My host was a man of more pretensions than Captain Ponto, but otherwise very much of the same order of African architecture. From his cautious silence, on the subject of his arrival on the coast, I inferred that he had been brought out as a slave, some thirty-five or forty years ago, when several planters from Jamaica attempted to establish themselves here. However that may have been, he now called himself a “merchant,” and appeared proud of a little collection of “osnaburgs,” a few red bandanna handkerchiefs, flanked by a dingy cask of what the Yankees would call “the rale critter,” which occupied one corner of his house or rather hut. He brooded over these with unremitting care, although I believe I was his only customer, (to the extent of a few fish hooks), during my stay in Bluefields. He called himself Hodgson, (the name, as I afterwards learned, of one of the old British superintendents,) and based his hopes of family immortality upon a son, whom he respectfully called Mister James Hodgson, and who was, he said, principal counselor to the king. This information, communicated to me within two hours after my arrival, led me to believe myself in the line of favorable presentation at court. But I found out afterwards, that this promising scion of the house of Hodgson was “under a cloud,” and had lost the sunshine of imperial favor, in consequence of having made some most indiscreet confessions, when taken a prisoner, a few years before, by the Nicaraguans. However, I was not destined to pine away my days in devising plans to obtain an introduction to his Mosquito Majesty. For, rising early on the morning subsequent to my arrival, I started out to see the sights of Bluefields. Following a broad path, leading to a grove of cocoa-nut trees, which shadowed over the river, tall and trim, I met a white man, of thin and serious visage, who eyed me curiously for a moment, bowed slightly, and passed on in silence. The distant air of an Englishman, on meeting an American, is generally reciprocated by equally frigid formality. So I stared coldly, bowed stiffly, and also passed on. I smiled to think what a deal of affectation had been wasted on both sides, for it would have been unnatural if two white men were not glad to see each others’ faces in a land of ebony like this. So I involuntarily turned half round, just in time to witness a similar evolution on the part of my thin friend. It was evident that his thoughts were but reflections of my own, and being the younger of the two, I retraced my steps, and approached him with a laughing “Good morning!” He responded to my salutation with an equally pregnant “Good morning,” at the same time raising his hand to his ear, in token of being hard of hearing. Conversation opened, and I at once found I was in the presence of a man of superior education, large experience, and altogether out of place in the Mosquito metropolis. After a long walk, in which we passed a rough board structure, surmounted by a stumpy pole, supporting a small flag—a sort of hybrid between the Union Jack and the “Stars and Stripes”—called by Mr. Bell the “House of Justice,” I accepted his invitation to accompany him home to coffee.
His house was a plain building of rough boards, with several small rooms, all opening into the principal apartment, in which I was invited to sit down. A sleepy-looking black girl, with an enormous shock of frizzled hair, was sweeping the floor, in a languid, mechanical way, calculated to superinduce yawning, even after a brisk morning walk. The partitions were hung with many prints, in which “Her Most Gracious Majesty” appeared in all the multiform glory of steel, lithograph, and chromotint. A gun or two, a table in the corner, supporting a confused collection of books and papers, with some ropes, boots, and iron grapnels beneath, a few chairs, a Yankee clock, and a table, completed the furniture and decoration of the room. I am thus particular in this inventory, for reasons which will afterward appear.
At a word from Mr. Bell, the torpid black girl disappeared for a few moments, and then came back with some cups and a pot of coffee. I observed that there were three cups, and that my host filled them all, which I thought a little singular, since there were but two of us. A faint, momentary suspicion crossed my mind, that the female polypus stood in some such relation to my host as to warrant her in honoring us with her company. But, instead of doing so, she unceremoniously pushed open a door in the corner, and curtly ejaculated to some unseen occupant, “Get up!” There was a kind of querulous response, and directly a thumping and muttering, as of some person who regarded himself as unreasonably disturbed. Meanwhile we had each finished our first cup of coffee, and were proceeding with a second, when the door in the corner opened, and a black boy, or what an American would be apt to call, a “young darkey,” apparently nineteen or twenty years old, shuffled up to the table. He wore only a shirt, unbuttoned at the throat, and cotton pantaloons, scarcely buttoned at all. He nodded to my entertainer with a drawling “Mornin’, sir!” and sat down to the third cup of coffee. My host seemed to take no notice of him, and we continued our conversation. Soon after, the sloven youth got up, took his hat, and slowly walked down the path to the river, where I afterward saw him washing his face in the stream.
As I was about leaving, Mr. Bell kindly volunteered his services to me, in any way they might be made available. I thanked him, and suggested that, having no object to accomplish except to “scare up” adventures and seek out novel sights, I should be obliged to him for an introduction to the king, at some future day, after Antonio should have succeeded in rejuvenating my suit of ceremony, now rather rusty from saturation with salt water. He smiled faintly, and said, as for that matter, there need be no delay; and, stepping to the door, shouted to the black youth by the river, and beckoned to him to come up the bank. The youth put on his hat hurriedly, and obeyed. “Perhaps you are not aware that is the king?” observed my host, with a contemptuous smile. I made no reply, as the youth was at hand. He took off his hat respectfully, but there was no introduction in the case, beyond the quiet observation, “George, this gentleman has come to see you; sit down!”
I soon saw who was the real “king” in Bluefields. “George,” I think, had also a notion of his own on the subject, but was kept in such strict subordination that he never manifested it by words. I found him shy, but not without the elements of an ordinary English education, which he had received in England. He is nothing more or less than a negro, with hardly a perceptible trace of Indian blood, and would pass at the South for “a likely young fellow, worth twelve hundred dollars as a body-servant!”
The second day after my arrival was Sunday, and in the forenoon, Mr. Bell read the service of the English Church, in the “House of Justice.” There were perhaps a dozen persons present, among them the king, who was now dressed plainly and becomingly, and who conducted himself with entire propriety. I could not see that he was treated with any special consideration; while Mr. Bell received marked deference.
It is a curious fact that although the English have had relations, more or less intimate, with this shore, ever since the pirates made it their retreat, during the glorious days of the buccaneers, they have never introduced the Gospel. The religion of the “kingdom” was declared by the late king, in his will, to be “the Established Church of England,” but the Established Church has never taken steps to bring the natives within its aristocratic fold. Several dissenting missionaries have made attempts to settle on the coast, but as the British officers and agents never favored them, they have met with no success. Besides, the Sambos are strongly attached to heathenish rites, half African and half Indian, in which what they call “big drunk” is not the least remarkable feature. Some years ago a missionary, named Pilley, arrived at Sandy Bay, for the purpose of reclaiming the “lost sheep.” A house was found for him, and he commenced preaching, and for a few Sundays enticed some of the leading Sambos to hear him, by giving them each a glass of grog. At length, one Sabbath afternoon, a considerable number of the natives attended to hear the stranger talk, and to receive the usual spiritual consolation. But the demijohn of the worthy minister had been exhausted. He nevertheless sought to compensate for the deficiency by a more vehement display of eloquence, and for a time flattered himself that he was producing a lasting impression. His discourse, however, was suddenly interrupted by one of the chiefs, who rose and indignantly exclaimed, “All preach—no grog—no good!” and with a responsive “No good!” the audience followed him, as he stalked away, leaving the astonished preacher to finish his discourse to two or three Englishmen present.
In Bluefields the natives are kept in more restraint than elsewhere on the coast; but even here it has been found impossible to suppress their traditional practices, especially when connected with their superstitions. My venerable friend Hodgson, after “service,” informed me that a funeral was to take place, at a small settlement, a few miles up the river, and volunteered to escort me thither in his pitpan, if Antonio would undertake to do the paddling. The suggestion was very acceptable, and after a very frugal dinner, on roast fish and boiled plantains, we set out. But we were not alone; we found dozens of pitpans starting for the same destination, filled with men and women. It is impossible to imagine a more picturesque spectacle than these light and graceful boats, with occupants dressed in the brightest colors, darting over the placid waters of the river, now gay in the sunlight, and anon sobered in the shadows of the trees which studded the banks. There was a keen strife among the rowers, who, amid shouts and screeches, in which both men and women joined, exerted themselves to the utmost. Even Antonio smiled at the scene, but it was half contemptuously, for he maintained, in respect to these mongrels, the reserve of conscious superiority.
