ALLIGATORS.
[From the New York Herald, of 1849.]
Chagres, New Granada, Jan. 2, 1849.
James Gordon Bennett: We left New York amid the huzzas of friends, who bade us a most affectionate adieu. The passengers are from every section of the Union. There are men of talent and high integrity among us. The emigrants in the Crescent City have never been excelled, always excepting the Pilgrim Fathers. On leaving the Pier, I noticed but two females, who waved their handkerchiefs most gracefully, and imparted their sweetest smiles. The stewardess is the only female on board, who is a legion, and has contributed much to make us happy. Extraordinary harmony has prevailed. All are armed to the teeth, which warns us to respect each other. I have not heard an unfriendly word since I left New York, nor seen a wry face, save off Cape Hatteras and while crossing the Gulf Stream in the trough of the sea, with the wind blowing very hard. Christmas was the sickest and saddest day of my life. Tho Crescent was a perfect hospital. All were sick, including some of the boat’s officers, and extending even to the crew. On the first day out, the knives and forks rattled like hail, but on Christmas, hardly a man made his appearance at table. Such sighs and groans, and anathemas of gold—such longing for friends, and home and safety, and such contortions as on that unhappy Christmas, I have never seen. A countryman staggered up and down the cabin, solemnly vociferating that he had vomited a fragment of his liver, and that he must soon die, and bade us all a most doleful farewell, and besought us to kindly remember him to his wife and children. But the surgeon came and analysed his apparently ejected liver, which proved to be a huge junk of beef which he swallowed the day previous, without mastication. The same verdant genius asked the Captain, during the awful gale, what he would charge to turn round and take him back to New York. The Captain screamed, and swallowed a large cud of tobacco, and seized a handspike and threatened to dash the countryman’s brains upon the deck if he didn’t go below. Amid the horrors of the hurricane, the gentle and courageous stewardess gave us gruel, for which we rewarded her with a purse of gold. The tempest was terrible. The ocean mountains smote the frantic clouds, and the snowy spray of the ocean vales resembled lakes of glittering silver. The Crescent’s stern was mutilated, the bulwarks stove, the wheel-house injured, and a man washed into the precarious sea, who was miraculously rescued by four daring men, whom I trust the Humane Society will reward for their extraordinary courage and humanity. His preservation caused much joy on board, and those who saved him have been lions since. When 700 miles from Chagres, the thermometer was 95 in the shade on deck, and in the sun or cabin the heat was almost intolerable. The intense heat made us stare, and wonder what was in store for us when we first mounted the fiery steed of the equator. Some of the passengers were very languid, and gasped for breath like Peytona when leading Fashion a span on the fourth heat. Chagres is the Five Points in miniature, consisting of the very dregs of filth, squalid penury and human degradation. I have been reading Blunt’s Coast Pilot, and found on page 476 the following consolatory narrative of Chagres and its fatal harbor, from the pen of Captain G. Sidney Smith, of Her Majesty’s sloop Bastard: “Chagres is more sickly than the same latitude on the coast of Africa. The bar of Chagres harbor has two and a-half fathoms on it at low water. The entrance is rather difficult, and at all times requires a fair wind, but when in you are perfectly safe. (O, me! O, Jonah!) I would not recommend its being entered if the measure could possibly be avoided, or suffer the boats to be there at night. It is, perhaps, the most unhealthy place known. The Bastard’s cutter was, by stress of weather, obliged to stay at night in the harbor. The consequent loss was a Lieutenant and seven men. Only one of the number attacked recovered. This happened between the 27th and 30th of November, 1827.” We approached Chagres this morning, amid torrents of rain. The land for 20 miles was high and undulating, with occasional bluffs towering high above the general elevation, and rocks some distance from the shore. The American Consul arrived to-day, at Chagres, and in crossing the Isthmus sunk into the mud nearly up to his hat, mule and all. There are about 50 huts at Chagres, with a population of about 300. An alligator snapped at our boat, near Moro Castle, while approaching the shore, and we learn that the banks of the river are literally covered with hideous reptiles. The Castle is very dilapidated, and about 200 years old, and has within its dismal walls some 80 brass pieces, with no soldiers, and a family of natives. A large sample of all the abominable reptiles with which these fatal latitudes abound, lurk within and around it. Board at Chagres is $5 per day, in a common hut. We are about to draw lots for the first opportunity of ascending the river. I shall endeavor to be faithful in my narratives, during my entire pilgrimage. Adieu.
Stephen H. Branch.
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Latoon, twelve miles from Chagres,
6, P. M., in the doorway of a hut.
James Gordon Bennett: Four of us left Chagres, at 12, M., to-day, in a canoe about 25 feet long, 3 feet wide, and 18 inches deep. Our average weight is 160 pounds. We have three boatmen averaging 140 pounds each. Our baggage weighs about 800 pounds—total, 1,860 pounds. In high water, as now, in consequence of heavy rains, the oarsmen paddle against a current of six miles. Our canoe has a thatch covering composed of bamboo leaves and canvass. You cannot sit upright with a hat on, in the canoe, but must lie or rest on your elbow. The thatch roof is about two feet six inches from the bottom of the canoe, and about eight feet long, under which four of us sit and lie in a most uncomfortable position, with the air very close, and ants, and white, green and red spiders, and gallinippers, crawling all over us, with alligators snapping at us occasionally (when we look over the sides of the canoe), with now and then a hideous water snake leaping into the canoe, when nearly on its beam ends. The rain has poured in torrents since we left, and after “tea,” (good heavens! what tea!) at the house, or hut, or hog-pen, of one of our boatmen, at Latoon, embark for the night on our journey towards Gorgona, Cruces and Panama. The equator children are yelling and squalling in the contiguous huts; the pigs are squealing; the hens and ducks cackling, and the reptiles on the banks of the river are breathing the most frightful sounds. Before me is Jamaica rum, cocoa nuts, oranges, lemons, sugar-cane and other poisonous substances, which my companions have eaten, and one of them has already had the gripes. Latoon has some 20 huts. From Chagres to this place I saw three or four residences on rising ground, one of which, contrasted with the dismal scenery of the Chagres, looked rather pretty, which I espied while emerging from the most sepulchral views I ever beheld. Nearly all the fruits of the earth grow in wild luxuriance on the banks of the Chagres, and the atmosphere is the sweetest I ever inhaled—fragrant even unto poison. Birds of all hues and of all climes assemble here, and fill the air with the most delightful music. And yet, with all this to cheer the traveler of these burning zones, the rain, sun, currents, shadows and malaria, and anacondas large as trees, and the ceaseless chattering of monkeys, and growls of panthers, and snaps of alligators, render the Chagres the most infernal river in the world. This is called the dry season, and, so far, it has rained or poured about twelve times a day. The lightning is so vivid and incessant as to produce the most brilliant, yet frightful illumination of the scenery and atmosphere, and the thunder sounds like the crash of ten thousand worlds. But I must close, as I now embark on my solemn journey for the night.—Adieu,
Stephen H. Branch.
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In my canoe, on the Chagres, Jan 4, 1849.
Our supper, last night, consisted of rice and a stew of bad meat, with a sprinkling of all the fruits I have yet seen in Grenada. I smelt, but did not eat a particle. My comrades ate freely, and they look blue this morning. The natives poison rats with goat milk and pine apple combined, or with bananas and brandy. Either of these combinations will kill a man in about one hour, so I guess I shall keep a bright guard on what goes into my belly, which is rather loose and gripy to-day. To continue long wet is a matter of death in these latitudes, and if the bowels begin to degenerate, you must say your orisons immediately. A native died one hour before our arrival, during the fifth shake of fever and ague. On reaching the canoe, last evening, to embark, we bailed it out, chopping up and casting overboard some dozen water-snakes, that had got into the canoe while at tea. Last night was the hardest I ever passed. It rained very hard. The monkeys chattered in droves of thousands. Our boatmen sang the most doleful songs all night. Bull frogs rent the air with their discordant sounds; the snakes hissed, and the alligators brought their jaws together so fiercely, as to make even the forest tremble. Amid this frightful scene, with the thermometer at 97°, pent up in the veriest cubby hole you ever saw, where we could not move or turn over without endangering our lives by upsetting the canoe—it was altogether a night of extreme suffering to us all. We stopped at about two this morning, at a hut on the borders of the river, where being very sleepy, we took lodging for two hours, for which, with three cups of coffee, we gave $1 50, and departed at about five o’clock. Our bed was a piece of cloth spread on a bamboo floor, with a pillow about one foot long and six inches wide. It was the funniest pillow I ever saw, and we had hard work to keep our heads upon it. When the natives supposed we were asleep, I heard some of the rascals whispering about our assassination, and I awoke my comrade from a profound snore with a severe pinch and scratch with my long nails, when the glistening of our weapons, and a whisper between ourselves, and a slight movement towards arising amid the total darkness, scattered the cowardly assassins back to their hammocks, when we arose, and descended the ladder stairs, and paid our bill, and went to our canoe. The males and females nearly all smoke, and men, women, and children are nearly in a state of nature. Their apparel costs them very little, and the green earth affords them, without cultivation, every species of vegetable and animal production.
Stephen H. Branch.
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Gorgona, Jan 5, 1849.
[5½ A. M.]
James Gordon Bennett: I thank God that I have arrived at this infernal place, because it is the least odious of all the mud holes between this and Chagres. Ours was the first canoe into Gorgona. Money made our men work for their lives. We are about to take breakfast on the shore, and then pass on to Cruces, and will, doubtless be the first canoe in, and then we will try our luck over the mountains to Panama. We have had a truly awful time. The current ran against us in some places at the rate of eight miles, and we came near upsetting several times. The thermometer is 99 this morning. I must close and run to the canoe. I will write you when I get to Panama, but doubt if you will get my letters, as every thing is uncertain. I have not eaten for twenty-two hours, and have been lying wet in my canoe nearly ever since I left Chagres. My health is good, but irregularity, fatigue, and loss of sleep, affect me adversely, but I shall strive to vanquish all impediments. I have acquired more practical knowledge of animate and inanimate nature, since I left you, than I have attained in all my travels, but I have paid dearly for my information. Poor Columbus, Vespucius, Robinson Crusoe, and Daniel Boon are constantly before my vision, with whom I can truly sympathise, being like them, a pioneer in the exploration of the Western Hemisphere, and its adjacent isles. I could drop a tear to-day, my feelings are so extremely pensive, and yet I wont, but, if necessary, I’ll yet brave tigers in their dens. So, good bye.
Stephen H. Branch.
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Panama, New Grenada,
Sunday, Jan. 17, 1849.
James Gordon Bennett: This being a very interesting locality of the globe, at this time, I will strive to transmit daguerreotype views of what transpires. I stopped at Cruces one night, where several died, whose graves were dug by the natives (just below the earth’s surface,) with little sticks and earthern bowls, which is the custom of the country. In one case, the grave was not dug long enough, and the neck was broken by turning the head over on the breast. I found several American officers at Cruces, under the command of General Persifer F. Smith, who had proceeded to Panama. Finding no mules in Cruces, I wandered alone in the swamps in pursuit of one, amid rain, lightning and thunder that shook the deep foundations of the earth, and made the alligators show their hideous jaws. Through a flash of lightning, I discovered a muletteer in the dark and deep perspective, with whom, by signs and grim contortions, I contracted for a mule. The tempest twilight passed, and the mild equator stars emerged from their mysterious depths, and guided myself and muletteer from the dismal swamp. I learn from a passenger who has just entered my apartment at the Americano, that three emigrants were buried last night in the mountains. Two more are supposed to be dying at the French hotel. God only knows where all this will end. An aged passenger entered the gate of the city about three hours since, whose locks were as white as the untrodden snow, crying, with uplifted arms: “My children! my children! O God! restore my beloved children.” He looked and enacted the character of Lear more perfectly than I had ever seen it. The snow that fell on Grandfather Whitehead and poor old Lear, were only wanting to make it the most harrowing scene I ever witnessed. But unfortunately, it has not snowed on the equator, since the advent of creation. The old man’s children arrived about an hour since, and I had the pleasure of bathing the father of the flock with brandy, which revived and exhilarated him, and made him dance before me quite a reel. The old fellow really danced wonderfully; I think I never saw a man of his years step round so lively, alter I washed his exterior, and especially his interior, with sparkling brandy. The old man has just told me that a person went from his canoe into a thicket on the Chagres, and shot a monkey, when all his tribe began to chatter wildly, and drop from the trees upon him, and stole his hat, and scratched, and hit him severely, and finally, about 400 monkeys chased him into the Chagres, where he had to swim for his life until he was rescued by his comrades. Although my brandy has made the old man extremely loquacious and facetious, yet I believe his monkey story is as reliable as my snake and alligator narratives.
(To be continued.)