Chapter VII.
At the end of two weeks, I signified to my friends that I should be compelled, on the following day, to leave them, and pursue my voyage up the coast. I had supposed that there existed an interior connection between Great River and the lagoons which led to Cape Gracias, but found that they commenced with a stream some twenty miles to the northward, called “Snook Creek,” and that it would be necessary to trust our little boat again to the sea.
The announcement of my intended departure was received without the slightest manifestation of feeling, but, during the evening, the inhabitants vied with each other in loading the canoe with fruits and provisions. They were, in fact, so lavish of their presents, that I was unable to accept them all, and had to leave more than half of what they brought me. I, nevertheless, made special room for the tasajoed manitus, and took all the bisbire which was brought. As I have already explained, the bisbire is a paste made of ripe plantains, having about the consistency, and very much the taste, of dried figs. It is made into rolls, closely wrapped in the leaves of the tree on which it grows, which preserve it perfectly, and it thus becomes an article of prime value to the voyager.[3]
I left the village with as much ceremony as I had entered it. The Alcaldes bearing their wands, escorted me down to the water, where I was obliged to shake hands with all the people, each one exclaiming, “Disabia!” equivalent to “Good-bye!” They stood on the bank until we were entirely out of sight. I left them with admiration for their primitive habits, and genuine though formal hospitality. Although, in their taciturnity, they were not unlike our own Indians, yet, in all other respects, they afforded a very striking contrast to them. The North American savage disdains to work; his ambition lies in war and the chase; but the gentler dweller under the tropics is often industrious, and resorts to hunting only as an accessory to agriculture.
The ceremonies of my departure had occupied so much time that, when we reached the mouth of the river, it was too late to venture outside. So we took up our quarters, for the night, in our old encampment, on the island. The moon was out, and the evening was exceedingly beautiful—so beautiful, indeed, that I might have fallen into heroics, had it not been for a most infernal concert kept up by wild animals on the river’s banks. I at first supposed that all the ferocious beasts of the forest had congregated, preparatory to a general fight, and comforted myself that we were separated from them by the river. There were unearthly groans, and angry snarls, and shrieks, so like those of human beings in distress as to send a thrill through every nerve. At times the noises seemed blended, and became sullen and distant, and then so sharp and near that I could hardly persuade myself they were not produced on the island itself. I should have passed the night in alarm, had not Antonio been there to explain to me that most, if not all these sounds came from what the Spaniards call the “mono colorado,” or howling monkey. I afterward saw a specimen—a large, ugly beast, of a dirty, brick-red color, with a long beard, but otherwise like an African baboon. Different from most other monkeys, they remain in nearly the same places, and have favorite trees, in which an entire troop will take up its quarters at night, and open a horrible serenade, that never fails to fill the mind of the inexperienced traveler with the most dismal fancies. Notwithstanding Antonio’s explanations, they so disturbed my slumbers that I got up about midnight, and, going down to the edge of the water, fired both barrels of my gun in the direction of the greatest noise. But I advise no one to try a similar experiment. All the water-birds and wild fowl roosting in the trees gave a sudden flutter, and set up responsive croaks and screams, from which the monkeys seemed to derive great encouragement, and redoubled their howling. I was glad when the unwonted commotion ceased, and the denizens of the forest relapsed again into their chronic serenade.
A large proportion of tropical animals are emphatically “children of the night.” It is at night that the tiger and maneless Mexican lion leave their lairs, and range the dense forests in pursuit of their prey, rousing the peccary and tapir from their haunts, and sending them to seek refuge in the thickets, where crashing of bushes and splashings in hidden pools testify to the blind fear of the pursued, and the fierce instincts of the pursuers. A sudden plunge of the alligator from the banks, will startle the wild birds on the overhanging trees, and in an instant the forest resounds to the wild cries of the tiger, the plaints of the frightened monkeys, and the shrieks and croaks of the numerous water-fowl; while the wakeful traveler starts up and hastily grasps his faithful gun, surprised to find the wilderness, which was so still and slumberous under the noonday heats, now terrible with savage and warring life.
Toward morning the commotion in the forest subsided, and I was enabled to snatch a few hours of slumber. I awoke to find the sun just streaking the horizon, and the boat all ready for departure. Antonio had cut two trunks of the buoyant mohoe tree, which were lashed to the sides of our boat to act as floats, and prevent us from being overturned by any sudden flaw of the wind. We passed the bar without much trouble, and made a good offing, before laying our course for “Snook Creek.” The wind was fresh, and the water bright and playful under the blue and cloudless sky. I leaned over the side of our frail boat—scarce a speck in the broad breast of the ocean—and watched the numerous marine animals and mollusca that floated past; the nautilus, “small commodore,” with its tiny sail and rosy prow, the pulsating rhizostoma, and the bernice, with its silken hair—most fragile forms of life, and yet unharmed dwellers in the mighty sea, which mocks at the strength of iron, and undermines continents in its wrath!
