Chapter III.
The approach to the coast, near Bluefields, holds out no delusions. The shore is flat, and in all respects tame and uninteresting. A white line of sand, a green belt of trees, with no relief except here and there a solitary palm, and a few blue hills in the distance, are the only objects which are offered to the expectant eyes of the voyager. A nearer approach reveals a large lagoon, protected by a narrow belt of sand, covered, on the inner side, with a dense mass of mangrove trees; and this is the harbor of Bluefields. The entrance is narrow, but not difficult, at the foot of a high, rocky bluff, which completely commands the passage.
The town, or rather the collection of huts called by that name, lies nearly nine miles from the entrance. After much tacking, and backing, and filling, to avoid the innumerable banks and shallows in the lagoon, we finally arrived at the anchorage. We had hardly got our anchor down, before we were boarded by a very pompous black man, dressed in a shirt of red check, pantaloons of white cotton cloth, and a glazed straw hat, with feet innocent of shoes, whose office nobody knew, further than that he was called “Admiral Rodney,” and was an important functionary in the “Mosquito Kingdom.” He bustled about, in an extraordinary way, but his final purpose seemed narrowed down to getting a dram, and pocketing a couple of dollars, slily slipped into his hand by the captain, just before he got over the side. When he had left, we were told that we could go on shore.
Bluefields is an imperial city, the residence of the court of the Mosquito Kingdom, and therefore merits a particular description. As I have said, it is a collection of the rudest possible thatched huts. Among them are two or three framed buildings, one of which is the residence of a Mr. Bell, an Englishman, with whom, as I afterwards learned, resided that world-renowned monarch, “George William Clarence, King of all the Mosquitos.” The site of the huts is picturesque, being upon comparatively high ground, at a point where a considerable stream from the interior enters the lagoon. There are two villages; the principal one, or Bluefields proper, which is much the largest, containing perhaps five hundred people; and “Carlsruhe,” a kind of dependency, so named by a colony of Prussians who had attempted to establish themselves here, but whose colony, at the time of my visit, had utterly failed. Out of more than a hundred of the poor people, who had been induced to come here, but three or four were left, existing in a state of great debility and distress. Most of their companions had died, but a few had escaped to the interior, where they bear convincing witness to the wickedness of attempting to found colonies, from northern climates, on low, pestiferous shores, under the tropics.
Among the huts were many palm and plantain trees, with detached stalks of the papaya, laden with its large golden fruit. The shore was lined with canoes, pitpans and dories, hollowed from the trunks of trees, all sharp, trim, and graceful in shape. The natives propel them, with great rapidity, by single broad-bladed paddles, struck vertically in the water, first on one side, and then on the other.[1]
There was a large assemblage on the beach, when we landed, but I was amazed to find that, with few exceptions, they were all unmitigated negros, or Sambos (i. e. mixed negro and Indian). I had heard of the Mosquito shore as occupied by the Mosquito Indians, but soon found that there were few, if any, pure Indians on the entire coast. The miserable people who go by that name are, in reality, Sambos, having a considerable intermixture of trader blood from Jamaica, with which island the coast has its principal relations. The arrival of the traders on the shore is the signal for unrestrained debauchery, always preluded by the traders baptizing, in a manner not remarkable for its delicacy or gravity, all children born since their last visit, in whom there is any decided indication of white blood. The names given on these occasions are as fantastic as the ceremony, and great liberties are taken with the cognomens of all notabilities, living and dead, from “Pompey” down to “Wellington.”
Our first concern in Bluefields was to get a roof to shelter us, which we finally succeeded in doing, through the intervention of the captain of the “Bolivar.” That is to say, a dilapidated negro from Jamaica, hearing that I had just left that delectable island, claimed me as his countryman, and gave me a little deserted thatched hut, the walls of which were composed of a kind of wicker work of upright canes, interwoven with palm leaves. This structure had served him, in the days of his prosperity, as a kitchen. It was not more than ten feet square, but would admit a hammock, hung diagonally from one corner to the other. To this abbreviated establishment, I moved my few damaged effects, and in the course of the day, completely domesticated myself. Antonio exhibited the greatest aptness and industry in making our quarters comfortable, and evinced an elasticity and cheerfulness of manner unknown before. In the evening, he responded to the latent inquiry of my looks, by saying, that his heart had become lighter since he had reached the continent, and that his Lord gave promise of better days.
“Look!” he exclaimed, as he held up his talisman before my eyes. It emitted a pale light, which seemed to come from it in pulsations, or radiating circles. It may have been fancy, but if so, I am not prepared to say that all which we deem real is not a dream and a delusion!