Читать книгу Roraima and British Guiana, With a Glance at Bermuda, the West Indies, and the Spanish Main - J. W. Boddam-Whetham - Страница 5

Table of Contents

OUTWARD BOUND—THE ‘CANIMA’—A ROUGH VOYAGE—FIRST VIEW OF BERMUDA—COASTING—IRELAND ISLE—COMMISSIONERS’ HOUSE—THE SOUND—HAMILTON—LANDING—AN INDIA-RUBBER TREE—A BILL OF FARE—THE REGISTER—HAMILTON HOTEL—PAPAWS—A SUGGESTION.

“Under the eaves of a southern sky,

Where the cloud roof bends to the ocean floor

Hid in lonely seas, the Bermoothes lie—

An emerald cluster that Neptune bore

Away from the covetous earth god’s sight,

And placed in a setting of sapphire light.”

“Well, if we are going to a warmer temperature than this, few of us will return,” was the remark made by one of the passengers on board the little steamer ‘Canima,’ which was rolling heavily in a perfectly smooth sea, past Staten Island on her way from New York to Bermuda. It was the month of November, but the sun was as hot and the sky as brassy as though it had been August. On shore we could see preparations being made for cricket, lawn-tennis, and archery; and there were we bound for a semi-tropical climate. It was one of those days with which the clerk of the weather favours New York in early spring, and sometimes even when the Indian summer is supposed to have ended.

I have said that the vessel rolled heavily, even in a smooth sea, and we were naturally anxious to know what she would do in rough weather; some thought that she would turn over altogether, others, that she would regain her equilibrium and keep it, but this latter idea was soon proved to be a fallacy, as the wretched ship had no more centre of gravity than a cherub.

Hardly had we entered the open sea when a change in the weather occurred. The sky was overcast, the waves assumed a threatening aspect, a cold drizzle set in, and general discomfort prevailed.

How gay and lively the scene on deck was when we started! how dull and quiet it suddenly became! just as I was imitating the example of the rest of the passengers by retreating to my cabin, an old gentleman who had made the passage to Bermuda thirty-two times spoke to me of

“The old green glamour of the glancing sea.”

As I did not feel much inclined to listen to poetry, I merely remarked that I thought Lucretius was right when he declared that “the sea was meant to be looked at from shore,” and then withdrew.

A less enjoyable voyage could not be imagined, and what with a head wind, rainy weather, the gulf-stream in a state of extra-roughness, and French-Canadian stewards, whose dirty appearance made the greasy food less appetising, if possible, than it otherwise would have been, a more ghostly, half-starved lot of travellers never arrived at their destination. How many lines of steamers there are whose owners trade on the old Sanscrit proverb which they might adopt as their motto, “The river is crossed, and the bridge is forgotten.”

Fortunately the passage only lasted four days, the advertised time being seventy-two hours; and glad indeed were we when we had passed through the narrow reef-channel, and were coasting along the western side of the main island of the Bermudas, and within the formidable chain of breakers which surrounds them.

The first view of the island is disappointing, as the low hills have a barren and desolate appearance, and the plain white cottages which are dotted about here and there stand in bare, uncultivated spots. Lower down, however, as we approach the central portion, the face of the island brightens. Old acquaintances of Bermuda point out the position of Harrington Sound, which they declare—and rightly as we afterwards thought—to be the most lovely part of the island; but from the vessel all we can see is a narrow inlet which one could almost jump across. The long lines of roofs which sparkle so in the sun on the hill yonder are the barracks, and the red coats of the soldiers make pleasant bits of colour, which contrast well with the gleaming sand and the deep green cedar-nooks in which the white houses nestle.

Farther on we pass Government House and the signal station, from which the arrival of the steamer has long been signalled; then Clarence Hill—Admiralty House—is left behind, and we round Spanish Point, with Ireland and other islands forming a semi-circle on our right. On Ireland Island is to be seen as everybody knows, the famous floating dock which was towed from England in 1869. At another time, this would probably have been the centre of attraction, but the eyes of our sea-worn passengers were directed to a fine large building well situated at the extremity of that island. “What a splendid hotel!” said one, and “How delightfully cool it must be there!” said another. It proved to be the “Commissioner’s House,” now used as military quarters.

The history of this building is rather singular. A certain Treasury clerk was appointed “Commissioner” in charge of the dockyard, and, not being satisfied with the house given him to occupy, received permission from the Home Government to spend £12,000 in building a new one. This concession appears to have turned his head, for the house gradually assumed the dimensions of a palace; marble chimney-pieces were erected, and stabling built for a dozen horses, and this in a country where fire-places were hardly necessary, and where, at that time, horses were useless. Marble baths and other trifles ran up the bill to over £60,000. The gentleman for whom this expense was incurred never occupied the house, as he went mad, and the office of “Commissioner” was soon dispensed with.

Whilst an old resident was telling us this story, we had entered the Great Sound, and we found ourselves in a pretty land-locked harbour, on whose wonderfully clear blue water floated numerous fairy islets—a scene which reminded us of the words of Moore:

“The morn was lovely, every wave was still

When the first perfume of a cedar-hill

Sweetly awakened us, and with smiling charms

The fairy harbour wooed us to its arms.”

Through these green islands we wound our way carefully, one channel being particularly narrow and dangerous. Beneath its transparent waters we could distinguish an old cannon; and then a sudden turn brought us into the pretty port of Hamilton, where we dropped anchor close to the shore. But being on shore and only near it are very different things, and it seemed hours to us hungry mortals before the vessel was gradually dragged to within forty feet of the quay. Nearer we could not get, on account of a shallow.

Now to land in boats appeared too ridiculous for such a short distance, but no other means were visible. A bridge lowered by a crane would have landed us all in a few minutes, but there was no appearance of such a thing. Old-fashioned Bermuda wanted no new-fangled notions, so we had to abide our time and wait until a bridge had been manufactured in the following way: Ropes were thrown from the vessel and fastened to the outer ends of long beams, which were hauled on board, their other extremities resting on shore. Then a number of grinning darkies strided these beams, and lashed cross-bars to them; planks were laid on the frame, and over these we walked on to the quay.

There were only two passengers besides myself for the Hamilton Hotel, and these were a very charming old lady and her son—a young physician from Boston—who had been advised to spend the winter abroad. A short walk brought us to the hotel, a good-sized, comfortable building, commanding a fine view of the harbour and port of the town. On our way up, we passed a splendid specimen of the india-rubber tree, whose luxuriant growth almost hid the broad veranda’d cottage behind it. Speaking of this tree, Mark Twain says that, when he saw it, it was “out of season, possibly as there were no shoes on it, nor suspenders, nor anything a person would properly expect to find there.” This tree was the first sign of tropical vegetation that we had seen, which fact had rather surprised us, as on the cover of a “bill of fare,” which had been shown to us in New York, was a picture of the Hamilton Hotel, with an avenue of palms and bananas leading up to it. The fine palms—mountain cabbage—we afterwards discovered about half-a-mile off, and not even within sight of the hotel. But one cannot expect to find everything one sees, even on a bill of fare. We were informed by the clerk that we were the first visitors of the season. “But somebody else is here,” said I, pointing to a solitary name in the visitor’s register. “Oh,” said he, “that’s me;” and forthwith assigned us our rooms.

And now let me say a word about this hotel, which is notorious for having prevented many strangers from visiting Bermuda, and others who would have liked to return, from coming back. The rooms are simply but comfortably furnished, the situation is good, and the grounds might be very prettily laid out. The whole cause of discontent with the hotel has hitherto—that is, up to the winter of 1877-78—been with the management. The house had been leased to an American, a pleasant, agreeable person, but without the least idea of managing an hotel. People did not come to Bermuda for third-rate American hotel dinners, but there they got them, until they could stand it no longer. It was useless to speak to the manager; no redress was obtainable. Everything was served at once; an armada of little white dishes was placed before you, in one a dry cutlet, in another a few dried pellets of fried potatoes, peas like buckshot, boiled potatoes like cannon-balls; here an inch of tough chicken, there a slice of beef, baked until all its proper juices had been extracted; heavy pumpkin pies, tea and coffee quite undrinkable, butter that no one could touch; such, with but little variation, were the component parts of the three meals. Even the provisions of Nature were not made as available as they might have been. In the garden were two or three fine papaw trees, whose insipid green fruit was sometimes given to us as a delicious West-Indian preserve. It is said that the leaves of this tree, if rubbed on a bull’s hide, would immediately convert it into tender beefsteak; now our meat was always of the toughest description.

Day after day I used to see my two friends, fresh from their home in Boston, rise from the table without having touched anything, and I felt quite ashamed of our English colony. Had the proprietor been English, I think I should have run away. As it was, we limited our visit to a fortnight instead of a month, the doctor accompanying me to the West Indies, whilst his mother returned home.

It seems a pity that quiet Bermuda should not attract more visitors—Americans especially—than it does. A well-kept hotel there would be very welcome to many who now winter in Florida or Nassau (Bahamas). The island is more interesting than either of those places, and equally picturesque; and I have no doubt that visitors, when they left, would carry away as pleasant recollections as they would probably leave behind.