CHAPTER I

_Direct not him, whose way himself will choose;_ _’Tis breath thou lack’st, and that breath wilt thou lose._

—Richard II.

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Red and vivid against the dense night, a camp fire of palm bark flared, fluttered, and went out. Its momentary glare illumined one of those strange scenes, occasioned by strange people being marooned in a strange place. The rest of the world, which seemed very far away, was shut out, on the one side, by a reef of palm trees sharply silhouetted against the somber sky and, on the other, by a barrier of hills.

“Are we up against it?” Crebbin spoke.

“If you mean by ‘it’ that hill yonder, we are.” Waldon answered.

Three jaded men sat around the fire. Like the fire, their conversation had flamed and gone out. They gazed into the darkening embers, mused on the strangeness of some things and speculated on the final solution of the problem which was theirs by reason of their present whereabouts. A palm tree, which had never before enjoyed the company of a four-wheeled vehicle, stood sentinel over an automobile, from whose tonneau protruded the feet of a folded and, presumably, sleeping figure. On a bed of brush slumbered the only one of the party who was native to the country and thereby accustomed to its lack of things comfortable. The others had abandoned this bed on which they could not sleep, had scoured the unfamiliar woods for fuel and had amused themselves by keeping an unnecessary fire ablaze, for the mere companionship of its warmth and for its light, which drove away the trepidation of loneliness. There was no noise, except the strange sounds from the underbrush and palm forests.

The strangers were ourselves. The native was our interpreter.

We were thirty miles from Havana, Cuba. In our sleepy thoughts, Cuba was a mighty big place, Havana far away and our own homes as distant and chimerical as the moon. The moon did not shine on that part of Cuba that night. We were a discouraged bunch, with only a few stars on which to hang our sense of location. Our hopes were in cold storage. We marveled at the wildness of a land that was figuratively but a few steps from the gay and careless Havana. We laughed hysterically at the recollection of our day’s performance in bringing the car over the roadless country whose stone trails are followed only by ox carts and ponies.

Remembering we were bound across the island to one of the oldest of its very old towns, we realized that, when dawn should raise the curtain on the scene night had shut out, we would be almost up against the impossible. However, we did not seek to pry into the future. We simply tried to neglect it. We were not sure where we were and we did not care very much, because it made no difference. It was just about as hard to get into and out of one place as another. We had learned much about Cuba in a few hours.

We imitated sleep with apathy. Occasionally, we tried to bring the real world back to us, by noisily gathering more fallen palm bark for the fire. Palm bark makes a poor fire for the cheering of lonely spirits. It is a fickle stimulant, the effect being great while it lasts, but it does not last long enough to give any real comfort. The dead, dark, cold night was depressing.

We were startled like children when the thundering of near-by hoofs awoke us to the fact that we were no longer alone. The insurgents were busy in Cuba just then and we had not been there long enough to learn that Cuba and insurgents are not bad, but just naughty. The disturbers were as surprised as we. One was a country doctor who was riding miles to visit a stricken “spiggotie” in some distant hut.

A spiggotie is any kind of a provincial Cuban, when mentioned by an outsider. He is one of that species of uncertain race which populates the Spanish-American countries and makes it difficult for a visitor to draw a color line between negro and Castillian blood. I have also met spiggoties who were a charming mixture of Spanish, negro, and Chinese.

The doctor looked down from his pony at us in wonder. His servant on the other pony was alarmed. Presumably, he never had seen an automobile before. Having lived in the midst of three or four puny wars and one real one, he showed the common spiggotie attitude of being suspicious of everything that was not Cuban and regular. The doctor gave us the customary “que hay,” and we awakened the interpreter to say it back to him.

A Cuban does not say much, but he uses a lot of words on the job and is willing to put a highly dramatic touch to the most trivial question or remark. Our interpreter was fully impressed with the honor of being a part of the first automobile expedition across the rough provinces of Cuba. The rattle of Spanish was like two kettle drums in action together.

Evidently, the doctor asked all that could be asked and the interpreter told him more about us than we could have told him. We tried to break into the conversation, but the interpreter was disposed to consider our assistance as a hindrance. We pried one unconsoling fact out of him. The doctor thought we were more than right in supposing we might be up against it. He named about a hundred rivers and a thousand hills which were impassable. He explained that the trail we were following did not lead anywhere, that there was no trail which led anywhere and that there was no road which could be followed. He said that we would have to go back. Then he said that we could not go back. That we had come this far seemed only to impress him with the fact that we must have dropped out of a cloud or come in an airship. It was certainly impossible to make him believe we had driven an automobile from Havana.

Thirty miles is a short distance for an automobile in some places. Between Philadelphia and New York it is a matter of thirty minutes. It had been a matter of five or six hours with us, there in Cuba. We were glad to have the doctor go on his way, for we had heard enough about deep rivers, steep hills, walls of rock, and crooked gullies. We wanted to think about something else until daylight. At least we had rather think about what had been than what was to come. It seemed strange that so much could have happened in the last twenty-four hours.

There was an element of humor in our plight, but we were not in a humorous mood. There was great beauty in the wild, dark night for those who were used to the quiet, homespun nights of Wayne County, Michigan. We knew that we were missing the enchantment of the hour, but we were not in the mood to mind missing anything.

We were the victims of our own imagination rather than the victims of circumstances. We had imagined that Cuba was a sort of national park with an immense system of boulevards. There is one magnificent highway in Cuba, fifty-two miles long, which reaches from Havana to San Cristobal. In publicity it reaches around the world. It has been the course of automobile road races. Automobile writers, attending said automobile races, wrote columns about the beautiful Cubaland, in which the wandering motorist from the north may drive as fast as he likes, while balmy breezes blow across the palm-sentineled macadam. The government has started a road from Havana eastward across the island. Some of this has been surveyed, a little of it graded and it actually exists for a half-dozen miles out of Havana. Down in Santiago province, General Wood has built a road or two. The middle of the island is roadless. There is no continuous travel by vehicle.

Havana presents a wrong idea of Cuba. It is a tourists’ town. It has boulevards and carriages. Cuba has wandering trails and ox carts. No four-wheeled vehicle is used outside the towns. Probably no vehicle of any kind, unless in time of war, ever has made a continuous journey across the island. The ox carts are for local travel. Cross country travel is on foot or on ponies.

Yesterday, on the little coast steamer which carried us across the gulf, we had discussed with eager expectance the fascinations of touring in Cuba, as presented in the steamship company’s alluring pamphlets. We had come south with a Packard car to run it fast and furiously for thousands and thousands of miles under hot weather conditions. A Cuban on the steamer listened while we recounted our plans for this great trying out of the speed and endurance of our motor car. He asked us:

“Have you ever been in Cuba?” and, upon our negative reply:

“Do you really think you can drive an automobile through the interior of Cuba?”

We assured him that we could drive one anywhere, but he merely laughed and sauntered away to tell the other passengers what seemed to him to be a funny story. Other Cubans talked to us. They were all iconoclasts and some of them were plain “knockers.” At first we were insulted and then our peace of mind was destroyed. Slowly, but surely, we approached the truth. Everywhere we turned for a reassuring opinion concerning the suppositious highways, we got the same answer:

“There are no roads; you can’t do it.”

They all explained the impossibility of traversing its valley lands and mountain regions, of making even a most laborious way across the arroyos, through the bridgeless rivers, over the barren stone, and in the wide swamps. There are roads on the map. The maps were originally made by Spaniards with a greater regard for neat drafting than the truth. It is hard to find those roads on the earth. Their course occasionally is marked by washouts.

We slept on the information but gained nothing. This day we had left our cabins early, to catch the first morning glimpse of the beautiful harbor of Havana. As we looked upon its blue shores, under the bluer sky, and felt the charm of early southern morn, it seemed impossible that such a most excellent place to come to could be without roads leading from one beauty spot to another.

The original Cuban came along with a parting slam at our hopes. We were saved from developing a streak of yellow by being carried to a close view of the sunken “Maine.” While our little ship was at anchor, waiting for the tender to land its passengers, we surveyed that unprecedented monument resting in the middle of Havana harbor and our American blood created a stubborn desire to conquer Cuba, roads or no roads, if it took all the gasoline in the world and all the tires in Akron, Ohio.

We were whisked from dreamland into the confusion of the custom-house. Meekly as possible, we suffered the high-handed tactics of the revenue officers. These new Cuban officials, who used to be flunkeys in the household of Spain, with their new freedom and their new uniforms, are arrogant. Some day, if he has not already done so, an American chap, with more valor than discretion, is going to jail for hitting one of them.

It is a land of mañana, these being the headquarters. You can do anything to-morrow. All you can do to-day is to fume and go up to the Prado, where there is a good street eating store, and get acquainted with café con leche. Every addition to our list of Cuban acquaintances added further proof of the impassability of the Cuban interior. It is easy to be bold before the battle. We felt as bold as Moro Castle looked across the bay, when we drove around the beautiful shore drive toward Camp Columbia and for a wild, hilarious rush out on the wonderful San Cristobal road. We rushed back again to Havana because we were eager to tackle the impossible.

Two native sugar planters, who had grown white haired in middle Cuba, were introduced to us at the Hotel Pasaje, as conclusive evidence that we were venturing on a dangerous and incredible journey. We listened to them while we changed our northern garb for clothes more suitable to the task ahead of us. At the local garage, we engaged an interpreter, commonly known as “Cuba.” He had had some experience as a chauffeur and was the only person we could find who seemed to think there might be a chance of getting beyond the eastern limits of the city. The proprietor of the garage cheerfully assured us that we would never reach Matanzas.

So we left Havana.

Driving on the boulevard which sweeps around the harbor, it was incredible that the ending should be a great desert of broken rock. We did not speculate on the future, but were satisfied to rush over the undulating macadam, rolling up an immense funnel of white dust which spread clear to the tops of the regal palms along the roadside.

Our future was hidden by the hills in front of us. We did not care. It was enough, just to dash at racing speed past little scarlet Edens among the bright flambollan flowers, where the silver-tongued moscareta warbled his southern song behind the leaves of the spreading laurel and the merry tomequin answered from the majestic ceiba. It was enough, just to fly past palm-thatched huts and wave at the insular urchins who, partly curious and partly fearful, were half-hidden in the doorways. It was enough, just to watch the little speck on the far hillside become a bold, commanding block-house as we raced toward it. Block-houses are still popular in Cuba. One meets up with a block-house on almost any hillside, whether or not there is any apparent habitation in the region.

A few miles and it all ended. The boulevard became merely a long stretch of rough white stones—a new generation of road in the making—level and almost straight, but with no surface over the jagged rocks and no bridges over the many streams. So we drove, part of the time over the rocks and part of the time in the rut-worn gully below. It was hard going, but not impossible. Anyway, it did not last long because this particular road ceased entirely. We were in the middle of Cuba.

A mere path straggled over and among the hills and was lost in the great patches of native rock. We began to take the country seriously. Trepidation mingled with curiosity. Once in a while a good sort of winding dirt road gave promise of speed, only to change, like a dissolving lantern slide, to a staggering trail over the rocks or between them. The stones increased in number and in size. Each occasional break in the bumping, swaying, swinging, car-racking, tire-tearing progress became shorter. We forgot the stately palms, the queer huts, and the beautiful red flowers. We did not even hear the evening song of the many birds.

[Illustration: “_Insular urchins, partly curious and partly fearful, were half-hidden in the doorways._”

SEE PAGE 20.]

[Illustration: “_Everywhere was stone.... Each mile was gained by defiant effort._”

SEE PAGE 23.]

Everywhere was stone. Even the rough fields were so littered with loose rock that cultivation had not been tried. Each mile was gained by defiant effort. We began to worry over the fact that, not only were the prophets vindicated, but their prophecies had foretold worse conditions the farther we went eastward. We thumped along to a deep valley from whose bottom the sun had already fled and on whose far side a great bluff of solid rock arose to dispute our way.

Night does not settle in Cuba as it does in New England. It snaps, or, rather, day snaps into night. Twilight is not long enough to deserve the name. The task of getting to the opposite crown of the valley was too great for the few minutes of remaining daylight; so we camped. We were not prepared for camping, because we had anticipated spending our nights in villages or towns. We had learned a lot that afternoon and were still growing in wisdom. We made particular note of the point that when one is traveling through that country in a motor car his night stop is invariably just exactly where he happens to be when the sun sets.

That was a wonderful night. It was dark when three of us, including the interpreter, struck into the region of awesome shadows and shivering noises, seeking habitation and food. We could see nothing. We simply wandered and yelled to attract attention. Every time we sent a loud “que hay” reverberating among the hills, we jumped at our own temerity. At last a hound bayed in answer and a feeble light flickered far off, up in the sky. We trudged up another hill toward it.

A gaunt, scraggy Cuban met us. We watched his long machete with fascinated eyes, while the loquacious “Cuba” gave him a detailed account of ourselves, in Spanish. The Cuban welcomed us to his home, a hut of palm slabs roofed with thatch and floored with dirt. By the sinister rays of a small oil torch, mother and children ate a meal of pottage. The children cried and we gave them a few Spanish coins. Charity is cheap in a country of depreciated silver.

We asked for water, and it was drawn from a pigskin. We asked for food, and were told that on the next hill-top dwelt a Great Señor—one Govin, owner of the big newspaper in Havana and who could speak English. We matched coins to see who would venture back alone to the somewhat distant camp with a bucket of water. Crebbin lost and trundled off into the darkness, seeking the light of the bonfire, which furnished our only clue to the whereabouts of headquarters.

Under the talkative guidance of our still wonder-struck Cuban friend, we found the other house. The owner was brought out of bed to hear our reason for being there. He was much interested and much surprised. He was glad to give us food but he refused to be in a hurry. Also Señora, before she started to the kitchen to get us guinea hen and yams, insisted that the strange tale be repeated to her.

The house of Govin was high above the surrounding country, but there was nothing to see in the darkness and nothing to hear except the barking of dogs and the echoing sounds from distant woods.

Across the front of the low, board house ran a long porch. So closely framed it was in shrubbery, and so dense was the night packed around it, that there was almost the privacy of a room. The master, in his half-attire of white linen, kept up a running fire of conversation, partly in Spanish through and to the interpreter, and partly in English. Highly interested, but, for the most part, quiet, were the several laborers who shared the hospitality of the porch. Occasionally they interjected rapid exclamations and questions in Spanish. It was hard to concentrate upon Señor Govin and our conversation.

The curiousness of the situation had unraveled my nerves. Never before had it seemed possible that a person could be so comparatively close to accustomed things and yet be so isolated. The whole scheme was like a bunch of dramatics grabbed from a play or torn from a copyrighted novel. Persons who are not used to prowling about the back yards and blind alleys of the world find it hard to adjust themselves to strange society, except in the broad light of day.

Probably the two at the roadside camp a mile away, and the one struggling along the hilly trail with a bucketful of water, felt the impressiveness of the night as much, or more, than we who sat on the Govin porch and talked with the Govin family.

It was a romantic situation until Govin, innocently desiring to please, cracked the grandeur of the night and pierced the helpless heavens by turning on the rusty voice of a battered ten-dollar phonograph.

Finally, we ate our delayed supper at our own fireside. We were not yet sleepy. The food and warmth cheered us, for although the days be hot in Cuba, the nights are cold. Twenty-four hours had not acclimated us to a change of fifty degrees in the temperature with the setting of the sun. Then began our vigil.

Thirty miles back of us lay Havana with its gay opera, its bright cafés, and its dirty hotels, swarming with tourists. Thirty miles back lay a world’s city, known to the world, close to the rest of the world, and familiar to the world as any other capital. Thirty miles back lay our expectations, our fancies, and our nerve. Thirty miles back lay the things we knew. This was unknown wilderness.

Havana to Camp Solitude—thirty miles.

[Illustration: “_A hill like a natural stairway of great, rough limestone steps._”

SEE PAGE 30.]

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