Amongst the passengers was a lady, fat beyond anything I have ever seen (of the human kind) outside a show. From the time of her appearance in the morning until her bedtime, she invariably sat in one place—her throne a small sofa, behind the cabin-door. Flying-fish were constantly driven on the deck of the steamer, or flung up into the sponsons by the paddlewheels; and being most anxious to preserve some of these curious tenants of the ocean, I tried every means to procure them; but the ‘stout party,’ by resorting to most unjustifiable bribing, so enslaved the sordid mind of the steward, that he got hold of the fish in spite of me, and actually had the delicate beauties cooked, and ignominiously fried at the galley-fire, for that terrible old lady to eat. With regret and indignation I have watched her munching them up, and wickedly longed to see her prostrated by that terrible leveller seasickness, or the victim of dyspepsia—evil wishes of no avail: she ate on, in healthful hungry defiance of wind and waves, and the wrath of an injured naturalist.
The first peep one gets of the little Danish town of St. Thomas, too well known to need more than a casual notice, is picturesque and pretty. Built on the scarp of a steep hill, its houses arranged in terraces, and all painted with bright and gaudy colours; its feathery groves of tamarind-trees; gay gardens decked with flowers, possessing a brilliancy and magnitude seen only in a hot climate; together with the showy dresses of the natives, it becomes the more impressive as contrasted with the sombre island so recently left behind.
Scarcely had the ‘Parana’ steamed into the harbour—much more, by the way, like a stagnant cesspool than a rocky inlet, filled with pure sea-water—when boats of all sizes, and far too numerous to count, crowded round us. Everyone, seeming at once to forget seasickness and rough weather, scrambled into this medley fleet, and with all speed were rowed ashore—there to remain, during the transference of the mails and baggage from the English steamer to the other vessels waiting to take their departure.
It has often puzzled me to imagine, why travellers in steamboats and sailing-ships invariably do the same thing. Take this very case as an instance of what I mean. Though yellow-fever was raging like a plague, still the greater number of the passengers made straight for the hotel, and there and then devoured a heavy breakfast composed of bad fish, raw vegetables (libellously called salad), unripe fruits, followed by a brown substance, in size, shape, and texture, vastly like to the heel of a boot floating in hot oil, which we are informed by the polite waiter is ‘bef steek à la Anglais’—the whole washed down with copious libations of intensely sour claret iced to the freezing-point.
The next thing in the programme is the exploration of the town, during which all sorts of things are purchased at fabulous prices, that can never, by any possibility, be required. Such unusual exercise in a hilly place, exposed to the scorching heat of the sun, soon begets a feverish thirst, necessitating copious draughts of iced-water dashed with cognac, unlimited cobblers, or more cold sour poison. Raw vegetables, acid wine, cobblers, cognac, cocoanut, and other ‘comestibles’ soon produce disagreeable admonitory twinges: dread of yellow-fever immediately suggests itself—bang goes the signal-gun! A hasty scamper for the boats dispelling further alarm, all rush on board, there to compare notes, groan over their pains and stupidity, and go through precisely the same performance at the next place of landing.
At St. Thomas we exchanged the commodious steamer ‘Parana’ for the ‘Trent,’ much more famous for getting into trouble than for getting out of it. The run from the island across the Caribbean Sea to Santa Marta, after the tumblings and buffetings that would have been good training for an acrobat, endured betwixt England and St. Thomas, seemed to me the very perfection of sea-travelling. Although a most enjoyable passage, still it became monotonous: one tires of old threadbare jokes and yarns, and wearies even of gazing day after day into the clear blue sea, each day appearing the very counterpart of the other.
Sluggish lump-fish, with their uncouth heads and misshapen bodies, continually wriggle slowly and idly along with us; sun-fish, in their parti-coloured armour, float by, ever performing eccentric undulations. Now a stiff black fin cleaves the water suspiciously, leaving a wake behind, as would a miniature ship—the danger-signal of a greedy shark; huge leaves of kelp, wrack, and sea-tangle drift by, rafts to myriads of crustaceans and minute zoophytes; the rudder creaks and groans to the music of its iron chains, clanking over the friction-rollers, as the helmsman turns the wheel; sea-birds peep at us, then wheel away to be seen no more; whilst ever following are the ‘Chickens of Mother Carey,’ dipping, but never resting, on the ripple at the stern.
I had both heard and read of a formidable fortress that once guarded the entrance to the snug harbour, on one side of which stands the neat little town of Santa Marta, embowered amidst the trees. We sighted the land before it was dark, but the captain deemed it expedient to lay-off and await the daylight, ere venturing through the narrow entrance between the rock on which stands the remains of the fortress and the mainland. Issuing strict orders, coupled with a silver refresher, to my cabin-boy to call me before daylight, I turned in, and was soon in dreamland; my dreams were dispelled by a sudden shake, and the voice of the faithful darkie boy screaming into my ear, ‘Hi, massa, him no see fort if him no tumble out and tumble up pretty quick.’ Lightly clad and hardly awake, I rush, glass in hand, on deck, and quietly seat myself in the bow of the steamer. It was just in the grey of the morning; not a sound disturbed the deathlike silence, save the ‘splash-splash’ of the slowly-revolving paddlewheels. I could discern on my right a dim line of trees, that looked as if they grew from out the water; on my left the dark rock, crowned with its ruined fort, that, as the light increased and the rays of the rising sun slanted down upon it, looked like a mass of frosted silver—so brilliant was the contrast to the dark water and darker woods, still in shadow, behind and around it.
Delighted with the singular beauty of the scene, and wandering, in imagination, far away into the vistas of the past, recalling scenes of frightful atrocity once enacted within the dreaded gates of the buccaneers’ stronghold—wondering too if gems and gold, plunder wrenched from many a rich argosy, still lay hidden amidst the dust of its crumbling walls—a sudden flash, and a jerk that sent me sprawling on the deck, at once recalled my thoughts from the past to the present. Utterly oblivious of what had happened, as I scrambled on my legs, a stifled laugh induced me to look round. ‘Wish I may never taste rum again, Cap’en, if I ever see you a-sittin on the signal-gun,’ said a sly-looking rascal in sailor’s dress. There was a roguish leer in his eye that revealed the whole secret. Seeing me seated on the signal-carronade, loaded to announce our arrival, was too tempting a chance to indulge in a practical joke for Jack to resist; so he quietly touched off the gun, without giving me any notice. No doubt he has had many a hearty laugh at my expense since then, when telling the ‘yarn’ in far-away latitudes. Our stay in the harbour was very brief; the mails and a passenger or two landed, away we steamed again.
At Carthagena we only lay-off a short time, to land the mails, and take on board the strangest assemblage of natives I ever saw. They were bound for Colon, to sell the various products of their farms, gardens, and native forests. We were about half a mile from the beach; a good rolling swell broke, in small waves, against the ship’s sides, and spread its foam far up the shingle inshore. Up to their waists might be seen the dusky forms of the natives, launching long, ugly, shallow canoes, dug from out the solid wood. Soon a perfect fleet of them neared us, each striving to be first alongside; as they converged, and steadily packed together, into a confused mass, the yelling, screaming, and swearing in bad Spanish, mixed with some unknown tongue, baffled all description. Bad as the hubbub was when some distance from the steamer, it was ten times worse as they literally fought and struggled to get on board. Those who were to be passengers, in dread of being left behind, dashed from canoe to canoe, reckless of the rage of those intent only on selling their wares. Here one held up a poor little drenched and shivering monkey, another a screaming parroquet, a third a squirrel; others fruits, strings of beads, vegetables, bunches of bananas, and cocoanuts—all shrieking at the very top of their voices, but what they said no living soul could tell. Soon the deck forward was filled with its live and dead freight. The first turn of the paddlewheel sent the queer-looking assemblage scudding out of the way, to ply back again, with their unsold wares, to dingy old Carthagena.