Half fearing that it might be my own disordered fancy, I shouted to Antonio, who, quick as light, was at my side. He stirred up the fire, and laughed outright! We had been invaded by an army of soldier-crabs, moving down from the high backgrounds. Antonio had selected his bed for the night nearest the river, and the fire, dividing the host, had protected him, while it had turned a double column upon me. I could not myself help laughing at the incident, which certainly had the quality of novelty. I watched the moving legion for an hour, but there was no perceptible decrease in the numbers. So I laid down again by the side of Antonio, and slept quietly until morning, when there were no more crabs to be seen, nor a trace of them, except that the ground had been minutely punctured all over, by their sharp, multitudinous claws.
It was rather late when we started up the river. We had not proceeded far before we came to an open space, where there were some rude huts, with canoes drawn up on the bank, in front. A few men, nearly naked, shouted at us as we passed, inquiring, in broken English, what we had to sell, evidently thinking that the white man could have no purpose there unless to trade. We passed other huts at intervals, which, however, had no signs of cultivation around them, except a few palm and plantain-trees, and an occasional small patch of yucas. The mangroves had now disappeared, and the banks began to look inviting, covered, as they were, with large trees, including the caoba, or mahogany, and the gigantic ceiba, all loaded down with vines. Thousands of parrots passed over, with their peculiar short, heavy flutter, and loud, querulous note. In the early morning, and toward night, they keep up the most vehement chattering, all talking and none listening, after the manner of a Woman’s Rights Convention. There were also gaudy macaws, which floated past like fragments of a rainbow. In common with the parrots, they always go in pairs, and when one is found alone, he is always silent and sad, and acts as if he were a lone widower, and meditated suicide.
“THE SPOONBILL.”
On the occasional sandy reaches, we saw groups of the Roseate Spoonbills, with their splendid plumage. The whole body is rose-colored; but the wings, toward the shoulders, and the feathers around the base of the neck, are of a bright scarlet, deepening to blood-red. But they form no exception to the law of compensations—in mechanics, called equilibrium, and in mathematics equations, since, while beautiful in plumage, they are sinfully ugly in shape. And I could not help fancying, when I saw them standing silent and melancholy on snags, contemplating themselves in the water, that, as with some other kinds of birds, their brilliant colors gave them no joy, coupled with so serious a drawback in form. I shot several, from which the Poyer boy selected the most beautiful feathers, which he afterward interwove with others from the macaw, parrot, and egret, in a gorgeous head-dress, as a present to me.
Toward noon we came to a cleared space, much the largest I had seen on the coast; and, as we approached nearer, I saw a house of European construction, and a large field of sugar-cane. In striking contrast with these evidences of industry and civilization, a Sambo or Mosquito village, made up of squalid huts, half buried in the forest, filled out the foreground. I recognized it as the village of Wasswatla (literally Watertown), the place of our destination. It, nevertheless, looked so uninviting and miserable, that had I not been attracted by the Christian establishment in the distance, I should have returned incontinently to the lagoon.
My unfavorable impressions were heightened on a nearer approach. As we pushed up our canoe to the shore, among a great variety of dories and other boats, the population of the village, including a large number of dogs of low degree, swarmed down to survey us. The juveniles were utterly naked, and most of the adults of both sexes had nothing more than a strip of a species of cloth, made of the inner bark of the ule or India-rubber tree (resembling the tappa of the Society Islanders), wrapped around their loins. There was scarcely one who was not disfigured by the blotches of the bulpis, and the hair of each stood out in frightful frizzles, “like the quills on the fretful porcupine.” Most of the men carried a short spear, pointed with a common triangular file, carefully sharpened by rubbing on the stones, which, as I afterward learned, is used for striking turtle.
Forbidding as was the appearance of the assemblage, none of its individuals evinced hostility, and when I jumped ashore, and saluted them with “Good morning,” they all responded, “Mornin’ sir!” brought out with an indescribable African drawl. Two or three of the number volunteered to help Antonio draw up our boat, while I gave various orders, in default of knowing what else to do. Luckily, it occurred to me to produce a document, or pass, with which Mr. Bell had kindly furnished me before leaving Bluefields, and which all seemed to recognize, pointing to it respectfully, and ejaculating, “King paper! King paper!” It was frequently called afterward, “the paper that talks.” This precious document, well engrossed on a sheet of fools-cap, with a broad seal at the bottom, ran as follows:—
“Mosquito Kingdom.