Читать книгу The Woodlands Orchids, Described and Illustrated - Frederick Boyle - Страница 15

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Since orchids never die, unless by accident, and never cease to grow, there is no limit to the bulk they may attain. Mishap alone cuts their lives short—commonly the fall or the burning of the tree to which they cling. Mr. Burbidge secured one, a Grammatophyllum, ‘as big as a Pickford’s van,’ which a corvée of Dyaks could not lift. Some old collections even in Europe show prodigious monsters; in especial, I am told, that of the Duke of Northumberland at Alnwick. Mr. Astor has two Peristeria elata at Cliveden of which the bulbs are as large as an ostrich egg, and the flower stems rise to a height of nine feet! The most striking instance of the sort I myself have observed, if not quite the biggest, was a Cattleya Mossiae sent home by Mr. Arnold. It enclosed two great branches of a tree, rising from the fork below which it was sawn off—a bristling mass four feet thick and five feet high; two feet more must be added if we reckon the leaves. As for the number of flower-scapes it bore last season, to count them would have been the work of hours; roughly I estimated a thousand, bearing not less than three blooms, each six inches across. Fancy cannot rise to the conception of that gorgeous display. I doubt not that the forest would be scented for a hundred yards round.

Such giant Cattleyas are very rare in the ‘wild state.’ An orchid, though immortal, is subject to so many accidents that only species of very quick growth attain great age; these are less exposed to the perils of youth, naturally. From time to time, however, an Indian removes some plant which strikes him for its beauty or its size, and starts it afresh on a tree not too tall—and therefore young—in view of his hut. Thus it takes a new lease of life and grows indefinitely. I have not heard that ‘white’ peons are so aesthetic.

This Cattleya Mossiae had been rescued by an Indian. Mr. Arnold first saw it on his memorable search for Masdevallia Tovarensis. I must tell that episode to begin with.

More than thirty years ago a German resident at Tovar sent a white Masdevallia to a friend in England. There were very few species of the genus, few plants indeed, under cultivation at that time, and all scarlet. The novelty made a vast sensation. For a good many years the owner kept dividing his single specimen, and putting fragments on the market, where they fetched a very long price. Under such circumstances a man is not inclined to tell where his treasure comes from. At an earlier date this gentleman had published the secret so far as the name ‘Tovar’ went. But there are several places so called in Spanish America, and importers hesitated. At length Mr. Sander made up his mind. He sent Mr. Arnold to Tovar in New Grenada.

Masdevallias are reckoned among the most difficult of orchids to import. From their home in cool uplands they must be transported through some of the hottest regions on the globe, and they have no pseudo-bulbs to sustain them; a leaf and a root, one may say, compose each tiny plant.

Mr. Arnold, therefore, was provided with some sacks of Sphagnum moss in which to stow his finds. These sacks he registered among his personal baggage. At Waterloo, however, the station-master demurred. Moss, said he, must travel by goods train. Arnold had not allowed himself time to spare. The Royal mail steamer would leave within an hour of his arrival at Southampton; to go without his moss was useless; and a pig-headed official refused to pass it! Mr. Arnold does not profess to be meek. He remonstrated with so much energy that the station-master fled the scene. There was just time enough to load up the article in dispute and jump into a carriage, helped by a friendly stranger.

The stranger had showed his friendliness before that. Standing at the open door, he supported Arnold’s cause with singular warmth and vociferation. The latter was grateful, of course, and when he learned that his ally was a fellow-passenger to Caracas he expressed the hope that they might share a cabin. There was no difficulty about that. In short, they chummed.

This young man announced himself as Mr. Thompson, a traveller in the hardware line, but he showed an intelligent curiosity about things in general—about orchids, for instance, when he learned that such was Arnold’s business. Would it be possible for an ignoramus to make a few pounds that way?—how should he set about it?—which is the class of article most in demand just now, and where is it found? Before the voyage ended, that traveller in the hardware line knew as much about Masdevallia Tovarensis as Arnold could tell him. He bade goodbye aboard ship, for pressing business obliged him to start up country forthwith.

Late in the afternoon Arnold, who was to stay some days at Caracas, met his agent on the Plaza. ‘By the bye,’ said that gentleman, ‘are you aware that Mr. Blank started this morning in the direction of Tovar?’

Now Mr. Blank was a man of substance who began orchid-growing as an amateur, but of late had turned professional.

‘Bless me!’ cried Arnold, ‘is he here?’

The agent stared. ‘Why, as I understood, he travelled in the same ship with you.’

Arnold seized him by the wrist, while in his mind’s eye he reviewed all the passengers; they were not many. The only one who could possibly be Mr. Blank was—Mr. Thompson!

‘Get me a horse, sir!’ he sputtered. ‘Which way has the villain gone? And a guide—with another horse! I’ll pay anything! I’ll go with you to hire them! Come along!’ Ten minutes afterwards he was on the track, full gallop, stopping only at the hotel to get his pistol.

At a roadside posada, fifteen miles beyond, Mr. Blank was supping in peace. The door opened. Arnold stalked in. He was in that mood of intensest passion when a man’s actions are stiff though he trembles—all his muscles rigid with the effort of self-restraint.

Quietly he barred the door and quietly he sat down opposite to Mr. Blank, putting his revolver on the board.

‘Get your pistol, sir,’ said he, scarcely above a whisper, ‘we’re going to settle this business.’ But Mr. Blank, after a frenzied stare, had withdrawn beneath the table. Arnold hauled him out by the legs, demanding instant combat.

But this was not the man to fight. He preferred to sign a confession and a promise, guaranteed by most impressive oaths, not to revisit those parts for six months. Then Arnold started him back, supperless, in the dark.

It may be added that the gentleman whom I have named Mr. Blank lost his life in 1892, when seeking the habitat of Dendrobium Schröderianum, under circumstances not wholly dissimilar. As in this case he sought to reap where he had not sown. But peace be with him!

Without more adventures Arnold found Masdevallia Tovarensis. Of the first consignment he despatched, forty thousand arrived in good health. This quest completed in shorter time than had been allowed, he looked for another ‘job.’ One is only embarrassed by the choice in that region. Upon the whole it seemed most judicious to collect Cattleya Mossiae. And Arnold set off for the hunting-grounds.

On this journey he saw the monster I have described. It grew beside the dwelling of an Indian—not properly to be termed a ‘hut,’ nor a ‘house.’ The man was a coffee-planter in a very small way. Nothing that Arnold could offer tempted him in the least. His grandfather ‘planted’ the Cattleya, and from that day it had been a privilege of the family to decorate one portion of the neighbouring church with its flowers when a certain great feast came round. Arnold tried to interest the daughter—a very pretty girl: the Indian type there is distinctly handsome. Then he tried her lover, who seemed willing to exert his influence for the consideration of a real English gun. Arnold could not spare his own; he had no other, and the young Indian would not accept promises. So the matter fell through.

Three years afterwards Arnold was commissioned to seek Cattleya Mossiae again. Not forgetting the giant, he thought it worth while to take a ‘real English gun’ with him, though doubtless the maiden was a wife long since, and her husband might ask for a more useful present. In due course he reached the spot—a small Indian village in the mountains, some fifteen miles from Caracas. The Cattleya was still there, perched aloft, as big as a hogshead. Arnold’s first glance was given to it; then he looked at the owner’s hospitable dwelling. It also was still there, but changed. Tidy it had never been, but now it was ruinous. None of the village huts could be seen, standing as they did each in its ‘compound’—a bower of palm and plantains, fruit-trees, above all, flowers. Afterwards he perceived that they had all been lately rebuilt.

The old Indian survived, but it was not from him that Arnold learned the story. The Cura told it. There had been a pronunciamiento somewhere in the country, and the Government sent small bodies of troops—pressgangs, in fact—to enlist ‘volunteers.’ One of these came to the village. The officer in command, a good-looking young man, took up his abode in the Indian’s house and presently made it his headquarters, whence to direct the man-hunts. Upon that pretext he stayed several weeks, to the delight of the villagers, who were spared.

But one evening there was an outbreak. The lover rushed along the street, dripping with blood—the officer, his sword drawn, pursuing. He ran into his hut and snatched a gun from the wall. But it was too late; the other cut him down. The day’s field work was over—all the Indians had returned. They seized their machetes, yelling vengeance, and attacked the officer. But his soldiers also were close by. They ran up, firing as they ran. Some villagers were killed, more wounded; the place was sacked. Next morning early the detachment moved off. When the fugitives returning counted their loss, the pretty daughter of old José was missing. The dead lay where they fell, and she was not among them.

The Cura, an amiable veteran, did not doubt that she had been carried off by force; was not this girl the most devout and dutiful in the parish? He saddled his mule forthwith and rode into Caracas. The officer had delivered his report, which may be easily imagined. Governments in Spanish America at this day resent any kind of interference from the clergy. Had a layman complained, doubtless there would have been an inquiry; in Venezuela, as elsewhere, maidens are not to be carried off by young aristocrats and no word said. But the authorities simply called on the accused for an explanation, accepted his statement that the girl followed him of her free-will, and recommended him to marry her. This he did, as Arnold ascertained. As for the rest—quien sabe?

These sad events account for the old Indian’s behaviour. Arnold found him at home, and with him a young man not to be recognised at first, who proved to be the lover. The muscles of his neck had been severed, causing him to hold his head awry, and a slash had partially disabled his right arm. Arnold was told abruptly that he could not lodge there, and he withdrew. But on a sudden the lover whispered eagerly. They called him back.

‘Will you buy the Cattleya?’ asked old José.

‘How much?’

‘Fifty dollars and a good gun.’

‘It’s a bargain.’

He paid there and then, nor quitted the spot, though very hungry, until his followers had sawn through the branch and lowered its burden to the ground. Carrying his spoil in triumph, suspended on a pole, Arnold sought the Cura’s house. There he heard the tale I have unfolded.

Not until evening did the Padre chance to see the giant Cattleya. He was vexed, naturally, since his church lost its accustomed due. But when Arnold told what he had paid for it, the good man was deeply moved. ‘Holy Virgin and all saints!’ he cried, ‘there will be murder!’ And he set off running to the Indian’s house. It was empty. José and the lover had been seen on the road to Caracas hours before—with the gun.

I am sorry that I cannot finish the story; too often we miss the dénoûment in romances of actual life. But the Cura felt no doubt. It may be to-night, or next year, or ten years hence, he said, but the captain is doomed. Our Indians never forget nor forgive, nor fail when at length they strike.

The murder was not announced whilst Arnold remained in the country. But all whom he questioned gave the same forecast. Unless the Indians were seized or died they would surely have vengeance.