Golden Dreams and Leaden Realities

by George Payson

Having satiated our curiosity on the novel scenery around us, the question arose whether we should remain in the ship during her hazardous voyage to Panama, or tempt the more uncertain difficulties of a journey through Central America. A party that had gone up to Realejo to make inquiries, having brought back a favourable report, the greater part of the passengers abandoned the ship without reluctance. It was only at the last moment, however, that we could make up our minds to follow their example. The brief twilight of the equator was already closing around us when we took our seats in the only remaining canoe and pushed off from the ship in company with which we had braved so many perils. We crossed and recrossed the river several times to avoid the currents and shallows; sometimes we were in the middle of the stream, and again we glided like a shadow beneath the overhanging branches. It was the hour of vespers, and presently our boatmen, an Indian with his wife and daughter gaily dressed in their Sunday attire, began chanting in a low and rather plaintive tone the Evening Song to the Virgin. As the river grew narrower the trees on either hand bent their heads in listening silence. Closing our eyes, we seemed to be floating onward, as in a dream, independent of human agency, still farther and farther into the heart of a boundless, trackless forest. It was a dream to last forever, but suddenly the canoe struck with a wide-awake jar against the wharf at Realejo. Several huge canoes, as big as a railroad car and each dug out of a single mahogany, lay moored in the stream. Scrambling over two or three smaller ones that lay by our side, we mounted the wharf and looked round for the city. We could discover nothing in the darkness but half a dozen ill-looking natives, one of whom now came forward and offered with a vast deal of gesticulation to conduct us to a hotel where there were muchos Americanos. Taking our trunk on his shoulders he led the way and we followed in silence. A short walk through streets silent as churchyard paths, and lined with doorless, windowless houses, brought us into a rather more cheerful neighbourhood, and to a hotel filled indeed with mucho Americano. All were busy in making arrangements for their journey, and a few rapid inquiries soon gave us all the needed information.

A contract had already been made with several wealthy proprietors to convey us across the country, one hundred and fifty miles, to Granada on Lake Nicaragua, where we should proceed by water to San Juan. Carts, drawn by oxen and capable of containing six persons, were to be provided for the moderate charge of eight dollars apiece.

The most prominent member of our little cartful was a sturdy buckeye blacksmith of the most royal generosity and good nature. But he never seemed to know when he was conferring a favour, and hence it lost much of its effect from the want of that accompanying smile and unconscious softening of the voice that so often please more than the gift itself. His hair and eyebrows were whitey brown, his features showed even in their coarseness his frank and dashing temper—and the words came sputtering out of his mouth like ale out of a bottle.

His companion, a quiet, smoothfaced lad from Wisconsin, who was wonderfully expert in the use of the rifle, had to my knowledge no other name than Si.

Texas, as we styled the third of our party, was an odd mixture of shrewdness and simplicity. He had a thousand oddities, the fancies of a young girl, the whims of an old bachelor, and the greenness—I use it for want of a better word—of a Southern plantation. We all made him our butt; he knew it and enjoyed it, for he knew too that he could put an end to it whenever he would.

Monday morning, the head of our train began its march out of the city, and the rest followed at long intervals. There were in all about forty carts, containing nearly two hundred and fifty passengers,—and, as we are now fairly under way, I will take the opportunity to give a description of one of these ingenious vehicles. The body of the cart, which was made of mahogany, was about seven feet in length and three and a half in width. Over it was erected a rude framework of slender sticks resembling the osier, and covered with raw hides to keep off the sun and rain. The wheels were formed of solid pieces of mahogany about four feet in diameter and six inches thick, with stout projections at the hub; and as they fitted very loosely to the axle, the whole fabric moved forward with that rolling, sidelong gait peculiar to sailors and elephants. Four oxen were yoked to this rude contrivance in the manner common I believe to all Spanish countries. A straight piece of wood about four inches square, slightly hollowed at the ends to fit the heads of the oxen, was bound firmly to their horns by long strips of hide. This yoke is much lighter and simpler than our own, but more time is required to make it secure, and its position on the head would probably be unfavourable to drawing heavy loads.

With this description of our equipage, the reader will be curious to know how seven persons could find room in it. If he could have taken a peep in at the back of the cart, he would have seen the hombre, as we styled our driver, and the brother of the author elevated in front on a trunk which had accompanied us to the mines and still clung to us in all our wanderings. In the interior he would have discovered the profiles of Ohio, Texas, and New York, who sat crosswise on the bottom with their backs against one side, their feet against the other, and presented a lively resemblance to the letter C. As there was not room enough remaining to accommodate us in the same way, Si and myself were obliged to sit with our superfluous legs dangling behind. The obvious advantages of our position in enabling us to see so much more of what was passing than those within were counterbalanced by equal inconveniences. A fifth ox, that was intended to take the place of one of the others in case of any emergency, was tied to one corner of the cart; and, as he rolled along behind us, the malicious brute would set down his pestle hoofs with most unnecessary emphasis, making the soft oozy mud fly like cream in a churn, and spattering us from head to foot till we were enclosed in a complete suit of defensive armour.

Where the road was smooth, the cattle proceeded at a rapid rate, urged on by the relentless goad of our hombre. This instrument was as long and stout as a fishing-rod, and terminated in a formidable brad that brought blood at every blow. The hind quarters of the oxen were scarred as if by the smallpox from former applications of this cruel weapon. When our hombre desired to enliven the pair that were yoked to the pole, he was obliged to shorten his goad stick by thrusting it behind him into the cart, to the serious discomfiture of Texas and Ohio. To do him justice, however, he seldom resorted to this means of propulsion, except in the most difficult passages, contenting himself with yelling in the most approved fashion of his class, and belabouring his cattle with a storm of ringing Spanish curses, any one of which would easily have filled a balloon. If his unaided efforts proved ineffectual to extricate us from the slough, he was obliged to wait till the carts behind came up, when three or four drivers, levelling their goads all at once at the unlucky beasts, and raising a concert that would scare at least ten souls out of one weaver, would commence capering and grimacing in the most frantic manner. The naked Indian boys, one of whom followed every cart, would join in this exercise, while twenty or thirty bearded Saxons looked on with supreme contempt. When this species of incantation did not succeed, the only resource was to attach a third yoke of oxen, which never failed to extricate us from our difficulty.