CHAPTER VII. FUN ON SHORE.
In the latter part of the month of July, we succeeded in making a safe entrance into the neutral port of Rio de Janeiro, after having captured several more valuable prizes, and bringing two or three along with us. There was a British man-o'-war, the Atalanta, in this port, when we entered. She could have blown us out of water by one broadside of her great guns, but, nevertheless, she respected the neutrality of the port, and did not dare to molest us.
It may seem strange, from the manner in which Adolphus de Courcy had been treated on board the Queer Fish, that he should regret leaving us. But it is, nevertheless, a fact. When his freedom was given him, he assembled the entire crew around him, thanked them for the jolly time they had afforded him, and shook the captain warmly by the hand. He was really an excellent-hearted fellow, and we gave him three hearty cheers as he went over the ship's side to the boat which was to convey him and his luggage to the British ship before-mentioned. And his sincerity was not of a transient kind; for we afterward learned that he spoke well of us to the officers of the Atalanta.
Going on shore, after a long voyage, is the sailor's paradise. I reckon some of those old streets of Rio were glad enough when we disappeared; for a noisier, wilder, more devil-may-care set of tars never raised a rumpus in a seaport town than did we in Rio. We were allowed to go on shore in squads alternately; and as many of the British sailors were also, more or less, in the town, we had several collisions of a very serious character, though the disturbances were usually speedily quelled by the authorities.
The first disturbance of this kind that I was in happened a few days after we entered the port. A large squad of us—perhaps twenty—had gone on shore, but Tony Trybrace and I had somehow got separated from our companions. We were both of us somewhat in liquor, and had a hankering—a usual one under the circumstances—to have something more to drink. So we entered a queer sort of Spanish gin-shop, and, not understanding the lingo very fluently, proceeded to help ourselves—of course with the intention of paying our way.
In the course of this proceeding, Tony was rudely thrust back from the counter by the proprietor of the place, a wiry Brazilian, and, at the same time, admonished by a torrent of invectives in the unknown lingo.
It is poor policy to treat a drunken man rudely, unless you are a policeman. A sailor, especially, will bear but little handling. Tony staggered back a moment, but, the next, the Brazilian was lying on the floor from a terrific blow between the eyes. Just at this moment, several English sailors entered the room, and, seeing that we were Americans, of course took the landlord's part. The latter was but little hurt and soon got up, muttering a great string of oaths, the usual consolation of the Spaniard, but, this time, in a much lower voice, and taking care to be out of the reach of Tony's powerful fist.
"Hit's ha hawful mean shame for to see ha poor cuss treated hin that 'ere way," mused one of the Englishmen to his comrades, in a tone so loud that it was evidently meant for our special benefit.
"That's so! Shiver my timbers eff I would stand it eff I was the Spanish cuss," was the elegant rejoinder.
"Whoever don't like it, can take it up whenever he wants," bluntly interposed Tony.
"His that 'ere remark hintended for me?" asked the first speaker.
"Well, it is," said Tony, "and so is this 'ere."
And before I could guess his intention, or move an inch to hinder it, down went the cockney before the same stanch fist of the Yankee sailor. The rest of the Britishers immediately sprung forward to avenge their comrade's fall; and, as I couldn't stand by and see little Tony overpowered, I also went in. There were ten of them, at least, and we were soon on the verge of destruction, when our cries for help reached the ears of friends outside, and in dashed Old Nick and Bluefish, at the head of a dozen or more of our lads, when the way that the Britishers and that entire gin-shop was cleaned out was a caution. Three policemen now dropped in, but we dropped them in as summary a way as the rest of them, and made our escape up the street.
This may be a rude picture, but it is one of truth, and I merely give it as a sample of sailors' life ashore in foreign parts.
But there were other scenes in our Brazilian experience that were much more novel and satisfactory than the foregoing. The town itself—or, rather, city; for it is a large place—is full of interest to the foreigner.
The men are mostly very homely, the women very pretty. The higher classes make a great display in a worldly way. I have seen as elegant "turn-outs" here, as in other parts of the globe. The ladies—some of them—are attired with unparalleled magnificence. You know it is a country of diamonds. The ladies sport a good many of them, but they have another kind of ornament which, perhaps, will be new to most of you. This is a peculiar kind of firefly which the ladies wear in their hair. I have seen them fastened among the black locks of a Brazilian belle at night-time, when the effect was striking in the extreme.
Gambling is very prevalent among the people.
Even the lowest classes are infatuated with their favorite game of monte. They play the clothes off their backs, and would play the hair off their heads, if they wore wigs. They are great lovers of spicy food, like all the rest of the South Americans, as well as the Mexicans. The amount of red peppers which a genuine Spanish-American will consume at one sitting would make a Yankee sneeze for the balance of his lifetime. They stew it and fry it and broil it, and eat it as we do tomatoes.
When I was in Mexico, the body of a Mexican, who had died of exposure, remained all night exposed on the mountains, where the wolves are as thick as grasshoppers, and we found the body next morning untouched. I verily believe that he was so excessively peppery that the wolves couldn't find palate or stomach for him.
Another favorite article of food is the inevitable tortillo. This is almost identical with what our hunters and soldiers call slapjacks. It is a sort of pancake in a modified form, and goes very well on a hungry stomach.
There are also many lamentable things to witness in Brazil. The condition of the slaves is wretched in the extreme. Never—except, perhaps, it was in the Isle of France—did I witness the yoke of slavery fit the neck of the poor negro so gallingly as at Rio; and I was told that the condition of the slaves further up the country—especially in the diamond districts—was even more deplorable.
But my intention is to devote myself mainly to the fun we had, so we will quit this distressing subject for a livelier theme.
One of the greatest attractions which Rio afforded us was the inevitable bull-fight. Great preparations had been making for one of these performances before we arrived. Of course, as soon as we got wind of it on board the Queer Fish, every man was wild to see the show. The dear little captain wished to oblige us all; but, as all could not go, it was decided who should, by lots. It was my fortune to be one of the lucky ones.
So, on an exceedingly bright morning in the month of July, we—about twenty of us—landed at Rio to see the bull-fight. The affair was to take place at a distance of several miles from the city, and we had taken the precaution, several days beforehand, of securing conveyances. These were nothing to boast of. They consisted of one barouche, an old-fashioned transportation wagon, and a light, rickety affair, with shafts about fifteen feet long, which is of very frequent use in Spanish countries (vide Havana).
We made some wry faces at seeing these turn-outs, but the horses attached to them looked spry, and we were resolved to make the best of the bargain. We were soon seated, or, rather, heaped upon the sorry vehicles, the drivers cracked their long whips, and away we went through the narrow streets of Rio, singing songs, yelling discordantly, and getting outside of a large amount of bad alcohol.
At length we reached the plains back of the city—the pampas—the broad, glorious, rolling pampas; and we could see the inclosure where the bull-fight was to take place, together with the flag-decorated, red-roofed buildings surrounding it. A vast concourse had preceded us there, but we had secured seats beforehand, and had no difficulty in reaching our places. Those Brazilians in our immediate vicinity must have remembered for a long time the crowd of Yankee privateersmen. These Spanish people have ways and manners very singular to a foreigner. While we were waiting for the bulls, all the ladies amused themselves with smoking their universal cigarettos and fanning themselves. They never stop smoking, save, perhaps, to make and light a new cigar, and it has often been a matter of reflection to me, how they could keep up that everlasting fanning of their pretty faces. They never stop. The fan keeps moving incessantly. They must be very powerful in the right arm. I am sure it would make me, or any other strong man, very tired to swing one of those fans for half an hour, yet these pretty ladies keep it up continually and never seem fatigued.
While waiting for the bulls, the men either talk to the ladies or play monte among themselves. They frequently quarrel during their games, talk very boisterously, lay their hands on their knives, and look very savage. But gaming quarrels among them very seldom go any further.
We had plenty of time to observe all these things, as we were fully half an hour before the time, as was almost everybody else. We spent a portion of our time in eating Brazil-nuts, oranges, bananas and other fruit, with now and then a cheer or two for the Queer Fish and the flag that flew at her peak. The native policemen would bob up and down about us, endeavoring to maintain better order, but not liking to arrest any individual one of us, while they did not dare to attempt a whole arrest. All this weary interval of waiting an American caterer would have filled up with strains of music; but not until almost at the moment of the commencement of the performance, did the Brazilian musicians (wretched ones) discourse their strains.
At last, however, the band pealed out, and the performers came running into the ring. The fighters of the bull, on this occasion, were of two classes. One class consisted of men, dressed in tights and spangles, after the manner of our circus actors. These men bore red scarfs or flags, wherewith to blind the beast, while each of them carried a number of little darts at his belt. The darts were a sort of fireworks, one of the various modes adopted for the torture and goading of the bulls. The other class consisted of the matadores, whose duties are of a more sanguinary nature than their brothers of the arena. Most of them on this occasion were mounted, and armed with spears, but the most famous were on foot, armed simply with a long, sheathless rapier. These latter are in a bull-fighting country about the same as first-class theatrical performers are in America and England. They become very famous when successful, and star it through the country in the same way as our actors. The main office of the star matadore is to give the finishing blow to the bull—the hight of the accomplishment being in the art of killing at a single, graceful thrust of the sword.
When the performers had taken their positions, a signal from the major domo caused the opening of a suspicious-looking door at the upper end of the arena, and out bounded an enormous black bull, with a bellowing noise, and lashing his sides furiously with his tail.
The game now commenced in earnest.
The ball was opened by one of the horsemen couching his spear and rushing in to the attack. But, quick as a wink, and as lively as a cat, the bull leaped on one side, avoided the thrust, and ripped up the matadore's steed, killing him instantly. The poor bull-fighter was hurled high in the air, and fell to the ground. I looked to see him destroyed instantly. But now the flag-bearers rushed in, flinging their red scarfs over the animal's horns, and engaging his attention until their discomfited comrade recovered, and was enabled to limp out of the ring. The other horsemen, three in number, now spurred forward, and succeeded in inflicting several painful wounds.
Infuriated with agony, the bull rushed at them blindly, this way and that; but they glided away from him, and inflicted new wounds.
At last the flagmen (I forget what the Spanish name for them is) rushed in and flung their little darts into the animal's side. The torch was applied immediately afterward, and the bull was transformed into an enormous fiery porcupine, and a very frightful-looking figure he cut. Although considerably enfeebled by loss of blood, the ungovernable fury of the bull sustained him for another assault, when he gored another horse and tossed the rider almost to the top of the pavilion. But now the master of ceremonies gave the signal, and one of the pedestrian matadores stepped out, sword in hand.
There were three of these men. They had remained standing motionless in a very nonchalant way, waiting for the signal of the coup de grace. The one who now stepped out to the task, was a lithe, handsome fellow. With a light bound, he sprung at the side of the bull, avoided the side-sweep of his angry horn, and plunged his weapon in the animal's neck.
A storm of hisses burst from the audience, for the blow was not the death-blow; and the matadore recovered his sword and returned to his former position; for one of the rules of the bull-fight is that the blow which is intended to be final must not be repeated, if it be unsuccessful.
And now, at another signal from the major domo, an old matadore, who had stood gravely in front of us throughout the entire performance, now advanced easily toward the bull, who made a staggering charge upon him. But he easily evaded the charge, gained the animal's side, and drove in his thin sword to the hilt, right behind the shoulder-blade. This time it was the coup de grace. The bull stumbled forward, and then fell to the ground dead, while a thundering cheer greeted the successful matadore, who bowed carelessly, as if he was used to it, wiped his sword, and quietly resumed his former position.
Now the supernumeraries entered the ring, with a wagon, to remove the dead bull and horses and other débris.
Several other bulls, more or less formidable, were disposed of in rapid succession.
But the greatest bull was reserved for the finale. A hum went through the audience as he sprung into the arena. I think I never saw a nobler animal than this bull. He was of a bright bay, and as glossy as the costliest satin. His eyes were brilliant and large. The strength as displayed in the splendid limbs and glorious neck was prodigious. All "our crowd" sent up a rousing cheer as soon as this animal made its appearance.
Well, the usual performance was gone through with at first. The horsemen charged; one of the horses was killed; the flag-bearers charged, and one of them was killed. The fireworks had become exhausted: so that part of the show—a very disgusting part to me, I must say—had to be skipped. The master of ceremonies seemed loth to give the signal for the death of this noble beast. And while he was deliberating, the bull made a sudden and most effective charge upon all the horsemen and flagmen, who were very injudiciously, all grouped together. The result was that the horses were immediately overthrown and disabled, one of the flagmen was immediately killed, and another one badly hurt, while one of the three matadores,[1] who had been in the group, was tossed high into the air and, by the rules of the arena, was out of the fight, on account of his having left his proper position at the edge of the ring. There were now, literally, as the only remaining fighters, two matadores or swordsmen. One of these, at the sign from the master of ceremonies—which was now very hastily given—rushed in to the attack. But his blow was a bad one. The old matadore—the one who had finished up the the first bull so nicely, was now the only one left, and he, without losing a particle of his composure, went in with a confident air.
But he made a mistake, just as he reached the animal's side, and had his arm paralyzed by hitting a horn with his crazy-bone, and away flew his sword out of his hand. The next instant, he was tossed sky-high and Mr. Bull had it all his own way.
A murmur of horror ran through the audience, for it seemed that now, as every one of the fighters was either prostrate or weaponless, there would be a great carnage. Even the hitherto imperturbable major domo lost his presence of mind and turned as pale as death.
At this momentous juncture, old Bluefish, to our unmitigated astonishment, started up with a wild whoop.
"I'll spike him! I'll spike him! Smash my top-lights, if I don't spike him!" he shouted.
And, before we could guess his intention, he had leaped the railing, and was in the ring. Snatching up the sword of one of the fallen matadores, he made at the bull. The latter charged him, with a roar that shook the pavilion to its center. But the sturdy old sailor leaped on one side, got in his blow, and drove it in behind the shoulder, the weapon rapping up against the skin, close to the hilt. The magnificent beast tottered forward an instant, and then dropped to the earth, stone dead.
Cheer after cheer greeted the brave deed of the Yankee tar.
"Bravo! bravo! Americano! Americano!" echoed from the crowd of Brazilians.
"I told yer I'd spike him!" was the simple and only self-comment of Bluefish, as he returned to our midst.
We were proud enough of him, you may be sure. But we were prouder still, when, as we were going out with the throng, the band struck up "Hail Columbia." The master of ceremonies had ordered it as a compliment to us.