Tom Cringle's Log

by Michael Scott

  On my first arrival I was somewhat surprised at my Spanish acquaintances always putting up their umbrellas when abroad after nightfall in the streets; the city had its evil customs, it seemed, as well as others of more note, with this disadvantage, that no one had the discretion to sing out gardyloo.

  There was another solemn fast about this time, in honour of a saint having had a tooth drawn, or some equally important event, and Don Hombrecillo and I had been at the evening service in the church of the convent of La Merced, situated, as I have already mentioned, directly opposite his house, on the other side of the lane; and this being over, we were on the eve of returning home, when the flannel-robed superior came up and invited us into the refectory, whereunto, after some palaver, we agreed to adjourn, and had a good supper, and some bad Malaga wine, which, however, seemed to suit the palates of the Frailes, if taking a very decent quantity thereof were any proof of the same. Presently two of the lay brothers produced their fiddles, and as I was determined not to be outdone, I volunteered a song, and, as a keystone to my politeness, sent to Don Hombrecillo’s for the residue of my brandy, which, coming after the bad wine, acted most cordially opening the hearts of all hands like an oyster-knife, the Superior’s especially, who in turn drew on his private treasure also, when out came a large green vitrified earthen pipkin, one of those round-bottomed jars that won’t stand on end, but must perforce be on their sides, as if it had been a type of the predicament in which some of us were to be placed ere long through its agency. The large cork, buried an inch deep in green wax, was withdrawn from the long neck, and out gurgled most capital old Xeres. So we worked away until we were all pretty well fou, and anon we began to dance; and there were half-a-dozen friars, and old Justo and myself, in great glee, jumping and gamboling about, and making fools of ourselves after a very fantastic fashion—the witches in Macbeth as an illustration.

  At length, after being two months in Panama, and still no appearance of the Bandera, I received a letter from the Admiral desiring me to rejoin the Wave immediately, as it was then known that the line-of-battle ship had returned to the River Plate. Like most young men who have hearts of flesh in their bosoms, I had in this short space begun to have my likings—may I not call them friendships?—in this, at the time I write of, most primitive community; and the idea of bidding farewell to it, most likely for ever, sank deep. However, I was His Majesty’s officer, and my services and obedience were his, although my feelings were my own; and accordingly, stifling the latter, I prepared for my departure.

  On the very day whereon I was recalled, a sister of mine host’s—a most reverend mechanic, who had been fourteen years married without chick or child—was brought to bed, to the unutterable surprise of her spouse, and of all the little world in Panama, of a male infant. It had rained the whole day, notwithstanding which, and its being the only authenticated production ever published by the venerable young lady, the piccaniny was carried to the Franciscan church, a distance of half a mile, at nine o’clock at night, through a perfect storm, to be christened, and the evil star of poor Mangrove rose high in the ascendant on the occasion.

  After the ceremony, I was returning home chilled with standing uncovered for an hour in a cold damp church, and walking very fast in order to bring myself into heat, when on turning a corner, I heard a sound of flutes and fiddles in the street, and from the number of lanterns and torches that accompanied it, I conjectured rightly that it was a Function of no small importance—no less, in fact, than a procession in honour of the Virgin. Poor Mangrove at this time was pattering close to my heels, and I could hear him chuckling and laughing to himself.

  “What dis can be—I say, Sneezer?”—to his never-failing companion—”what you tink? John Canoe, after Spanish fashion, it mosh be, eh?”

  The dog began to jump and gambol about.

  “Ah,” continued the black pilot, “no doubt it must be John Canoe—I may dance—why not—eh?—oh, yes—I shall dance.”

  And as the music struck into rather a quicker tune at the moment, our ebony friend began to caper and jump about as if he had been in Jamaica at Christmas-time, whereupon one of the choristers, or music-boys, as they were called, a beautiful youth about forty years of age, six feet high, and proportionably strong, without the least warning, incontinently smote our amigo across the pate with a brazen saint that he carried, and felled him to the earth; indeed, if el Señor Justo had not been on the spot to interfere, we should have had a scene of it in all likelihood, as the instant the man delivered his blow, Sneezer’s jaws were at his throat, and had he not fortunately obeyed me, and let go at the sound of my voice, we might have had a double of Macaire and the dog of Montargis. As it was, the noble animal, before he let go, brought the culprit to the ground like a shot. I immediately stood forward and got the feud soldered as well as I could, in which the worthy Justo cordially lent me a hand.

  Next morning I rode out on my mule, to take my last clip in the Quebrada of the Loseria, a rapid in a beautiful little rivulet distant from Panama about three miles; and a most exquisite bath it was. Let me describe it. After riding a couple of miles, and leaving the open savannah, you struck off sharp to the left through a narrow bridle-path into the wood, with an impervious forest on either hand, and proceeding a mile farther, you came suddenly upon a small, rushing, roaring, miniature cascade, where the pent-up waters leaped through a narrow gap in the limestone rock, that you could have stepped across, down a tiny fall about a fathom high, into a round foaming buzzing basin, twenty feet in diameter, where the clear cool water bubbled and eddied round and round like a boiling caldron, until it rushed away once more over the lower ledge, and again disappeared, murmuring beneath the thick foliage of the rustling branches. The pool was about ten feet deep, and never was anything more luxurious in a hot climate.

  After having performed my morning ablutions, and looking with a heavy heart at the sweet stream, and at every stock and stone, and shrub and tree, as objects I was never to see again, I trotted on, followed by Peter Mangrove, my man-at-arms, who bestrode his mule gallantly, to Don Hombrecillo’s pen, as the little man delighted to call his country-house, situated about five miles from Panama, and which I was previously informed had been given up to the use of his two maiden sisters. I got there about half-past ten in the forenoon, and found that el Señor Justo had arrived before me. The situation was most beautiful; the house was embosomed in high wood, the lowest spurs put forth by the gigantic trees being far above the ridgepole of the wooden fabric. It was a low one-storey building of unpainted timber, which, from the action of the weather, had been bleached on the outside into a whitish-grey appearance, streaked by numerous green weather-stains, and raised about five feet on wooden posts, so that there was room for a flock of goats to shelter themselves below it. Access was had to the interior by a rickety rattletrap of a wooden ladder or stair of half-a-dozen steps, at the top of which you landed in an unceiled hall, with the rafters of the roof exposed, and the bare green vitrified tiles for a canopy, while a small sleeping apartment opened off each end. In the centre room there was no furniture except two grass hammocks slung across the room, and three or four old-fashioned leather or rather hide covered chairs, and an old rickety table; while overhead the tiles were displaced in one or two places, where the droppings from the leaves of the trees, and the sough of their rustling in the wind, came through. There were no inmates visible when we entered but a little negro girl, of whom el Señor Hombrecillo asked “where the Señoras were?”—” En cavilla,” said the urchin. Whereupon we turned back and proceeded to a little tiny stone chapel, little bigger than a dog-house, the smallest affair in the shape of a church I had ever seen, about a pistol-shot distant in the wood, where we found the two old ladies and Señor Justo’s natural son engaged at their devotions. On being aware of our presence they made haste with the service, and, having finished it, arose and embraced their brother, while the son approached and kissed his hand.

  One of the ancient demoiselles a
ppeared in bad health; nevertheless, they both gave us a very hearty reception, and prepared breakfast for us; fricasseed fowls, a little too much of the lard, but still ———, fish from the neighbouring stream, &c.; and I was doing the agreeable to the best of my poor ability, when el Señor Justo asked me abruptly if I would go and bathe. A curious country, thought I, and a strange way people have of doing things. After a hearty meal, instead of giving you time to ruminate, and to allow the gastric juices to operate, away they lug you to be plumped over head and ears into a pool of ice-cold water. I rose, confoundedly against my inclination, I will confess, and we proceeded to a small rocky waterfall, where a man might wash himself, certainly, but as to swimming, which is to me the grand desideratum, it was impossible; so I prowled away down the stream, to look out for a pool, and at last I was successful. On returning, as I only took a dip to swear by, the situation of my venerable Spanish ally was entertaining enough. There he was, the most forlorn little mandrake eye ever rested on, cowering like a large frog under the tiny cascade, stark naked, with his knees drawn up to his chin, and his grey queue gathered carefully under a green gourd or calabash that he wore on his head, while his natural son was dashing water in his face, as if the shower-bath overhead had not been sufficient.

  “Soy bañando—soy bañando, capitan—-fresco—fresquito!” squealed Hombrecillo; while, splash between every exclamation, his dutiful son let fly a gourdful of agua at his head.

  That same evening we returned to Panama; and next morning, being the 22d of such a month, I left my kind friends, and, with Peter Mangrove, proceeded on our journey to Cruzes, mounted on two stout mules. I got there late in the evening, the road, from the heavy rains, being in sad condition; but next morning the recua, or convoy of silver, which was to follow me for shipment on merchants’ account to Kingston, had not arrived. Presently I received a letter from Don Justo, sent express, to intimate that the muleteers had proceeded immediately after we had started for about a mile beyond the suburbs, where they were stopped by the officer of a kind of military post or barrier, under pretence of the passport being irregular; and this difficulty was no sooner cleared up than the accounts of a bull-fight, that was unexpectedly to take place that forenoon, reached them, when the whole bunch, half drunk as they were, started off to Panama again, leaving the money with the soldiers; nor would they return, or be prevailed on to proceed, until the following morning. However, on the 24th, at noon, the money did arrive, which was immediately embarked on board of a large canoe that I had provided; and having shipped a beautiful little mule also, of which I had made a purchase at Panama, we proceeded down the river to the village of Gorgona, where we slept. My apartment was rather a primitive concern. It was simply a roof or shed, thatched with palm-tree leaves, about twelve feet long by eight broad, and supported on four upright posts at the corners, the eaves being about six feet high. Under this I slung my grass hammock transversely from corner to corner, tricing it well up to the rafters, so that it hung about five feet from the ground; while beneath Mangrove lit a fire, for the twofold purpose, as it struck me, of driving off the mosquitoes, and converting his Majesty’s officer into ham or hung beef; so after having made mulo fast to one of the posts, with a bundle of malojo, or the green stems of Indian corn or maize, under his nose, he borrowed a plank from a neighbouring hut and laid himself down on it at full length, covered up with a blanket, as if he had been a corpse, and soon fell fast asleep. As for Sneezer, he lay with his black muzzle resting on his fore-paws, which were thrust out straight before him, until they almost stirred up the white embers of the fire, with his eyes shut, and apparently asleep; but from the constant nervous twitchings and pricking up of his ears, and his haunches being gathered up well under him, and a small quick switch of his tail now and then, it was evident he was broad awake, and considered himself on duty. All continued quiet and silent in our bivouac until midnight, however, except the rushing of the river hard by, when I was awakened by the shaking of the shed from the violent struggles of mulo to break loose, his strong tremblings thrilling along the taut cord that held him, down the lanyard of my hammock to my neck, as he drew himself in the intervals of his struggles as far back as he could, proving that the poor brute suffered under a paroxysm of fear. “What noise is that?” I roused myself. It was repeated. It was a wild cry, or rather a loud shrill mew, gradually sinking into a deep growl. “What the deuce is that, Sneezer?” said I. The dog made no answer, but merely wagged his tail once, as if he had said, “Wait a bit now, master; you shall see how well I shall acquit myself, for this is in my way.” Ten yards from the shed under which I slept there was a pig-sty, surrounded by a sort of tiny stockade a fathom high, made of split cane, wove into wicker-work between upright rails sunk into the ground; and by the clear moonlight I could, as I lay in my hammock, see an animal larger than an English bull-dog, but with the stealthy pace of the cat, crawl on in a crouching attitude until within ten feet of the sty, when it stopped, looked round, and then drew itself back, and made a scrambling jump against the cane defence, hooking on to the top of it by its fore-paws, the claws of its hind-feet scratching and rasping against the dry cane splits, until it had gathered its legs into a bunch, like the aforesaid puss, on the top of the enclosure; from which elevation the creature seemed to be reconnoitring the unclean beasts within. I grasped my pistols. Mangrove was still sound asleep. The struggles of mulo increased; I could hear the sweat raining off him; but Sneezer, to my great surprise, remained motionless as before. We now heard the alarmed grunts, and occasionally a sharp squeak, from the piggery, as if the beauties had only now become aware of the vicinity of their dangerous neighbour, who, having apparently made his selection, suddenly dropped down amongst them; when mulo burst from his fastenings with a yell, enough to frighten the devil, tearing away the upright to which the lanyard of my hammock was made fast, whereby I was pitched like a shot right down on Mangrove’s corpus, while a volley of grunting and squeaking split the sky, such as I never heard before; in the very nick, Sneezer, starting from his lair with a loud bark, sprang at a bound into the enclosure, which he topped like a first-rate hunter; and Peter Mangrove, awakening all of a heap from my falling on him, jumped upon his feet as noisy as the rest.

  “Garamighty in a tap—wurra all dis—my tomach bruise home to my backbone like one pancake;” and while the short fierce bark of the noble dog was blended with the agonised cry of the gatto del monte, the shrill treble of the poor porkers rose high above both, and mulo was galloping through the village with the post after him, like a dog with a pan at his tail, making the most unearthly noises; for it was neither bray nor neigh. The villagers ran out of their huts headed by the padre cura, and all was commotion and uproar. Lights were procured. The noise in the sty continued, and Mangrove, the warm-hearted creature, unsheathing his knife, clambered over the fence to the rescue of his four-footed ally, and disappeared, shouting, “Sneezer often fight for Peter, so Peter now will fight for he;” and soon began to blend his shouts with the cries of the enraged beasts within. At length the mania spread to me upon hearing the poor follow shout, “Tiger here, captain—tiger here—tiger too many for we—Lud-a-mercy—tiger too many for we, sir—if you no help we, we shall be torn in piece.” Then a violent struggle, and a renewal of the uproar, and of the barking and yelling and squeaking. It was now no joke; the life of a fellow-creature was at stake. So I scrambled up after the pilot to the top of the fence with a loaded pistol in my hand, a young active Spaniard following with a large brown wax candle, that burned like a torch; and, looking down on the mêlée below, there Sneezer lay with the throat of the leopard in his jaws, evidently much exhausted, but still giving the creature a cruel shake now and then, while Mangrove was endeavouring to throttle the brute with his bare hands. As for the poor pigs, they were all huddled together, squeaking and grunting most melodiously in the corner. I held down the light. “Now, Peter, cut his throat, man—cut his throat.”

  Mangrove, the moment he saw where he was
, drew his knife across the leopard’s weasand, and killed him on the spot. The glorious dog, the very instant he felt he had a dead antagonist in his fangs, let go his hold, and, making a jump with all his remaining strength, for he was bleeding much, and terribly torn, I caught him by the nape of the neck, and, in my attempt to lift him over and place him on the outside, down I went, dog and all, amongst the pigs, upon the bloody carcass; out of which mess I was gathered by the cura and the standers-by in a very beautiful condition; for, what between the filth of the sty and blood of the leopard, and so forth, I was not altogether a fit subject for a side-box at the opera.

  This same tiger or leopard had committed great depredations in the neighbourhood for months before, but he had always escaped, although he had been repeatedly wounded; so Peter and I became as great men for the two hours longer that we sojourned in Gorgona, as if we had killed the dragon of Wantley. Our quarry was indeed a noble animal, nearly seven feet from the nose to the tip of the tail. At day-dawn, having purchased his skin for three dollars, I shoved off; and on the 25th, at five in the evening, having had a strong current with us the whole way down, we arrived at Chagres once more. I found a boat from the Wave waiting for me, and, to prevent unnecessary delay, I resolved to proceed with the canoe along the coast to Porto-Bello, as there was a strong weather-current running, and little wind; and, accordingly, we proceeded next morning, with the canoe in tow, but towards the afternoon it came on to blow, which forced us into a small cove, where we remained for the night in a very uncomfortable situation, as the awning proved an indifferent shelter from the rain that descended in torrents.