Under the circumstances, Mr. Stephens thought it wisest to land at Belize, and learn from the English officials there the best plan to pursue. British Honduras at that time was not strictly a Crown Colony, but was governed by the executive in Jamaica. The commanding officer of the garrison, Colonel McDonald, 129 received him with great geniality, and entertained him for a couple of days. But he could promise him no material help, he said, when once he was off British soil; he had no authority even to lend him a boat or launch, and dared not take upon himself to send an armed escort beyond the frontier.
“There is a Guatemala steamer starting up the Belize river to-morrow night,” he said. “I will send down and book you a passage. After you land you must not rely on us”—the Colonel laughed—“in our official capacity, that is to say. Of course, some of the staff are often up country after game, and if we should happen to find you in a tight corner on somebody else’s ground, we couldn’t, as private individuals, leave you in the lurch. You’ve got a nasty job; Guatemala and Honduras are both more or less in rebellion; so’s Mexico for that matter; and the Indians are plundering Government and revolutionaries alike. We’ve had a little trouble of our own with the Caribs; you’ll probably meet some of our firing-parties, any of whom will guarantee you protection as long as you’re our side of the boundary.”
The next evening, Mr. Stephens, accompanied by his secretary, Mr. Catherwood, went on board the little steamer—a boat which an American or English owner would send round the world with a ship’s company of six, but which, here, was manned by no less than twenty Mestizos, an English engineer, and a Spanish skipper. The only other passenger was a young Irish Franciscan, who proved very jovial company, and who professed to regard the Indian risings as a mere idle scare. He, too, was going into the first native territory 130 through which the travellers must pass, and offered himself as their guide thus far.
They could not have had a better, for his “cloth” was of more use to them than a small escort might have been. Soon after leaving the steamer they came to the first of the Carib camps. The Irishman baptised all the babies in the place, good-humouredly “chaffed” the warriors over their unwisdom in taking part in white men’s squabbles, procured a supply of provisions for himself and his companions, and all three set off across the boundary into the more dangerous territory.
They should by right have reached a Spanish village that night, where they would have been able to obtain horses; but a storm came on, and there was nothing for it but to wait on the plain till it was over. A question arose as to shelter and fuel, and this was solved by their seeing a sheep-fold in the distance. They came up to it and found it untenanted; there was a hut big enough for three persons to sit in, but too small for even one to lie in. For a fire, they broke down some of the rails of the fold, from which they cut kindling wood, and soon had a cosy blaze which defied the rain; they ate their supper and slept on the floor of the hut, huddled together.
In the morning they were awakened by a loud chattering of men, and Stephens, who was nearest the door, found himself being dragged forcibly into the open, while he was rubbing his eyes and trying to remember where he was. Catherwood sprang out after him, pistol in hand, only to be overpowered and relieved of it by a crowd of Caribs.
But, at sight of the friar, the Indians hesitated and became less noisy. He spoke to them in their own language, and demanded to know the cause of this violence.
“These men have broken up and burnt our sheep-fold,” exclaimed one of the Caribs.
“Well, well; leave go and I’ll explain. Give that gentleman his pistol back; he doesn’t want to hurt you.”