THE FIGHT NEAR QUAMWATLA.
Convinced that we would be pursued, and that if overtaken we should be borne down by numbers, the question of our safety became one of superior craft, or superior speed. I was disposed to try the latter, but yielded to Antonio, who, watching an opportunity, ran our boat under an overhanging tree, where the tangled bank cast an impenetrable shadow on the water. Here we breathlessly awaited the course of events. It was not long before we heard a slight ripple, and through the uncertain light I saw three canoes dart rapidly and silently past. The pursuers evidently thought we had reached the river, where the mangroves and impenetrable jungles on the banks would effectually prevent concealment or escape. Relieved from the sense of immediate danger, it became a vital question what we should next do to secure our ultimate safety. The moon would soon be up, and our pursuers, not finding us on the river, would at once divine our trick, and, placing us between themselves and the town, render escape impossible. To abandon our boat was to court a miserable death in the woods. Antonio suggested the only feasible alternative. There were but three canoes, and when they reached the river, he shrewdly reasoned, two would follow our most probable track down the stream, while the third would doubtless search for us above. Our policy, then, was to follow in the wake of the latter, until it should be as widely separated from aid as possible, and then, by a sudden coup-de-main, either disable or paralyze our opponents, and make the best of our way into the interior, where we could not fail to find creeks, and other places of refuge from pursuit.
My companions stripped themselves, so as not to be encumbered in the water, in case of accident, and I followed their example, retaining only my dark shirt, lest my white body should prove too conspicuous a mark. I carefully loaded my pistols, put a handful of buckshot in each barrel of my gun, and we started down the creek. A few moments brought us to the river, but we could neither see nor hear the canoes of our enemies. We turned up the stream, paddling rapidly, but silently, and keeping close to the shore. Every few minutes Antonio would stop to listen. Meantime, I hailed with joy some heavy clouds in the East, which promised to prolong the obscurity, by hiding the light of the rising moon.
The excitement of the night of the terrible storm, in which I was wrecked on “El Roncador,” was trifling to what I experienced that evening, paddling up the dark and sullen river. I exulted in every boat’s length which we gained, as tending to make the inevitable contest more equal, and welcomed every ebon fold of cloud which gathered in the horizon. I felt that a thunder-storm was brooding; and the marshaling of the elements roused still more the savage desperation which gradually absorbed every other feeling and sentiment. At first, every nerve in my system vibrated, and I trembled in every limb; I felt like one in an ague fit; but this soon passed away—every muscle became tense, and I felt the strong pulsations in my temples, as if molten iron was coursing through the veins. I no longer sought to avoid a contest, but longed for the hour to come when I could shed blood. Every moment seemed an age, and I know not how I subdued my impatience.
Meantime the threatened storm gathered, with a rapidity peculiar to the tropics on the eve of a fervid day, and the darkness became so dense that we several times ran our boat against the bank, from sheer inability to see. Suddenly the dark vail of heaven was rift, and the lurid lightning fell with a blinding flash, which seemed to sear our eyeballs. An instant after rolled in the deep-voiced thunder, booming awfully among the primeval forests. A few rain-drops followed, which struck with steel-like sharpness on the naked skin, and hot puffs of air came soughing along the river. A moment after the heavens again glowed with the lightnings, glaring on the dark breast of the river, and revealing, but a few yards in advance of us, the hostile canoe, returning from what its occupants no doubt regarded as a hopeless pursuit. Their loud shout of savage defiance and joy was cut short by the heavy roll of the thunder, and, an instant after, the bows of our boats came together. They glanced apart, and I was nearly thrown from my balance into the water, for I had risen, the more surely to pour the contents of my gun into the midst of our assailants. Another shout followed the shock, and I heard the arrows, shot at random in the darkness, hiss past our heads. I reserved my fire until the lightning should fall to guide my aim. I had not long to wait; a third flash revealed the opposing boat; I saw that it was filled with men, and that in their midst stood the treacherous head man of the village. The flash of my gun, and that of the lightning, so far as human senses could discern, were simultaneous; yet instantaneous as the whole transaction must have been, I saw my victim fall, and heard his body plunge in the water, before the report had been caught up by the echo, or drowned by the thunder. I shall never forget the shriek of terror and of rage that rung out from that boat to swell the angry discord of the elements. Even now, it often startles me from my sleep. But then it inspired me with the wildest joy; I shouted back triumphantly, and tossed my arms exultingly in the face of the unblenching darkness. A few more arrows, a couple of musket-shots, fired at random toward us, and the combat was over. We heard wails and groans, but they grew fainter and more distant, showing that our enemies were dropping down the river. Another flash of lightning disclosed them drifting along the bank, and beyond the reach of our weapons.
Our purpose was now accomplished; our foes were behind us, and before us an unknown mesh of lagoons and rivers. We had no alternative but to advance, perhaps upon other and more formidable dangers. However that might be, we did not stop to consider, but all through the stormy night plied our paddles with incessant energy. About midnight we came to a small lagoon, on the banks of which we observed some fires, but the sky was still overcast, and we escaped notice. Toward morning the moon came out, and we directed our boat close in shore, so as to take refuge in some obscure creek during the day. An opening finally presented itself, and we paddled in. As we advanced it became narrow, and was obstructed by drooping branches and fallen trunks. Under some of them we forced our boat with difficulty, and others we cut away with our machetes. After infinite trouble and labor we passed the mangrove-swamp, and came to high grounds, on which were many coyol palm-trees, and a few dark pines. Here, exhausted with our extraordinary efforts, and no longer sustained by excitement, we made a hasty encampment. To guard against surprise Antonio undertook the first watch, and, wrapping myself in my blanket, I fell into a profound slumber.
And now, to remove any mystery which might attach to the hostile conduct of the Sambos at Quamwatla (for that was the name of the inhospitable village), I may explain that, in September, 1849, the bark “Simeon Draper,” from New York, bound for Chagres, with passengers for California, was wrecked on the coast, near the mouth of the Prinza-pulka River. The remains of her hull I have alluded to, as now constituting one of the principal landmarks on that monotonous shore. Her passengers all escaped to the land, and succeeded in recovering most of their effects. They were soon discovered by the Sambos of Quamwatla, who, affecting friendship, nevertheless committed extensive depredations on the property of the passengers. Strong representations were made to the head man, but without effect; in fact, it soon became evident that he was the principal instigator of the robberies. The news of the wreck spread along the coast, and a large number of Sambos gathered at the village. As their numbers increased, they grew bold and hostile, until the position of the passengers became one of danger. They finally received intimations that a concerted attack would soon be made upon them, which they anticipated by an assault upon the Sambo village. The inhabitants, taken by surprise, fled after a few discharges of the rifles and revolvers, and the village was set on fire and burned to the ground. The wrecked Americans were not afterward disturbed, and their condition becoming known in San Juan, a vessel was dispatched to their relief, and they were taken off in safety.
It was not until I arrived at Cape Gracias that I became acquainted with these facts, which accounted for the appearance of things in Quamwatla, and explained the hostility of the natives. Every Englishman on the coast is a trader, and as I disowned that character, and, moreover, carried a revolver, they were not long in making up their minds that I was an American.