In the wake of the buccaneers

by A. Hyatt Verrill

Beyond Old Providence the wide, unbroken sea stretched away to the horizon, until at last dim mountains, the tip of the Andes, rose before our bows, and clearer and ever clearer grew the land, the coast of the Spanish Main. Rising in green hills from the water, it swept inward, an undulating sea of verdure, to the cloud-draped blue peaks: a vast, untamed wilderness with no vestige of settlement or civilization, until, as the hills became lower and the mountain ranges more distant, we passed the half-hidden entrance to Porto Bello and far ahead saw the smoke-pall and the low land that marked Colon and the entrance to the Panama Canal.

Past the lofty wireless towers, the huge hangars, and the white buildings of Coco Solo, past the great Hotel Washington, past the vast breakwater [[297]]we steamed, and, gliding through the narrow entrance between the two long ridges of rock and concrete that protect—or, rather, are supposed to protect—the harbor, entered the waters of the Zone, where our steamer was warped into the huge concrete-and-steel piers at Cristobal.

How old Morgan and his fellow buccaneers would stare and rub their eyes could they but glimpse this terminus of the great ditch that links the two oceans, with its puffing locomotives, its row of huge docks, its scores of mighty steamships, and its innumerable honking motor-cars! It was a morass in their day, and for nearly two centuries thereafter; for Colon was built upon a swamp and enjoys the distinction of being one of the few towns, if not the only town, constructed in order to establish a starting-place for a railway, instead of the railway being built to accommodate a town. Originally the place was called Aspinwall, in honor of the projector of the trans-isthmian railroad, and there resulted a ludicrous state of affairs, a petty squabble between two nations that probably has no equal.

Although the Americans who built the town called it Aspinwall, the Colombians had their own ideas on the subject, and to perpetuate the name of the great discoverer they christened it Colon. [[298]]The United States Government then took a hand and, refusing to recognize any such town as Colon, declined to deliver mail addressed thereto. But that was a game which two could play, and the Colombians promptly refused to accept or deliver mail addressed to Aspinwall. As in most cases, possession was nine points of the law, and as the binomial port was unquestionably on Colombian territory, the United States at last backed down and grudgingly agreed that “Colon” it should remain.

Colon is a far from interesting city, but it is clean and sanitary and no longer the sordid, disease-ridden, filthy hole that it was in pre-canal days. Moreover, despite the lurid tales of fiction-writers, Colon is as orderly and law-abiding as any port, and while it possesses an inordinate number of cheap cabarets and cheaper bar-rooms, and is frequented by hundreds of Uncle Sam’s sailors nightly, not to mention a multitude of seamen, canal-zone employees, and natives, yet serious crimes are rare and vice hides itself in out-of-the-way streets in a restricted district. But Colon’s reputation as the “wickedest city in America” has not long been a thing of the past. Five years ago both Colon and Panama were such hotbeds of iniquity that the commanding general of the [[299]]United States forces on the isthmus was compelled to issue a general order prohibiting sailors and soldiers from entering Panamanian territory.

As a result of this order, Panama was compelled to clean up its two chief towns, for without the patronage of the Americans they would have been in sore straits, and while the Government was slow about it (for the average Panamanian is far from squeamish in regard to either physical or moral filth), the herculean task was at last accomplished and our men of the army and navy were once more permitted to roam through the streets and frequent the resorts of the Panamanian towns.

Little need be said of Colon, or of Cristobal, the spick-and-span little American town on the zone side of the railway which forms the boundary between American and Panamanian territory, or—what is of more importance to the majority of visitors—the boundary between a very dry and a very wet land.

Neither possesses any historical associations, and neither had been dreamed of in the days of the buccaneers. But near at hand, a scant twenty-five miles down the coast and easily accessible by motor-boat, is the ancient stronghold of Porto Bello, the grim old citadel that defied Drake, the treasure-house that fell to Morgan and his men, [[300]]the Atlantic terminus of the celebrated Gold Road.

Within the vaults of Porto Bello have been stored countless millions of treasure. To this port, winding their way through the jungles, along the roughly paved road from Panama, came the long mule-trains, laden with the riches of the despoiled Incas; with the output of the marvelous mines of Darien and Veraguas; with the gems and jewels of Aztec kings and princes; with bullion and plate; with the treasures of the Indies. With jangling bells the gaily caparisoned mules trotted over the rough cobbles, splashed through the rivers, and plunged up the steep slopes; with cracking whips and hoarse shouts the sandaled drivers ran beside them, in picturesque Spanish cursing their beasts and urging them forward; chained together in groups, the bronze-skinned Indian and ebon-hued African slaves stumbled along, groaning, footsore, bleeding from the lash; while leading the way and bringing up the rear were the mail-clad soldiery, the plumed officers, the proud hidalgos and such well-to-do travelers as saw fit to travel from ocean to ocean across this Bridge of the World.

Long centuries have passed since the last treasure-train wound its slow way across the isthmus by the Gold Road. Huge trees have sprung from between its cobbles and have spread their vast [[301]]network of branches above the spots where fever-stricken slaves dropped dying under the hoofs of the gold-laden mules. The forest has obliterated the once broad way; the jungle has hidden with its impenetrable curtain long stretches of the celebrated highroad; steeply arched bridges have crumbled into the tumbling rivers, and wayside stopping-places, where the long mule-teams halted for rest and refreshment, are mere mounds of giant ferns and huge-leafed plants. But still, so the natives say, ghostly figures may sometimes be seen traversing the highway. Through the silence of the midnight jungle come the tinkle of mule-bells and the clatter of hoofs on stone; weird lights flicker and dance between the trees, and the screams of mortals in agony and the groans of the dying make one’s blood run cold. No natives willingly go near the old road after nightfall, for to them it is accursed, a way paved with dead men’s bones, a trail of blood and death; and piously they cross themselves and speak in hushed and fearful voices at mention of it.