In the afternoon I had a visit from the captain, who told me that his name was “Lord Nelson Drummer,” and that his father had been “Governor” in the section around Pearl-Cay Lagoon. He had laid aside his official suit, and with simple breeches of white cotton cloth, and a straw hat, afforded a favorable contrast to his appearance in the morning. He spoke English—quite as well as the negroes of Jamaica, and generally made himself understood. From him I learned that the house, which I had seen in the clearings, had been built, many years before, by a French Creole from one of the islands of the Antilles, who at one time had there a large plantation of coffee, cotton, and sugar-cane, from the last of which he distilled much rum. Drummer was animated on the subject of the rum, of which there had been, as he said, “much plenty!” But the Frenchmen had died, and although his family kept up the establishment for a little while, they were obliged to abandon it in the end. The negroes who had been brought out, soon caught the infection of the coast, and, slavery having been prohibited (by the British Superintendent at Belize!), became idle, drunken, and worthless. Some of them still lingered around Wasswatla, gathering for sale to the occasional trader, a few pounds of coffee from the trees on the plantation, which, in spite of years of utter neglect, still bore fruit. The abandoned cane-fields furnished a supply of canes, at which all the inhabitants of Wasswatla, old and young, were constantly gnawing. In fact, this appeared to be their principal occupation. I subsequently visited the abandoned estate. It was overgrown with vines and bushes, among which the orange, lime, and coffee-trees struggled for existence. The house was tumbling into ruin, and the boilers in which the sugar had been made, were full of stagnating water. I returned to the squalid village, having learned another philosophy in the science of philanthropy; and with a diminishing inclination to tolerate the common cant about “universal brotherhood!”
The soil on the Wawashaan is rich and productive. It seems well adapted to cotton and sugar. The climate is hot and humid, and I saw many of the natives much reduced, and suffering greatly from fevers, which, if not violent, appear, nevertheless, to be persistent, and exceedingly debilitating. The natural products are numerous and valuable. I observed many indian-rubber trees, and, for the first time, the vanilla. It is produced on a vine, which climbs to the tops of the loftiest trees. Its leaves somewhat resemble those of the grape; the flowers are red and yellow, and when they fall off are succeeded by the pods, which grow in clusters, like our ordinary beans. Green at first, they change to yellow, and finally to a dark brown. To be preserved, they are gathered when yellow, and put in heaps, for a few days, to ferment. They are afterward placed in the sun to dry, flattened by the hand, and carefully rubbed with cocoa-nut oil, and then packed in dry plantain-leaves, so as to confine their powerful aromatic odor. The vanilla might be made a considerable article of trade on the coast; but, at present, only a few dozen packages are exported.
Lord Nelson, as I invariably called the captain, domesticated himself with me from the first day, and ate and drank with me—“especially the latter.” And I soon found out that there was a direct and intimate relation, between his degree of thirst and his protestations of attachment. He even hinted his intention to get up a mushla feast for me, but I would not agree to stay for a sufficient length of time.
Finally, however, a grand fishing expedition to the lagoon was determined on, and I was surprised to see with how much alacrity the proposition was taken up. The day previous to starting was devoted to sharpening spears, cleaning the boats, and making paddles, in all of which operations the women worked indiscriminately with the men. Plantains were gathered, and, as it seemed to me, no end of sugar-canes from the deserted plantation. In the evening, which happened to prove clear, the big drum was got out, fires lighted, and there was a dance, as Lord Nelson said, “Mosquito fashion.” My part of the performance consisted in keeping up the spirit of the drummers, by pouring spirits down, which service was responded to by a vehemence of pounding that would have done credit to a militia training. I was surprised to find how much skill the performers had attained; but afterward discovered that the drum is the favorite instrument on the coast, and is called in requisition on all occasions of festivity or ceremony. The dance was uncouth, without the merit of being grotesque; and long before it was finished, the performers, of both sexes, had thrown aside their tournous, and abandoned every shadow of decency in their actions. Lord Nelson began to grow torpid early in the evening, and, before I left the scene, had been carried off dead drunk. Next morning he looked rather downcast, and complained that the rum “had spoiled his head.”
It was quite late when our flotilla got under way, with a large dory, carrying the big drum, leading the van. There were some twenty-odd boats, containing nearly the entire population of the village. This number was increased from the huts lower down, the occupants of which hailed us with loud shouts, and hastened after us with their canoes. We went down the river with the current very rapidly, the men paddling in the maddest way, and shouting to each other at the top of their voices. Occasionally the boats got foul, when the rivals used the flat of their paddles over each other’s heads without scruple. I was considerably in the rear, and, from the sound of the blows, imagined that every skull had been crushed; but next moment their owners were paddling and shouting as if nothing had happened. From that day, I had a morbid curiosity to get a Mosquito skull!
We all encamped at night, on the sandy beach of a large island, in the centre of the lagoon. The reader may be sure that I made my own camp at a respectable distance from the rest of the party, where I had a quiet supper, patronized, as usual, by Captain Drummer. As soon as it became dark, the preparations for fishing commenced. The women were left on the beach, and three men apportioned to each boat. One was detailed to paddle, another to hold the torch, and the third, and most skillful, acted as striker or spearsman. The torches were made of splinters of the fat yellow pine, which abounds in the interior. The spears, I observed, were of two kinds; one firmly fixed by a shank at the end of a long light pole, called sinnock, which is not allowed to escape the hand of the striker. The other, called waisko-dusa, is much shorter. The staff is hollow, and the iron spear-head, or harpoon, is fastened to a line which passes through rings by the side of the shaft, and is wound to a piece of light-wood, designed to act as a float. When thrown, the head remains in the fish, while the line unwinds, and the float rises to the surface, to be seized again by the fisherman, who then hauls in his fish at his leisure. When the fish is large and active, the chase after the float becomes animated, and takes the character of what fishermen call “sport.”
As I have said, no sooner was it dark than the boats pushed off, in different directions, on the lagoon. My Poyer boy had borrowed a waisko-dusa, and with him to strike, and Antonio to paddle, I took a torch, and also glided out on the water. My torch was tied to a pole, which I held over the bow. Antonio paddled slowly, while the Poyer boy, entirely naked (for the strikers often go overboard after their own spears), stood in the bow, with his spear poised in his right hand, eagerly inclining forward, and motionless as a statue. He was perfect in form, and his bronze limbs, just tense enough to display without distorting the muscles, were brought in clear outline against the darkness by the light of the torch—revealing a figure and pose that would shame the highest achievements of the sculptor. It was so admirable that I quite forgot the fisher in the artist, when, rapid as light, the arm of the Poyer boy fell, and the spear entered the water eight or nine feet ahead of the boat. The motion was so sudden, that it nearly startled me overboard. At first, I thought he had missed his mark, but I soon saw the white float, now dipping under the water, now jerked this way, now that, evincing clearly that the spearsman had been true in his aim. A few strokes of Antonio’s paddle brought the float within reach of the striker, who began, in sporting phrase, to “land” the fish. It made a desperate struggle, and, for awhile, it was what is called a “tight pull” between the boy and the fish. Nevertheless, he was finally got in, and proved to be what is called a June, or Jew-fish (Coracinus), by the English, and Palpa by the natives. In point of delicacy and richness of flavor, this fish is unequaled by any other found in these seas. The one which we obtained weighed not far from eighty pounds. Some of them have been known to weigh two or three hundred pounds. Our prize made a great disturbance in our little canoe, to which Antonio put a stop by disemboweling him on the spot, after which we resumed our sport. We were successful in obtaining a number of rock-fish, and several sikoko, or sheep’s-heads. Ambitious to try my skill, I took the Poyer boy’s place for awhile. I was astonished to find how perfectly clear the water proved to be, under the light of the torch. The bottom, which, in the broad daylight, had been utterly invisible, now revealed all of its mysteries, its shells, and plants, and stones, with wonderful distinctness. I observed also that the fish seemed to be attracted by the light, and, instead of darting away, rose toward the surface and approached the boat. I allowed several opportunities of throwing the spear to slip. Finally, a fine sheep’s-head rose just in front of me; I aimed my spear, and threw it with such an excess of force as literally to drive the dory from beneath my feet, precipitating myself in the water, and knocking down and extinguishing the torch in my ungraceful tumble. The spear was recovered, and I felt rather disappointed to find that it was innocent of a fish. Antonio suggested that he had broken loose, which was kind of him, but it wouldn’t do. As we were without light, and, moreover, had as many fish as we could possibly dispose of, we paddled ashore.
Up to this time, I had been so much absorbed with our own sport, that I had not noticed the other fishers. It was a strange scene. Each torch glowed at the apex of a trembling pyramid of red light, which, as the boats could not be seen, seemed to be inspired with life. Some moved on stately and slow, while others, where the boats were rapidly whirled in pursuit of the stricken fish, seemed to be chasing each other in fiery glee. Every successful throw was hailed with vehement shouts, heightened by loud blows made by striking the flat of the paddle on the surface of the water. All along the shore, the women had lighted fires whereat to dry the fish, which, in this climate, can not be kept long without spoiling. The light from these fires caught on the heavy foliage of the shore, and revealing the groups of half-naked women and children, helped to make up a scene which it is difficult to paint in words, but which can never be forgotten by one who has witnessed it.
It was past midnight before the boats all returned to the shore; and then commenced the drying of the fish. Over all the fires, just out of reach of the flames, were raised frame-works of canes, like gridirons, on which the fish, thinly sliced lengthwise, and rubbed with salt, were laid. They were repeatedly turned, so that, with the salt, smoke and heat, they were so far cured in the morning, as to require no further attention than a day or two of exposure to the sun. Our Jew-fish was thus prepared, and afterward stood us in good stead, much resembling smoked salmon, but less salt. While Antonio superintended this operation, I cooked the head and shoulders of the big fish in the sand, after the manner I have already described, and achieved a signal success, inasmuch as the dish was well seasoned with “hunger sauce.”