Читать книгу Roraima and British Guiana, With a Glance at Bermuda, the West Indies, and the Spanish Main - J. W. Boddam-Whetham - Страница 8

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ST. THOMAS—FORTS—BOATMEN—DIVERS—HOTEL DU COMMERCE—MAIN STREET—STABLE COMPANIONS—AMAZONS—A NEGRO POLITICIAN—DANISH RULE—A SORRY SIGHT—JUSTICE IN THE VIRGIN GROUP—A DAY’S DOINGS—KRUMM BAY—CHA-CHAS—AN OCEAN PAWNBROKER’S—LANDSLIP—ALOE—A CURE FOR LUNG DISEASES—UP THE MOUNTAIN.

Had the passengers on board the comfortable ‘Beta’ been as poetical as Childe Harold was when in his clumsy brig he sang:

“Four days are sped, but with the fifth anon

New shores descried make every bosom gay,”

they might have said something less prosy than “Thank goodness, there’s land!” when, precisely on the fifth morning after leaving Bermuda, a vision as of misty clouds grew out of the sea! Then, as the yellow flush of dawn cleared the prospect, substance was given to the hazy outlines, and as the sun rose, touching the rugged peaks with gold and purple, the island of St. Thomas lay revealed before them.

As the vessel entered the spacious harbour and dropped anchor at some distance from shore, we thought we had seldom looked at a prettier scene. In front is a high, abrupt mountain range, from which three rounded spurs run down to the sea, and on these hills stands the town. On the right, a low, wooded savanna sweeps up to the hills which encircle the bay, whose mirror-like surface reflects the rocks and islands which close the entrance and almost join the promontory on our left. But it is the rich colouring that forms the striking part of the view. After demure Bermuda, with its white and grey-green, the bright red roofs and white, green, yellow, and blue houses are almost dazzling. There, clinging to the side of the hill, is a cluster of freshly painted cottages, looking very gaudy in the strong sunlight; nearer at hand are a few low houses, whose once brilliant roofs are now changed by time and weather to a golden russet-red highly picturesque.

The height of the dark mountains gives a diminutive appearance to the buildings, so that you imagine you are looking at a Dutch toy village—or rather three villages. This idea is enhanced by the toy fort which, with bastion, battlements, and barbican, is strongly suggestive of cake ornamentation. Commanding this Danish fortress are the two strongholds of those old pirates called Bluebeard and Blackbeard, which look feudal, and only want a few of Mr. James’s horsemen slowly winding up the narrow causeway to be quite romantic. Over the trees of the toy public garden, which lies close to the landing, is seen a Moorish-looking structure, which proves to be the hotel, and gives promise of coolness and comfort, which I need hardly say is not realised. Behold, then, bright, cheerful little dwellings, with a prevailing hue of russet, perched on hills and nestling in the intervening valleys, amid tropical trees and flowering shrubs, forming the centre of a combination of mountain, sea, and island that is very pleasing, especially when seen in the soft golden light shining through the pearly grey mist of the rain storms which often sweep over the island—and such is St. Thomas.

The change of scenery from Bermuda is not greater than that of manners. There is no quaker-like simplicity in St. Thomas; noise and clamour prevail. Hardly has the anchor touched the bottom before the ship is surrounded with dozens of boats, manned by sturdy negroes, anxious to take passengers ashore. Here we find among the boatmen the same names as those borne by Egyptian donkeys at Cairo and Alexandria—Derby winners, heroes of popular songs, &c. “Champagne Charlie” urges his cognomen as a special reason for your patronage, whilst another, blacker than the blackest of imps, claims the stranger’s old acquaintance with “Remember Snowball, massa, last time you here!”

Just as we stepped into our boat, a young Canadian on board, who had been assiduously fishing ever since we arrived, and without success, suddenly called out that he had a bite, and triumphantly pulled up his line, to which a bottle had been attached by one of the little urchins when diving for coppers. This little incident reminded one of our party of the tricks which Antony and Cleopatra used to play each other by the aid of divers. In the play Charmian says to Cleopatra:

“’Twas merry when

You wagered on your angling; when your diver

Did hang a salt fish on his hook, which he

With fervency drew up.”

“And thus history repeats herself,” said somebody else, as we landed on the wharf.

The inhabitants of St. Thomas are apt to boast of their Hôtel du Commerce, and to inform the stranger that it is the best in the West Indies; all I can say is that out of the few I saw, it was by far the worst. It was kept by a Spanish family, each member of which was master, and each cared less than the other for the comfort of the guests. The beds were bad, the mosquito nets were full of holes, there was not a comfortable chair or table in any bedroom, dirt and uncleanliness prevailed everywhere; clean linen was at a discount, and the cook evidently thought that wretched food was compensated for by the fine, broad verandah in which it was eaten. My friend, the doctor, was so overcome by the heat and discomfort that he determined to return to Boston by the first steamer, which was not due, however, for nearly a fortnight. As mine, also, was not expected until about the same time, we determined to make the best of it, and try to enjoy ourselves. On looking back, we afterwards found that our enjoyment principally consisted in going from the reading-room to the club, and from the club back to the reading-room. It was too hot to sit down, and we found it necessary to keep moving in order to get a little air.

Main Street, which runs along the sea, is the only level piece of ground in St. Thomas; beyond that all is up-hill; it is here, therefore, that you see life in its busiest and idlest aspect. The shops and stores are prepossessing neither in their exterior nor in their interior. Straw hats, ready-made clothes, tawdry trifles, and provisions predominate; there is nothing to tempt you, nothing strange to invite a purchaser. But in the street itself it is more amusing; look at that stately woman in flowing white, with the bright turban, on which is poised a tray of cakes—she is a Haytian; those children sitting on the doorstep, and dressed in the suit they were born in, are evidently natives; here comes a white horse, with a brilliant red saddle-cloth, followed closely by a sheep; is there a circus coming? No; the patriarchal rider is only Mr. So-and-So, and it is the fashion in many parts of the West Indies for sheep to accompany horses. They say it is healthy for sheep to live in the stables with horses, and they get so attached to one another that, out-of-doors, the former will not leave the latter as long as they can keep up with them.

Now groups of women pass; surely they are real Amazons! Jet black, and wearing only very short skirts, a twist of hemp round their heads, and with their woolly hair plaited in horns, or crowned with a half cocoa-nut by way of bonnet, they shout and sing like frantic Mœnads. They are coalers returning from their hard day’s labour in the harbour. It is not in St. Thomas where “men must work and women must weep.” That old negro who is declaiming with such vehemence in front of the hotel is a great admirer of Lord Beaconsfield, learns all his speeches by heart, and goes about reciting them. It is pleasant to observe this tribute of admiration to our great Minister, however odd the expression of it may be. English, French, German, Dutch, Creoles, all sorts of nationalities, are met with here, but of Danes, to whom the island belongs, there is a very limited supply. As for the Danish language, it is the only one not heard.

Of Danish rule the casual visitor can, of course, say very little. He sees clean, well-ordered streets, and evidences of continual improvements, sanitary and otherwise, although he cannot help thinking that the great open sewer, crossed by a bridge in Main Street, and down which, in the rainy season, come avalanches of dead cats, tin cans, and other despised articles, might be made less conspicuous, and answer its purpose equally well. He sees, also, a chain-gang on some public works, and the pitiful sight of women working with the male convicts; but the unfortunate creatures seem to care less about it than the spectator, and with a jaunty air shoulder their spade or pickaxe, and sing to a chain accompaniment.

The visitor to the island will probably hear—for at St. Thomas, as elsewhere:

“There is a lust in man no charm can tame,

Of loudly publishing his neighbour’s shame—”

of the strange administration of justice (by the way, do we not, in our own neighbouring island of Tortola, present the strange spectacle of a president who himself combines the three functions of judge, prosecutor, and judge of appeal?), of harmless idlers being picked up by the police and exiled to the small island of St. John’s, there to tend sheep and cattle; of theft being far more severely punished than murder, and of the general incapacity of the government. But the proverbial “grain of salt” must be taken with the tales, and I think the stranger will allow that things are carried on much the same as elsewhere; that harmony exists in spite of inharmonious elements, and that St. Thomas is not so bad as he had been led to expect.

The days here are monotonous, but variety cannot be expected in so circumscribed an area. In the early morning, just as you are about to drop off to sleep, after an intensely hot night, varied with earthquakes, and passed probably in opening and closing the shutters of your room—closing them against the driving rain, and opening them to get some air—the gun fires, and if that fails to waken you thoroughly, the negroes hold such a jubilee under your window that sleep is quite impossible.[5] A sudden screaming and wild vociferation makes you spring out of bed fearing an earthquake, but it is only the old black women having a “talk,” or merely wishing each other “good morning.” Then the men indulge in angry abuse, gesticulate madly, and just as you expect to see a knife plunged into somebody’s bosom, the chief disputant walks off, singing the “Sweet by-and-by.” There was no quarrel! You then go to bed again; but immediately bread and coffee are brought, and, as early rising is infectious, you go through the agony of dressing when, as Sydney Smith says, you would rather “take off your flesh and sit in your bones.” St. Thomas is one of those places where, as the Irishman said, it is never cooler—it may be hotter, but it is never cooler. However, that is at last accomplished, and then comes a terrible gap of time until breakfast. There is little to explore, and ferns and shells are soon exhausted, so you ramble up Main Street, visit the much-enduring consul, or make one of the coterie in the grand réunions held in some store, where the affairs of the world are settled.

At last comes breakfast, which is dinner without soup, and where quantity tries to make up for quality.

“Such breakfast, such beginning of the day

Is more than half the whole;”

and very fortunate it is that such is the case, as until the heat of the sun has decreased there is not much inducement for exercise. By that time dinner is ready, and soon after—as early hours are the rule—you retire to your room, to turn out the centipedes, which are of enormous size in St. Thomas, from under your pillow, and the mosquitos from out of the netting. Then you perspire all night. And so passes hotel-life when there are no dinner-parties, nor theatricals, nor excursions to break its monotony.

One morning we took a boat to visit a very curious place called “Krumm Bay.” It was intensely hot, but “Admiral Nelson” pulled away merrily across the harbour, past the western suburb of the town, and in among the islands and creeks, which in olden times afforded good retreats for pirates. Here Blackbeard was wont to retire after some filibustering expedition and take in fresh supplies of wines and provisions. A fishing boat sailed by, in which was an enormous Jew-fish, at which the “Admiral” pulled a very long face, and explained to us that, whenever a Jew-fish was caught, some one of high position in St. Thomas was sure to die, or perhaps was already dead. Strangely enough, next morning we noticed that all the flags were at half-mast, and heard that news had just arrived of the death in England of the head of one of the chief firms in the island.

The islets around were covered with thick under-bush, out of which tall flowering aloes shot up like telegraph poles, but on the mainland cacti predominated, with here and there masses of creamy blossoms of the fragrant Frangipani. I am at a loss to know how the latter plant gained its name, as its scent is by no means the same as that extracted from flowers by the great Roman alchemist Frangipani, and which as “a perfumed powder in a velvet bag,” with

“——a cast of

Odours rare—of orris mixed with spice

Sandal and violet, with musk and rose

Combined in due proportion,”

was considered a wonderful cure for the plague. High up on the arid soil rose a giant cereus, with arms like candelabra; lower down were the round prickly forms of the echinocactus, looking like small hedge-hogs; then there were numbers of the melocactus, which they here call the Pope’s head, and which finds a ready sale among the shipping. We had noticed dépôts for shells and cacti at the other extremity of the town, and probably these are the only exports from the island. Those large trees near the water are manchineel, whose fruit is deadly poison to all but crabs, who esteem it highly. These crabs are themselves considered a delicacy, but are generally kept for a week, and thoroughly purged before being eaten.

But who are those light-complexioned men in that crazy canoe? The Admiral smiles disdainfully as he informs us that they are only “Cha-Chas,” who live on the outskirts of the town, and employ themselves in fishing. We afterwards visited one of their little colonies, and found an industrious people—natives of small adjacent islands—living in huts made of the tin plates cut from kerosene cans and biscuit cases, looking not unlike extra large sardine-boxes, and as closely packed. There they raised some fruit and vegetables, plaited straw, and made ornaments of tamarind seeds.

At the bottom of a deep bay, we found the object of our visit, viz., an establishment for wrecks. Here, lying on the beach and stowed away under long sheds, were fragments of all sorts of vessels and their fittings. Long masts lay near rusty boilers, paddle-wheels were mixed with broken screws; a deck cabin half concealed a ship’s boat; anchors, helms, poops, sterns, funnels, beams, all the makings of a ship were there, and a large workshop showed where the useless was made good, and the broken repaired. It was not a working-day, and the only sign of life was a large and hungry dog, whose appearance did not render a landing very inviting. We had, therefore, to be satisfied with an exterior view of this marine pawn-shop, where Neptune had got rid of some of his worthless lumber, perhaps only to retake it when it had once more been made serviceable.

And now, before taking leave of St. Thomas, let us ascend to the top of the hill above the town, and risk a hot walk for the sake of the fresh air and view. After passing the theatre, where a black troupe had lately performed “Macbeth,” the road winds up and up, past cottages hanging like bird-cages to the hill-sides, and only waiting for a landslip to precipitate them into the valley—in fact, one house that now stands close to the town originally stood far up on a hill, but in 1877 it was carried down entire to its present position, after an earthquake, followed by a landslip—and soon we were high above the red tiled roofs.

The vegetation is of the scrub order, and among the low bushes fly the repulsive “black witches,” uttering rich but melancholy notes. The yellow flowers of the “cedar bush” sprinkle the mountain-side, and a species of bitter aloe is common; from the latter an old black woman of the town makes a decoction which is positively declared to be a certain cure for lung disease. The fleshy leaves contain a jelly-like pulp; this, after being extracted, is washed seven times in pure water, and beaten up with eggs and milk. To effect a cure, seven wine-glasses of it must be drunk. In Mexico I have frequently seen the same medicine used, and have heard wonderful stories of its power, but there the number seven is not included in the recipe.

Continuing up the path, we do not see much animal life; occasionally a lizard runs across, or we meet a few natives bringing down sugar-cane, and each carrying a “sour-sop”—a large green fruit, with pulp-like cotton-wool—or, perchance, a little donkey clatters down, so loaded with grass that nothing can be seen of it except the little hoofs.

The view from the summit is fine and contrasting. On one side, far below, lies the busy town, with its picturesque towers and harbour filled with shipping. On the other, a silent waste of water, broken up into fantastic bays and inlets, and with rocky islands scattered over its face.

On the town side, hardly any cultivation is visible, but on the other are long strips of cane-lands and patches of garden, groups of fruit-trees, and grazing pastures.

In the west, rises Porto Rico; in the south, the dim outlines of Santa Cruz are visible, and between the two, like a ship under press of canvas, appears Caraval, or Sail Rock, with its forked peak, white-shining in the sun.

To the east, lie the Virgin Islands in the midst of the “Grande Rue des Vierges,” as the blue waters which surround them are called. But we have not much time to admire the scene, already the rose-pink in the west is changing to gold, a metallic lustre dances on the water, the Virgin group is fading in the purple distance, and we must descend to the steaming town.

As we approach, a sound of music floats up to us, and we hear children’s voices singing a Christmas carol. Can this really be December? To-morrow we will go to Santa Cruz.