On the evening of the following day we land in a boat at Aguadilla—a small watering-place on the coast of Porto Rico. The village is represented by a row of tumble-down houses and a scattering of picturesque negro huts. While my companion confers with the postal agent of Aguadilla, I occupy the time by a saunter through the quiet, primitive streets, picking up here and there from a communicative native scraps of news concerning the insurrection, which I learn is now very much on the wane.
The business of the mail agent being over, we return to our steamer, where, after partaking of a hearty meal—in spite of wind and weather—we turn into our snug berths and chat and smoke our cigarettes till sleep overtakes us.
We awake early next morning to find that we have already anchored off Mayagüez.
Mayagüez is an important sea-side town on the Porto Rico coast, and is surrounded by the loveliest tropical scenery that I have yet beheld in the West Indies. One long, broad and perfectly level street runs in a direct line from the quay to the confines of the town. Branching off from this formidable thoroughfare are a few narrow streets which terminate in small rivers and streams, across which innumerable little bridges are thrown.
As we are destined to halt at this delightful spot for several hours, we make the most of our time. After calling upon our vice-consul—who is also the English postal agent, and has an office in one of the numerous warehouses which face the quay—and after having partaken of some refreshment at a café, my companion and I hail a quaint dilapidated vehicle of the fly species and drive through the street of the town. This street beginning with shops, continues with tall private dwellings, which, in turn, are succeeded by pretty villas, till the open country suddenly appears.
I am amazed to find that for our drive through the town, half a mile beyond it and back again, we are charged the astonishingly modest fare of two-pence half-penny!
We have embarked again and are off to Santo Domingo, where we land on the following day.
Santo Domingo—the capital of the island of that name—is an antiquated city, with brown, sombre-looking stone houses intermingled with quaint towers and gateways, tropical trees, shrubbery and ruins. We reach the city in a small boat, passing up a long river called the Ozana, and after Don Fernandez has deposited his mail bags at the post-office, we wander over the town. My companion knows every part of it well, having, as he tells me, visited it at least twice a month for the past three years. Acting, therefore, as a cicerone, he conducts me through the Calle del Comercio, which is the principal street in the city, but which has a very dismal and deserted aspect. The cathedral is an ancient building, and has resisted wind, weather, earthquake, and revolution for upwards of three hundred years. The interior is full of interest for the artist and the antiquarian, containing, among other objects, the first mausoleum of Christopher Columbus. Don Fernandez tells me that the remains of the great discoverer were originally brought from Spain and deposited here, and that they were afterwards transferred to the cathedral of Havana, where they at present repose.
On our way from the cathedral we meet a number of coloured officials belonging to the republic; and for the first time in my experience, I behold a negro policeman! We pause before an old picturesque archway where a sentry is on guard. The sentry is a black youth of not more than eighteen Dominican summers. His uniform consists of a ragged shirt, brown holland trousers, and a broad Panama hat. He has apparently an easy life of it, for his musket reposes in a corner of the gateway, while he himself is seated, half dozing, on a big stone!
After inspecting the quaint old market-place, together with an ancient Franciscan monastery called La Forsza, the 'Well of Columbus,' and other interesting 'sights,' Don Fernandez warns me that the hour for our departure is near. I accordingly accompany him to the office of the English consul, where he has to receive the mail bags of Santo Domingo. We have to wait some time at the consul's office, for important dispatches from President Baez. I devote the time which elapses before these dispatches appear, to a little business on behalf of the New York Trigger. There is, however, scarcely any news of importance to be obtained. Since the war of Santo Domingo, the inhabitants have enjoyed an uninterrupted peace, and with the exception of a few petty squabbles with their neighbours, the Haytiens, and the projected purchase of the Bay of Samana, nothing eventful has transpired in the island.