhaps a visitor arriving in fancy dress! The figure crossed
the grass and stood before me. It was the Rev. Dr Pope, hatless, wearing
a man’s night-shirt over his clothes, and _bola_ (Spanish for
intoxicated).
Surprise held me to my seat, and prudence chained my tongue. He glared
at me, and opened his lips as if to speak; then he looked over my head
into the _salon_, as if he were searching for some one, gave a lurch,
turned on his heel, and was gone!
I rose, shut the door, and went through the _salon_ into the _patio_.
Eduardo was at a table washing some glasses; he anticipated my inquiry,
for he said—
“Not now, Señora—I will come to you—the company has arrived.”
The door which I had shut in such haste was thrown open, and the company
walked in by twos and threes, and then seated themselves round the room,
the principal ladies occupying the rocking-chairs. Soon followed the
music; the musicians—three in number—playing some selected piece, now
entered, and they were listened to with marked silence to the end.
I could not help contrasting this politeness with the rude inattention
which I have seen displayed in circles of far higher pretension during
the execution of instrumental music by some amateur, or even
professional performer. In both cases the music seems to be regarded
solely as an aid to conversation, and the performer receives the tribute
of silence only when the instrument ceases to vibrate.
The young men moved among the ladies with well-bred ease, and when the
_Lanza_ was called every one stood up. The _Lanza_, I was told, is an
old national dance, and it always stands first on the programme. The
gentlemen select their partners, and those who do not join reseat
themselves. In the old times referred to, the cavaliers carried short
lances, and crossing these in some turns of the dance, the ladies passed
beneath them.
The air of the dance is of itself very monotonous, the art of playing it
consisting in strict emphasis on some few notes. The figure is not
unlike the last—the fifth—in the set of our “Lancer Quadrilles.” There
is a good deal of advancing and retiring in ring, and an in-and-out
chain, in the mazes of which each one purposely loses his partner. A
movement, which I do not pretend to describe, brings her back again, and
the whole is wound up with the graceful waltz.
Yes; as it is danced by this people, it is graceful and even dignified.
Strict attention is given to the execution of the step, and the time is
often marked on the part of the gentleman by a sharp quick stamp on the
floor. The figures of both waltzers undulate with the motion of the
feet; indeed, the seriousness with which all is gone through, indicates
that—in the mysteries of the dance at least—the Hondureians agree that
what is worth doing at all is worth doing well.
The gentlemen dance quite as persistently as the ladies, and their
manner in soliciting a partner is highly respectful always.
Between the dances, at intervals, refreshments were handed about; and
these were upon a most limited scale, the whole consisting, generally,
of a small glass of liqueur, a larger one of water, and a few little
fancy cakes. Outside, at the table in the _patio_, some of the gentlemen
could be descried indulging liberally in bottled beer and other liquids.
This expenditure, and the hire of the _salon_, was Chicaramos’s harvest.
Such a thing as a ball-supper had never been heard of in the whole of
the Honduras.
Cigars and cigarillos really seemed to be the bread of life here, to
judge by the numbers which were smoked by both sexes in that
entertainment. During the interval allowed to the musicians they smoked
too, and long before the ball was over the floor had become quite
disgusting from the expectoration; and the smell of tobacco which
pervaded the _salon_ from end to end was enough to poison a whole
province.
I remained no longer, and withdrew unperceived to my den. The lightning
was playing in the distance, but it was of the harmless summer kind, and
so I watched it between my half-opened shutters without fear, indeed
with somewhat of interest. The contrast between the solemn night, with
its flashing zigzag lightning, which resembled an array of scimitars,
withheld only by the Great Captain’s hand from leaping down and
scattering destruction on the earth, and the dance and glare, and paltry
talk close by, was sufficiently striking. A few moments later, and
Eduardo stood beneath the window.
“That drunken man was the doctor,” said I, in a tone which might be
taken either as assertative or interrogative.
“Yes, Señora; he came into the other house. _Hijo mayor_ did his best to
persuade him to retire; but it was of no use. I came in behind him, and
not knowing who it was, I took him by the shoulders and put him into the
street.”
“He must have come round afterwards to the front door, where I was
sitting,” I said.
“That was it, Señora; I hear that he is afraid to see you, and keeps out
of the way. He must have returned to enter the house, but he did not
expect to meet with you.”
“How do you know, Eduardo?”
“Chicaramos hears plenty of remarks from the people who come into the
store, Señora; and so much news gets into the billiard-room.”
“Well, when you have a spare moment, will you go to Dr Otto, and ask him
to call upon me as soon as it may be convenient, to-morrow? Be sure and
ask Señora Ramos’s leave before you go.”
“Certainly, Señora; good night.”
The lad went his way, and I remained at the open shutter watching the
lightning and thinking. This, then, was no scandal, as to the man’s
personal habits: under any circumstances, it would be neither safe nor
proper to hold any appointment under such a person; and it was evident
that very little could be done with the Justice of the Peace, or the
Governor of Santa Barbara either. The latter, I knew, had promised to
come to San Pedro Sula to inspect matters generally, and to establish a
public school, eight times in so many months, and had failed to put in
an appearance up to the present time. The _alcalde_ was very much my
friend; but it had been hinted to me, more than once, that this
functionary was only anxious to keep me in the place because I was an
Englishwoman, with whom he, being partly a Scotchman, found it pleasant
to converse. Be this as it may, one thing was certain, Don Juan Jack,
with all his goodwill, could not command either the Governor of Santa
Barbara or the public funds of San Pedro Sula.
My best plan, therefore, was to leave as soon as possible; for though
Chicaramos behaved well in the main, yet her _ménage_ was so wretched
that semi-starvation was what I was paying for at the rate of four
shillings a day. I was determined to consult Dr Otto, and then act as he
should advise.
The doctor came early in the morning. Nothing could of course be said
until the gentleman had gone through his usual objurgatory language
against the Spaniards, the natives, the Governor, Don Juan Jack, and the
inhabitants generally and severally;—one was a rascal; the Justice of
the Peace was a dawdle; the Governor never kept his word; and Don Pedro
Sturm was a fool. Chicaramos had the brains of the whole lot.
“Now, Dr Otto, if any one else had declaimed against any one of these
persons in the way you have done, you would be the very first to defend
him. I do not like to hear a word against Don Pedro Sturm. He has been
kind to me.”
“Well, all right; he is kind, certainly.”
“I want your wisdom now to bear upon my affairs. I am certain it will
not do to stay here; both time and money are being wasted, and I hear
nothing can be done about the public school till the Governor of Santa
Barbara arrives.”
“Don’t you rely on his coming; and the chances are if he does come—and I
don’t believe he will, for he is like all the rest of these dawdling,
offputting, gandering idiots——”
“Now, doctor, no abuse. I want to know if you think I had better write
at once to Mr De Brot, the consul at Puerto Cortez, and ask him to
arrange the necessary business for getting money from England to take me
away. The truth is, I feel weaker, and I think I have a little fever on
me now, and I dread being ill here.”
“If you get ill you can’t go; write to Mr Albany Fonblanque, the consul
at New Orleans: that will be quicker. Mr De Brot is at his country place
just now, on one of the islands, so there would be delay if you consult
him. Fonblanque is a thorough man of business, and if you write and
state the case plainly, he will give you the best attention. The
Wanderer will sail from Puerto Cortez in three days, and your letter
will be in time—that is to say, if that infernal ‘Maquina’ does not
break down, or they forget the mail-bag, or devise some blunder which
could only occur in these regions. Now, mind you write a short
intelligible letter to Fonblanque, and to the point.”
“Trust me. I think I will ask Mr Fonblanque to send it on to my lawyer
in London,” I replied.
“Yes, that is a sensible idea. Now, never mind more business, but look
here, Mopsey has come to see you.”
As he spoke, the doctor lugged out of his capacious pocket a huge silk
pocket-handkerchief, which was tied at the four corners in a loose knot.
He opened this, and forth came Mopsey, the little pet parrot.
“You don’t mean to say that you carry the bird about in this fashion?” I
asked.
“Why, yes; you see he mopes when I go out, and is utterly miserable, and
so I shall carry him when I go my rounds. They are so gentle and lovable
are these _loras_.”
Certainly Mopsey was a true specimen of what Dr Otto said of the race.
It was curious to see the little bird climbing up his shoulder and
sitting on his head, and testifying her delight in many caressing ways;
the doctor’s fiery, excited-looking face being at the same time smoothed
into a somewhat benevolent mould, as he rendered up his finger as a
perch for his pet and addressed her as “Du.”
We chatted a little while, and I could not help wishing that this
gentleman, so brilliant and agreeable, could bestow a little of the
goodwill which he testified towards the animal creation upon the human
portion of it also. Some bitter wrong, or maybe, a long course of being
misunderstood, (and what more hardening to the spirit than this?) must
have turned a naturally good disposition into gall; and it was only by
an occasional flash of sympathy, expressed as if he were ashamed of it,
that I discovered that Dr Otto possessed a vein of human feeling.
One thing I had resolved upon, and that was, that some final
understanding must be come to with Dr Pope, and that if I had an
interview with him, it should take place in the presence of witnesses. I
therefore wrote to Dr Sturm, in whose house he was staying, and also to
the lawyer of San Pedro Sula, stating my intention of applying for my
travelling expenses, and asking for a legal opinion upon the matter.
These two gentlemen called upon me on the following day, and informed me
that at first Dr Pope expressed himself willing to see me in their
presence, but afterwards shirked doing so, and had requested them to
apply to me for a copy of his letter in which he had so specially
engaged me to come to San Pedro Sula.
I felt inclined to refer his reverence to his own copy of the letter
written to me; but as it was important to see what he meant to do, I
consented, and sent him a copy of his letters, adding that I retained
duplicates of all my correspondence with him.
This last piece of information, I was told, considerably surprised him,
and the next day I received a note from the lawyer, saying that Dr Pope
did not look upon that letter as an agreement; but he proposed, if I
would consent, that the matter should be referred to Mr De Brot, the
consul at Puerto Cortez, for arbitration. I was strongly advised to
accept these terms, the lawyer adding that Mr De Brot was an upright and
most conscientious man.
“You have had quite expense enough,” said this gentleman when I saw him
the next day, “and I do not wish to hamper you with law. The proposal
came from Pope himself; it is no suggestion of mine, or of Don Pedro
Sturm. I may add that if you see fit to accept this proposition, Dr Pope
will undertake to pay your expenses to Puerto Cortez; you can then see
the consul personally.”
The dismay of this generous gentleman was indeed only overpowered by his
disgust, when, on the following morning, he found that Dr Pope had
stolen off on his mule during the night to Puerto Cortez, forgetting to
leave the funds for my journey behind him.
This, however, was of little consequence, as I could despatch my letters
to the consul by the train, and I would prefer going to the port when I
could be sure that I was leaving the country. So I wrote my letters and
waited patiently.
Little remains to be recorded of this weary stay at San Pedro Sula, and
my journal at this period runs only that one day telleth another and one
night certifieth another. A touch of fever; no news from the Governor of
Santa Barbara about the school; a letter of promises and no results from
one Government official or another; a pleasant chat with the
_alcalde_,—and this was about the sum of my life for upwards of a month.
At length came a letter from Mr Fonblanque announcing that money had
been placed in his hands, and that he would send a sum by the Wanderer
steamer, which would sail in a few days from New Orleans to Puerto
Cortez. Telegraph and steam and business-like lawyers in London had
greatly facilitated matters, and I was free to depart at once.
As the Wanderer steamer only remained at Puerto Cortez twenty-four
hours, and I was anxious to get away quickly, I found I must start
without delay.
Dr Otto, who had gone down to the port on business, sent me a telegram,
desiring me to start without an hour’s delay, in order to catch the
steamer for New Orleans.
As the train for Puerto Cortez did not run for two days, I was obliged
to ride; and thus, from force of circumstances, I have traversed the
province of Spanish Honduras from Amapala to Puerto Cortez on mule-back.
Don Pedro Sturm got mules and a confidential man for me, and bidding
adieu to Chicaramos, I set off for Puerto Cortez.
Although the distance was under forty miles, the road was so abominably
bad, and the detentions in consequence were so great, that it was
literally impossible to reach the port before the Wanderer sailed.
It was at the ranche of General Z——, where I had halted for refreshment,
that I was told this: “You cannot ride out at night,” said the general.
“Man as I am, I would not attempt to do so. The road is dangerous in
daylight. I cannot allow you to pass my door; so pray, Señora, dismount
and stay here till to-morrow. You can take time, and it will only be a
detention of fourteen days before the Wanderer returns.”
Accustomed as I had been to delay and disappointment, this was a bitter
trial, and I could not refrain a burst of tears. Everything seemed to go
against me. The general turned away to call his niece; her pleasant face
acted like a cordial, and after a few moments I was able to say that I
would take the advice so generously proffered.
“You surely must have been late in setting off,” said General Z——;
“under the best of circumstances you could only have reached Puerto
Cortez an hour before the steamer sailed.”
I handed him the telegram which Dr Otto had despatched.
“When did you get this?” he inquired.
“Late last night.”
“You ought to have had it six hours earlier or more. This telegram has
been delayed. Some fault in the telegraph office,—nobody knows, or will
know, why; but it is very provoking.”
It was indeed, but there was no use in repining; and as I knew that
there was a respectable house to go to, kept by Madame B——, in Puerto
Cortez, I tried to make the best of the matter. My chief anxiety was
about the money.
“The purser of the Wanderer has very probably left that in the charge of
Mr De Brot for you,” he said. “Nobody will wonder at your
non-appearance; they are all up to the ways of the country. Go in and
take some refreshment, and then I will escort you and Anita to the
corral. I have some fine horses to show you.”
I took leave of the general and his pretty niece in better spirits on
the following morning, and as haste was not now necessary, I was more at
liberty to admire the wild magnificent country which extends to within a
few miles of the port.
In addition, I bore with the greatest _sang froid_ the total immersion
of the baggage-mule in a swamp, and the delay and worry of getting her
out again. This accident happened, fortunately, near a native village,
and so assistance was easily obtained. Owing to the detention which this
occasioned, it was late before we reached Madame’s house.
This good lady was on the look-out for us, and her brother helped me
from the saddle almost before the mule had come to a standstill. “We are
not astonished at your being late,” he said, “but all is arranged. Mr De
Brot has got your money, and we will make you comfortable here till the
Wanderer returns, and my sister’s charges will be moderate.”
How many, how very many simple kind people are there after all in
Honduras!
Puerto Cortez is not much better than a sandy swamp, only waiting an
opportunity to slip into the sea and be lost for ever as a human
dwelling-place. Its only sight is at the shed which forms the terminus
of the railway communication between it and San Pedro Sula. There, piled
up in rust and dust, are to be seen heaps of material imported to form
the railway of Honduras. Bolts, tires, wheels, rails, chains, and
various other of the material necessary to make a railway, are to be
found piled up in profusion in this place; and the Hondureian points at
it with a kind of grim delight as he tells you that thousands of pounds
are rotting there.
Let us hope that this waste is only temporary. Late letters inform me
that Dr Fritz Gartner and Mr Shears, American citizens, have entered
into a contract with the Government of Honduras for the navigation of
the Ulua river and its tributaries, the Venta and the Blanco. This
accomplished, the reconstruction of the railway is sure to follow.
The _ménage_ of Madame B—— was on a much more liberal scale than that of
Chicaramos; and in consequence my strength partially returned to me,
although I suffered fearfully from the sand-flies, which at Puerto
Cortez are minute demons. Mr De Brot was also kind and attentive, but,
as a matter of business, Dr Pope’s name had been scarcely mentioned.
At length a missive, which ran as follows, was handed to me one hot
morning:—
“I, John Frederic De Brot, Her Britannic Majesty’s Consul at Puerto
Cortez:—
“Whereas Miss Mary —— and the Rev. Dr W. L. Pope have consented to
submit to my arbitration the question in dispute between them, about the
unnecessary expenses accrued to the former in a useless voyage to this
country; and whereas I declared myself willing to accept the office of
arbitrator in this matter, I have come to the following decision, based
on the letters and other documents presented to me:—
“That the Rev. Dr Pope pay to Miss Mary —— the half of the expenses she
has incurred in her voyage to and from this country.
“Given under my hand and seal, this tenth day of October 1881.
(Signed) “J. F. DE BROT,
_British Consul_.”
“You will never get a penny from Pope, I am sure,” said Mr De Brot, when
I called to thank him for this document. “Still, I think it will be a
satisfaction to you to have your own statements thus, as it were,
publicly substantiated; I only wish that you had insisted upon a legal
agreement before you started, but in the face of such a letter as Pope’s
last one to you, I do not wonder at this idea not occurring to you.”
“The matter at this point, Mr De Brot,” I replied, “just resolves into
this: nothing succeeds like success. Had this matter turned out
fortunately, every one would have said, What an enterprising woman
‘Soltera,’ is! so sensible to go abroad, where there is so much more
opening for employment,—and all the rest of it. As it is, I am
considerably out of pocket, and many of my friends, I feel sure, will be
more ready to blame than to sympathise with me in the matter. However,
the world on the whole is kind, and I shall be able to work the lost
money back in some way; you know ‘Voy con Dios’ is my motto.”
Mr De Brot asked if I had thought of putting the affair into the
law-courts of Honduras, in the case of Dr Pope’s refusing to pay.
“Certainly not,” I replied; “it would be a degradation not only to
myself, but also to my family. Your decision establishes my claim and my
honour; for the rest, I am content to let this unworthy man go his way.”
As I said this, the quaint old Italian proverb ran through my mind—“Evil
does not always come to do hurt.”
“I am glad to hear you say this,” replied the consul; “but I boil with
indignation when I think of this man. However, you are better off than
many.”
“May I ask if you have seen Dr Pope since he received his copy of the
arbitration?”
“He came to my office last night, but he was in such a state that I
refused to see him. Depend upon me, if I can get any money out of him
for you, I will do so.”
“I suppose,” continued Mr De Brot, his handsome kind face lighting up
with a smile, “after this experience you will never believe more in
anything or anybody?”
“Not quite so bad as that,” I replied: “has not the golden cord of
others’ kindness run like a string to hold me up through all my
troubles? Believe me, I am not ungrateful, and I shall often think with
pleasure of the people of Honduras.”
My journal further runs, 14th October 1881:—
“Received a kind note from Mrs Barlee, asking me to spend a few hours at
Government House at Belize, when the Wanderer should touch there on her
way to New Orleans.
“The captain and some of the passengers of the ship Cyprio have just
come in from Belize.
“_Saturday, 15th._—A red-letter day, and quite a return to civilisation.
Spent day on board the Cyprio, and played whist and the piano. Mrs
Kindred, Mrs Brodie, Mrs Brockeley, Mr M‘Cullock, and the chief officer,
together with the captain. What people could be kinder or nicer?
“_Sunday, 16th._—Called to say ‘adieu’ to good, kind Mr De Brot.
“_Monday, 17th._—Sailed by the Wanderer for New Orleans. On the 19th
arrived at Belize, and spent a delightful afternoon with Mr and Mrs
Barlee. Their sympathy and kindness I will never forget.
“_October 24th._—Arrived at New Orleans. Whether it is the reaction or
the development of incipient illness, I know not, but here I must stay
and rest. My strength is gone; there is neither fight, nor struggle, nor
travel in me. Mr Albany Fonblanque has procured me quarters in the house
of the lady where he himself resides, and I hear Mrs Glenn is the best
housekeeper and nurse in the world. Mr Fonblanque tells me that it is
semi-starvation which ails me, and that the beautiful winter season of
New Orleans will set me up.”
So I made up my mind to remain and make my home for a time in the
elegant comfortable house of Mrs Glenn.
A few weeks quite restored me. How could it be otherwise, with the
surroundings I have described? Who can read the works of Albany
Fonblanque without feeling certain that in his society, and in that of
the friends he gathered round him, “Soltera” found enjoyment and rest?
From this delightful “winter city” I have come home, poorer (God help me
I) but wiser, and happy. The law of kindness has turned what was bitter
into sweet. To this law I appeal, should “Soltera” be fortunate enough
to find readers of her account of her ride across Spanish Honduras.
_Vale._
THE END.
PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
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