But his face changed when they got to business. Kerbach opened with flattering remarks upon the wealth of the country and its prospects. Don Filipe purred with satisfaction. Gradually he worked round to orchids. Don Filipe ceased to purr, and he hastily begged leave to visit the cacao plantation. As they rode through the sheltering woods Kerbach looked about him sharply. It was too late for flowers, but the growth of Odontoglossum Harryanum is very distinct. He espied one plant and recognised it as a new species.
The trouble must be faced, and after dinner Kerbach explained his object, as gently as he could. The planter flamed out at once, dropped his Castilian manners, and vowed he would shoot any man found gathering orchids on his estate. Kerbach withdrew. Next day he visited two other hacienderos of the district. But Don Filipe had preceded him. Less rudely but with equal firmness the landowners forbade him to collect on their property.
A brief explanation is needed. In those parts of South America, where the value of orchids is known to every child, a regular system has been introduced long since. As a rule almost invariable, the woods belong to some one, however far from a settlement. With this personage the collector must negotiate a lease, as it is called, a formal document, stamped and registered, which gives him authority to cut down trees—for the peons will not climb. At the beginning, doubtless, they shrewdly perceived that to fell a stout trunk would pay them infinitely better—since they receive a daily wage—than to strip it, besides the annoyance from insects and the risk from snakes which they elude. At the present time this usage has become fixed.[2]
Without the assistance of peons, Kerbach could not possibly get plants sufficient to ship. To cut down trees without authority would be a penal offence, certainly detected. He explored the country at a distance and found nothing. It was necessary to come to terms with Don Filipe at any cost or abandon the enterprise. Meantime letters reached Amalfi describing the new Odontoglossum, with a picture showing the foliage. It was that he had found. The treasure hung within reach, and a pig-headed Indian forbade him to grasp it.
In such a difficulty one applies to the Cura. Kerbach paid this gentleman a visit. A tall, stout, good-natured ecclesiastic was he, willing to help a stranger, perhaps, even though unprovided with the dollars which Kerbach offered ‘for the poor,’ if his mediation proved successful. The Cura made the attempt and failed signally. It was useless to try again. The good man begged ten dollars, or five, or one, upon the ground that he had done his best. But Kerbach in despair was not inclined for charity. The Cura sighed, hesitated, tossed off a glass of aguardiente and proposed another way.
‘This is a wicked country, sir,’ he said. ‘Ah! very wicked. And the wickedest people in it have a proverb which I shudder to repeat. But your case is hard. Well, sir, they say (heaven forgive them and me!), “If the saints won’t hear you, take your prayer to the devil.” Horrible, isn’t it?’
‘Horrible!’ said Kerbach. ‘But I don’t know where to find the devil.’
‘Yours is a pious country I have heard, though not Christian. In this wicked land even children could tell you where to seek him. Now, you will give me a trifle for my poor?’ And he held out his hand.
‘But I’m not acquainted with any children. Your reverence must really be more explicit.’
‘Bother!’ exclaimed his reverence, or some Spanish equivalent. ‘Well, you will pay me the fifty dollars promised?’