Seeing we were interested in anything concerning St. Augustine, and anxious to glean any scraps of information, he opened the gate and invited us to “walk in” and rest. As we were scarcely a hundred yards from our hotel we did not want to “rest,” but we walked in nevertheless and sat down in the porch and prepared for a gossip; it was easy to lead him to talk of the old days, he seemed to enjoy fighting his battle of life over again.
“Yes, I’ve seen a good many changes,” he said, warming to his work. “Few men have lived a life out on one spot and seen so much—so many revolutions, things, thoughts, governments and people changing, but the place remaining just the same; there’s been no pulling down old landmarks in St. Augustine, and the wear and tear of time isn’t[Pg 163 much. You see the city is all built of coquina, and that is stronger than stone—the older it is the harder it becomes. Yes, I’ve seen the British flag flying from the old fort, the Spanish banner flying; now we are under the eagle’s wing, and the stars and stripes are fluttering over us.”
“I suppose you would as soon live under one rule as another?” I venture to say.
“Provided they rule well, yes; and we’ve nothing to complain of now; the laws are easy, and we are left to live and work in peace, though up to the last few years we’ve been liable to hostile incursions of the Indians. Why, I’ve seen them swarm over the bastions yonder, and come swooping and yelling through the streets, filling the air with their hideous war-cry—such scenes, dear ladies, as I dare not tell you of; now we are under the American flag, and, the Blessed Lord be thanked, we are at peace.”
He took us through his orchard at the back of the house, and on to a small orange grove of about an acre, which he proudly informed us he managed all himself. We gathered and ate some oranges—deliciously cool and refreshing they were; he apologised for their size and scarcity, as the trees had been stripped of their finest fruit some weeks ago.
As yet we had only caught a general view of St. Augustine, and we hurried on to make acquaintance with its special features. The streets are narrow and crooked, varying from ten to twenty feet wide, the houses having verandahs or balconies jutting out overhead so close together that the ladies thereon can almost shake hands across from one side of the road to the other. There are no regular pavements or sidewalks, and the roads are laid with broken oyster or mussel shells. The houses are mostly built of a kind of compressed shell-stone called “coquina,” which is quarried from the island of Anastasia, that lies about a mile across the harbour and separates St. Augustine from the Atlantic Ocean. This is the oldest European settlement in America, and was so settled long before the landing of the Pilgrim Fathers. The most picturesque and romantic of all the quaint old streets is George Street, with its curious houses and hanging balconies clinging along the fronts thereof, and are generally covered with climbing plants. The white coquina walls rise straight and bare direct from the roadway; the windows are small and closely curtained, as though the old Spanish dons still jealously guarded their hidden beauties from the sight of man. There is an air of great seclusion everywhere—we might be wandering through an oriental city; but we know that behind these bare walls there are blooming gardens of oleander, magnolia, orange and lemon trees; occasionally we get a glimpse of some rich striped lily or glowing passion-flower nodding over the wall.
Mr. Lorillard has a beautiful villa here—a touch of to-day in the land of the yesterdays. It is of quaint though modern architecture, and is full of gabled ends and corners. The smooth-shaven lawn and flower gardens are simply railed in and in full view of the passer by. Whichever way you turn you catch a breath of poetry and romance; a scent of the days gone by clings round the ancient homes and pervades the air, having a subtle effect upon our spirits. We fancy we hear the clang of arms, and the long-silent voices ringing in the air, and shadowy forms are gliding beside us, haunting the old scenes where they walked and talked so many centuries ago.
At the top of St. George Street stands the ancient city gate, which once formed part of the old stone wall which, running from shore to shore, protected the city from hostile incursions. The greater part of the wall has long since disappeared, but a rude, rugged, moss-covered mass clings around, as though it helped to support, the tall ornamental towers which once rose up on each side of the city gate, and which still stand massive and strong, like sentinels who will not be beaten from their post, though a great gap yawns where the gate has fallen from its rusty hinges. Coming through St. George Street we look straight through to the wide stretches of country beyond. The sentry boxes scooped out of the solid wall are there still, exactly as when the last guard stepped from them in obedience to the bugle call, when the sun had set and the sentry was relieved. This is, perhaps, the most ancient and certainly the most picturesque ruin in this portion of the country.
Passing between the still stately towers we come in full view of Fort Marion, one of the most attractive features of St. Augustine. It was commenced in the year 1592, but was not completed till the year 1756. It is a remarkable, fine, and imposing structure—grand, grey, and massive, standing on a gently rising hill outside the town, and lifting its gloomy front towards the sea. No ruin is Fort Marion, but perfect in all its parts, stamped only with the desolation and dreariness which must brood over any place that is deserted and unused for a certain number of years.
The labour of construction is said to have been wholly performed by negro slaves and prisoners of war. The moat is now dried up and overgrown with grass and rank weeds, but there are the drawbridges, the massive arched entrance, the barbican, the dark passages, frowning bastions, and mysterious dungeons. A whiskered sergeant—a remnant of military glory—has charge of the fort, and lives in a pretty, rose-covered cottage outside. In company with several other tourists we explored the curiosities of the old fort. One large dingy stone chamber, with vaulted roof and damp floor, like a gigantic cellar, was occupied by the townspeople, who came flocking to the fort for shelter some few years ago when the place was threatened by an irregular army of piratical marauders; the ashen embers where they baked their last loaf of bread still lie upon the iron plate, and the empty oven yawns hungrily open. This apartment, itself but dimly lightly, leads into a huge, dark dungeon, black as Erebus; but the “dark dungeon” par excellence lies beyond, and to this treat-in-store we proceed. Chill, black, and dismal as the grave, is this partly-underground dungeon, where in 1835 two skeletons were found chained to the wall—victims, no doubt, to some cruel Spanish inquisition. We stand shivering in its chilly blackness while our guide gives us fragmentary sketches of the history of the fort. The last prisoners confined here were a number of refractory Indians, stirrers-up of trouble, horse-thieves, and general marauders, who were sent thither by the order of United States Government in 1874, but were released in 1878. In no cruel dungeon like this “dark cell,” however, were these “braves” confined. A large, casemented chamber was prepared for their reception, they were taken out in squads for exercise, and under proper surveillance were even allowed to bathe. They have left their sign-manual upon the walls—specimens of Indian art in the shape of sundry sprawly sketches of man and beast. For, as it is well known, the Indians are fond of drawing, and will draw on anything and with any kind of material that will make a mark. They will even exchange a surplus squaw for a few pencils or paint brushes. Crude and out of all proportions as their productions are, they illustrate the minds and peculiar proclivities of the people. An Indian never represents himself as standing, dancing, or walking; he is always on horseback, and always fighting against fabulous numbers, and always a conqueror, riding victorious over a score of prostrate foes. We pass through an antique chapel, whence the worshippers have fled “into the silent land” and left it deserted except for the ghostly echo which rises up and follows us as we pass through. We peep through dusky passages, ramble up and down crumbling stone stairs, cross the barbican, pass many worm-eaten oaken doors which, we are told, “lead nowhere in particular,” and presently emerge upon the grassy, battlemented slopes of the old fortification and look out across the bay, over the island of Anastasia, to the sea beyond. After wandering for a brief period through these gloomy precincts, and inhaling the damp, imprisoned air of the dungeons, it is pleasant to stand in the sunlight and breathe the fresh air of heaven again. We promenade the battlements and look down upon the lovely fort with barbicans and towers, esplanades, drawbridges, and grass-grown moat spread out before and around us. Lifting the eyes and gazing further off we have a magnificent land and sea view, with the quaint old city with its lovely gardens grouped at our feet.