The Cruise of the 'Alerte' / The narrative of a search for treasure on the desert island of Trinidad

by E. F. Knight

Another peculiarity of this tract of broken water—out of which we soon emerged as quickly as we had got into it—was that it swarmed with fish and other forms of life. Shoals of small fish were dashing about merrily in the spray, while fleets of large pink Portuguese men-of-war—as the sailors call the Nautilus—were floating on the surface. Until we had got into this curious portion of the ocean we had seen very few fish.

After some days of similar uncomfortable weather, we drifted or sailed—when the squalls allowed—into a respectable climate again, and ran before the trade-wind at a fair pace. Our best day's run was on March 6, when we made 192 miles. On this day we got into soundings, the colour of the deep ocean changing to the dark green of comparatively shallow water; for we were nearing the coast, so as to make the entrance of the Gulf of Paria. We sighted the mountains of Trinidad right ahead of us at daybreak of March 8, about two leagues distant. We ran, before a light wind, between Galeota Point and Baja Point. The sun now blazed down out of a cloudless sky, the morning mists lifted and disclosed the scenery around us, which was of a very different nature from that we had left on the desert Trinidad.

We were no longer tumbling about on the great transparent green rollers that perpetually break upon the coasts of our Treasure Island, but sailing on the smooth, muddy water of a shallow inland sea. On our left were the low shores of Venezuela—a long line of dreary mangrove swamps that form the delta of the Orinoco; the peculiar, and, I should say, somewhat malarious, odour of the steaming mud being plainly perceptible for leagues out to sea.

On our right were the shores of Trinidad—one of the fairest islands of the Caribbean Sea. The sandy beaches were fringed with cocoanut palms, and behind rose gently swelling mountains, covered with fine forests, the lordly palmistes towering above all the lesser foliage—forests in which the trees were of various forms and tints, presenting a beautiful appearance, the feathery bamboos and the scarlet and purple blossoms of bougainvillea and other flowering trees relieving the dark green slopes of dense vegetation. On the plains that lay under the mountains, and in the broad valleys that clove them, could be seen the pale green spreads of the sugar-cane plantations, with the tall chimneys of the boiling-houses rising above them, and the darker clumps of the cacao groves.

When we were near Point Icacos we saw a school of whales, but, not having the whale-boat or gun ready, we did not go in chase.

We passed through the narrow Serpent's Mouth, and were inside the Gulf of Paria; from here we coasted along the shores of Trinidad by many a landmark familiar to myself, and still more so to our two coloured men, who became quite excited when they once more beheld their native islands after an absence of two years and more. We sailed by Cedros Point; by the curious row of rocks that are known as the Serpent's Teeth; by the village of Brea, off which several vessels were lying at anchor, loading with the bitumen that is dug out of the famous Pitch Lake about a mile in shore.

We did not reach Port of Spain this day, for the wind fell away, and we had to come to an anchor off St. Fernando for the night; but on the following day, March 9, we completed our voyage, and let go our anchor off Port of Spain early in the afternoon, having been twenty-two days out from our desert island.

We were anchored at about two-thirds of a mile from the jetty, and there was only eight feet of water under us at low tide. As the draught of the 'Alerte' is ten feet, she then sank two feet into the mud. This is quite the proper way to do things at Port of Spain. Sailing-vessels bound here with timber are in the habit of running as high up as they can into the mud, knowing that when they have discharged their cargo they will easily float off again. The mud deposited in the Gulf of Paria by the outflow of the Orinoco and its tributaries is the softest possible, and is very deep, so that a vessel can suffer no injury by lying in it, even when the sea is rough. So shallow is the water in this roadstead that at a mile and a half from the shore the depth is only three fathoms, while a ship's boat cannot approach the end of the jetty at low water.

I had visited Trinidad before, and had many friends here, so was at once at home on shore, as, too, were, very soon, my companions. We were made honorary members of the pleasant Port of Spain Club, and were treated everywhere with that hearty hospitality for which the West Indies have always been noted.

Our voyage was now over, and though most of my companions were anxious to sail away with me in search of any other treasure we might hear of on West Indian cays—or to turn our vessel's head southward again, and make for Demerara, to travel inland to the gold districts of Upper Guiana on the Venezuelan frontier—or, in short, set sail for any part of the world that promised adventure and possible profit (I believe they would have turned filibusters if the chance had presented itself)—and though I had four paid hands on board also willing to have gone anywhere we should choose to lead them—still, I could not see my way to extending the voyage any further for the present, and decided to lay up the 'Alerte' at Port of Spain.