CHAPTER I.

It was the question of pounds, shillings, and pence. Should I take steamer from San Francisco to Panama, cross the isthmus, and from the Atlantic side enter Spanish Honduras? or had I better travel by steamer as far as Amapala, and thence take mules and ride across the country to San Pedro Sula—my destination—a distance of about two hundred and nineteen miles? Thus was perplexed the mind of your globe-trotting servant “Soltera,” as she pored over railway and steamboat guides and calculated expenses, in her comfortable but very costly bedroom in the Palace Hotel, San Francisco, in the month of June, in year of grace 1881.

The steamer to Panama! A fine expense! And once arrived at that place, the end of the journey is not by any means reached. After enduring more or less sea-sickness, much thunder, and lightning unlimited, for about twelve days, there would be the further risk of catching the Panama fever.

This fever is often irreverently styled the canal fever (in grim compliment to that cutting), and its general result is to put a decided stop to all plans and locomotion for many a day; often for ever. Should I avoid that misfortune, there would be the certainty of being detained at some miserable place to wait for a vessel going to Puerto Cortez. A bill for “discomfort supplied,” at a fearful charge of dollars, would be the inevitable result of that detention.

Arrived at Puerto Cortez, which is also called Puerto Caballo, there would still be fifty miles to travel over mountains, through streams, and upon the ruins of the late Inter-Oceanic Railway of Honduras, till the haven of San Pedro Sula were reached. So far the one side of the question.

Now for its converse.

Take steamer as far as Amapala, which is the only Pacific port of entry to Spanish Honduras; invade the consulate thereat; make a friend and ally of good Señor Don Pedro Bahl; ask him to provide mules, servant, and muleteer; and thus ride straight and hard for San Pedro Sula. That is the better plan. It will also be the cheaper route; and I shall, by this means, enjoy the mountains I love so well, and see them in all their beauty, the grand Honduras mountains, over which few Englishmen, and still fewer Englishwomen, have ridden!

It has been ascertained, and I have been assured of this from Honduras, that the dangers of this route have been much exaggerated, the chief drawback being the bad roads and the peril of fording some of the streams. There exists also a great difficulty in obtaining food. But I shall have a servant and a muleteer to forage, and I can live as they do for twelve days or so (rash asseveration); and let me only come by a tolerable supply of milk, and I will travel far and well.

Now falls on my soul the remembrance that I am alone in the world; and at this moment the knowledge brings no pang. No one near of kin exists whose anxieties might deter me; no loving heart will be broken should my portion be evil. Suffering, physical and mental, will fall upon myself solely; and should this expedition end in the “last disaster,” there remain those outside the ties of kin, thank God, who will hold me in kindly remembrance and deal gently with my name. Let me forward whilst I have health and willing spirit. I am alone in the world. Yes; but I go with God.

“What are you doing, Soltera? why are you going to San Pedro Sula, and where on earth is the place?” had inquired of me, some weeks previously, my handsome young cousin of the clan Campbell, who had come on board at Auckland, whereat the steamer Australia (in which I formed one of the passengers) touched, from lovely, hospitable Sydney. We were bound to San Francisco, and had to stay a few hours in Auckland in order to take in the New Zealand contingent of mails and seafarers. This cousin and his wife were bound “home” on a visit, and it was quite in the usual accidental nature of things in travel, that we should thus meet without the slightest provocation thereto on either side.

Rail and steam here gave evidence that the world is small enough to render chance encounters with long-parted friends a common incident.

Apart from the fact that the presence of this relative would contribute to throw an air of respectability over me, I was very glad to meet him, and to secure an auditor as to my plans and intentions.

In answer to his inquiries, I informed Mr Campbell that San Pedro Sula was a large town in the Republic of Honduras, situate about fifty miles, or rather more, off the Atlantic coast, at the foot of a range of mountains, name forgotten. That its climate, according to a pamphlet compiled by the Rev. Dr Pope, is salubrious (it is no such thing—but the nights are bearable); that a colony of Britons and some French people were being located thereat. In addition to this, the Government of Honduras was granting large concessions of land (quite true), and doing its utmost to get Europeans to make a settlement there.

“What has all this to do with you?” cut in my cousin, who seemed to fear that the whole contents of the pamphlet were about to be let loose upon him.

“Simply this: as I speak Spanish fairly, and can be otherwise useful, I am invited (after some correspondence on the subject) to take charge of the school which is being erected for the colonists’ children at San Pedro Sula. A salary has been guaranteed me; and in addition to this, the Government will assign me a plantation of one hundred and sixty acres for the taking it, subject, of course, to its being cultivated and kept in order. Dr Pope writes me that a plantation once put in working trim, requires little further outlay, beyond the first or second year’s expenses.”

“Who is this Dr Pope?”

“The agent of the Honduras Government and a Catholic priest. He has already located a number of families from Ireland, and he is to return shortly and fetch out four hundred more. The pamphlet is circulated as a proclamation and confirmation of his position to the outside world, and contains, both in the Spanish and the English language, a copy of all the engagements existing between the President of the Republic, Dr Soto, and this agent. There are also published letters of authority from most of the principal persons of the State, the Dutch consul, and the Bishop of Comayagua.”

“Coma—what?”

“Comayagua,” I replied, “the ancient capital of Spanish Honduras. The seat of government is transferred now to a town which lies further south of Comayagua. The name of this town is Tegucigalpa—perhaps you like that better?”

“Don’t chaff a fellow; the names are wonderful! What a country it must be to stand such queer-sounding appellations! Excuse me further. Let me hope that you have not bought any land, or placed money in this agent’s hands.”

“Certainly not. You know that I have been obliged to increase my pittance by taking pupils in Sydney. I am very, very sorry to part with these dear people; but I am not getting younger, and I want to make a home of my own. This appointment will help me on till I do so. Don’t you see?”

“Yes—well—and if it does not do, you can go back again. I don’t know much about the matter, but I have always had the impression that the climate out there is rather awful. Hot as fire, is it not?”

“Not among the mountains,” I retorted quickly; for a shadow of suspicion must not be allowed to fall upon my beloved mountains. “The climate is unhealthy, and worse, I know, on the sea-coast and low-lying plains; but I shall be very little among these.”

“Haven’t they a place there called Mosquito? That sounds lively, but decidedly the reverse of pleasant, eh?”

“Mosquito, my good cousin, is another province altogether. Look at the map. You can abuse that as much as you please. San Pedro Sula lies in the interior of the country, and is surrounded by the mountains. The only drawback of the situation is, that the town has been placed at their base.”

“What are these mountains called?”

“I do not know that they have any particular designation; but they form part of the chain of the principal range.”

“You seem to be pretty well up in the geography of these parts at any rate, and I hope you will not be disappointed; for really, Soltera, this is an undertaking, and no mistake about it.”

“Yes; and if you read in some newspaper a few months hence, that a lady unknown, together with her mule, have been found at the bottom of a precipice, make up your mind that it is I. Better people can be spared; so any way I will try it. Besides, my late residence in Fiji has given me an insight both as regards tropical and plantation life. I learnt a few things when in those lovely isles of the Pacific which I hope to turn to good account.” (A year previously I had been employed as a finishing governess in a planter’s family in one of the islands of the Fijian group. This fact will inform the reader that I add the crime of poverty to my other detriments.)

The foregoing conversation will also explain the conflict anent ways and means which exercised me during my stay at San Francisco, and why the more perilous route chimed in so readily with my purse and proclivities.

Time and the steamer _viâ_ the Mexican ports of Mazatlan, San Blas, Manzanillo, and Puerto Angel, saw me on my way to the Republic of Honduras, and bound for its port of entry, Amapala.

This latter place is so rarely marked on the smaller maps, that I may mention that this town is situate on a small island in the bay of Fonseca; and that most people revile it as being a hot, dirty, and not money-making place.

Having “been and seen” the stores of the United States of American consul there, and witnessed the traffic which goes on in his well-stocked warehouse, I am much inclined to doubt the latter part of this assertion.

Public opinion, furthermore, appeared to be greatly aggrieved because the nightly lightning which always works with great vigour at Amapala has hitherto left the town intact, and this by a peculiar and persistent perversion of right and wrong. From the manner also in which some persons talked about this coast, I was led to believe that an inevitable lion was to be descried on its shores on the approach of a steamer, watching, it was implied, for the rare meat which, in the shape of a passenger, might descend upon Amapala. This lion also enjoyed the peculiarity of being reported as a “tiger,” probably from the circumstance of an acclivity called “La Montaña de los Tigres” being close to the landing-place, and whence the creature might have hailed. Before the journey had nearly ended, however, he had subsided (by description) into a mountain-leopard. Bad enough; but I never met him under any of these phases.

Acapulco is the one of the Mexican ports at which we touched on our way down the coast, of which I shall ever retain a “pleasant memory.” We arrived in its lovely harbour in the early morning; and the sight of the picturesque little town, over the red roofs of which the thin veil of the mists was slowly clearing itself away, reminded me of the face of a friend determined to wear a smile. Its situation between two irregular and projecting tongues of land, with the background gradually widening and rising towards the hills, invests it with an air of coziness, and of being, at the same time, thoroughly well protected.

A few trees, dotted about in all the beauty of unprecision, serve to relieve the whole landscape from the appearance of aridity so common to the majority of seaboard towns. Several broken rocks of peculiarly vivid colour jut out like an advanced-guard to the right of a long pier at the entrance, and upon this pier the natives, in full costume or in little costume, stand out in pleasing relief. Add to these the bright-coloured fruit and fish, lying in baskets of every shape and elegant texture, shrouded partially in grand green leaves, which of themselves suggest the idea of sheltering trees. Not overlooking, either, the delicate shell-work held up for sale in the hands of the loveliest female peasantry in the world; the wonderful flowers; the boats covered with every variety of gay awning, with the Mexican flag at their prow, dancing here and there on the liquid emerald of the sea.

Look with me, reader, in this mirror; you will then have some idea of how appears, in everyday garb, Acapulco.

“How lovely these Mexican girls are!” said the ship’s doctor to me as we neared shore,—a party intending to spend a few hours on land whilst the good ship Colima took in cargo, and transacted the business which would detain her in harbour for the rest of the day. “Quite beautiful,” continued the doctor, speaking to no one in particular, and keeping his eyes riveted upon a damsel who was waiting on the pier ready to pounce down upon us, and bewitch us into buying some of her shell-work. This was a wreath of stephanotis, most artistically made in small white shells, and as tastefully mounted with green silk leaves. It was a crown for a fairy queen.

The doctor was a very young man—indeed this was, I think, his first trip as doctor on board a steamer. He had talked during the voyage from San Francisco with much contempt concerning Mexico, the Mexicans, and all their ways and works. In fact he could see nothing admirable but the United States of America, and had repudiated with great energy the imputation often made by the passengers in general, that America is only biding her time to “annex” Mexico to the States.

“Nothing of the kind,” he would asseverate; “you are all wrong; the States would not take the country as a gift. A land that requires other people to point out her means of wealth, and invites foreigners to exploit her mines and build her railroads! A lazy, good-for-nothing set of men; and as for the women——”

“Hold hard there, doctor,” had retorted a young English engineer, who had embarked at Mazatlan on his way to join a mining camp somewhere in Guatemala. “I give you the men; but as for the women, nothing short of paradise can beat _them_. I was in Mexico last year, so I think I know something about it. I repeat, the ladies of Mexico are all lovely.”

This opinion was emphatically supported by a party of students fresh from college at San Francisco. These youths, who, in this most cosmopolitan of cities, must have seen many Mexican ladies, were unanimous in backing the engineer’s assertion. This gentleman had a smattering of the Spanish language, and thus, with the alliance of the students, his position appeared to be impregnable; but the American doctor stood to his guns.

“Paradise, indeed! what have they to do with the place? They are too lazy to walk in even if the door were opened to them. No brains—no usefulness—can’t do a thing but thrum on a guitar. One American girl is worth a hundred of them. And as for beauty,—dirty, brown skins—glaring, beady, black eyes without intelligence. No——”

“May I ask,” interrupted the engineer, politely, “_who_ is the one American girl worth half a hundred of—well—houris?”

“Angels,” suggested one of the students. I think he suspected that the engineer’s appellation might not be strong enough.

The deep flush on the quiet impassive face of the doctor betrayed that the conversation had taken a turn quite unlooked for by him. Happily at that moment one of the stewards, sent by his chief, came to ask for some quinine pills. So the doctor got himself away, but not before he had heard one of the company assert,—“The Americans certainly have their pretty women, like other nations; but, good Lord! ‘them have all of them voices like a peacock.’”

“Surely that is rather a sweeping assertion,” I made reply to the passenger who had ventured it.

“Not a bit of it,” he answered, with all the hardihood of thorough conviction; “that beautiful thing in woman, ‘the soft low voice,’ is utterly unknown in America. The children in the schools are taught to pitch their voices in a high key. It is part of their education. One can forgive a little of the peacock in a pretty woman; but when it comes to the plain ones, it makes one shiver whenever they open their mouths.”

“I don’t know,” I replied; “but somehow it does not seem to accord with our doctor’s quiet gentle manner to accredit him with a fancy even for a girl with a harsh voice.”

“Can’t help himself,” was the rejoinder; “and I know pretty clearly what I am talking about.”

This finished the conversation as far as I was concerned; but I felt sure that the doctor, though out of sight, was near enough to hear these remarks. To prevent the subject coming up again, I asked a young lady of ten years of age to favour us with some music.

That performance had the effect of sending every one at once out of the saloon; and the next morning saw us invading a Mexican port, and admiring the beauty of “las Mejicanas.”

In the multiplicity of his occupations by night and day (for there was an apprehension of fever breaking out) our Esculapius had entirely forgotten the guerilla warfare of the preceding evening, or he would not have so enthusiastically exclaimed, “How lovely these Mexican women are!”

Fortunately his opponent had seated himself in the second boat, and so this involuntary applause fell only on my ear and upon those of the San Franciscan students.

These were quite good-natured fellows, and their “chaff” was perfectly guileless of being personal or bitter. They, however, would have their say.

“Well done, doctor!” cried one who was called Paul by his _confrères_, and who seemed to be their leading spirit; “a confession and retraction all in one. Now look here, doctor: you must buy that wreath; and moreover, you must present it to some lady who is _not_ an American. Do you consent?”

“Wa-al, and what then? I will buy the wreath; and further, I can afford to say that I have been mistaken. There is great intelligence in that ‘Mejicana’s’ eye. She is a wonderfully beautiful woman. Ask the price of the wreath and I will buy it, and present it to a lady not American.”

True to his promise, the doctor, aided by the lad named Paul (who spoke English very fairly), immediately upon landing began to traffic with the Mexican girl, she, on her side, being more than willing. Let those whose sole acquaintance with shell-work is confined to the hideous productions exhibited at Brighton, Margate, and others of Britain’s coasts, know that on their side of the world never have nor never can be encountered those wonderful productions of sand and glue and buried mussel which constitutes nine-tenths of what is miscalled shell-work in the above-named places.

The shells on the coast of Central America generally are exquisitely delicate, and thin to transparency. At a place called Acajutta, there is a beach so famous for its rose-coloured shells that it is commonly styled the bed of rose-leaves.

The making of these shell-flowers is a prevailing industry along the coast, and the native women, especially the Indians and the Mexicans, derive a great emolument from their sale. The art is also much practised by ladies of higher rank, and it is taught as one of the accomplishments in the convent schools. It is certain that nature gives a liberal helping hand in the tints of rose and yellow which in these shells are remarkably natural; but a good deal must be accorded to the delicate touch and elegant taste of those who arrange these charming bouquets.

The wreath being bought, it was not difficult to guess who was to be its recipient. Close beside me stood a young Irish lady, who, with her family, was on her way from Japan to New York viâ Aspinwall. The mother having the care of a young infant, had asked me to chaperon “Beauty” and her sister on this little expedition. At this moment I forget the lady’s Christian name. She was called Beauty O’H—— all over the ship; and she deserved the appellation, being a simple innocent girl, charming in every way.

Three cheers from the lads, interlarded with the complimentary expressions of “Good comrade—man of good heart—of honour,” &c., notified the extreme satisfaction of the students at this assignment of the purchase; whilst the sapphire blue eyes of the girl beamed with gratitude as she warmly tendered her thanks. The doctor really at that moment did receive the reward of virtue—that is, if virtue ever does get any reward outside of tracts and little books.

A fellow-passenger, who rejoiced in the name of Cookes, here remarked that he liked sentiment and all that sort of thing in its place. He had come to Acapulco to see the peak of distant Popocatepetl, “that splendid mountain, madam,” he continued, particularly addressing himself to me, “which has his head covered with clouds all the year round, and which——”

Here interposed Señor Hernandez, a gentle well-bred Spaniard, who might pass for being perfectly sane, did he not acknowledge to the ambition of becoming at no distant date president of one of the Central American republics. The Señor’s knowledge of English was limited, but he had caught enough to understand that Popocatepetl was being misrepresented. “Pardon me, his head is not always in the clouds,” said he, taking up Mr Cookes; “and if we want to see him in all his glory we must walk a short way into the country. In such splendid weather, I think we should be able to count upon a very clear view.”

“Do you know the way?” inquired Mr Cookes, who spoke the Castilian language remarkably well.

“I was here many years ago, but I think I can remember the route; there is no time to lose. Remember our captain’s words as we left: ‘If you do not return by five o’clock I shall not wait, but sail away.’”

This admonition put us on our mettle, and taking the middle of the road, we set out on our expedition. The streets of Acapulco as they recede from the shore are hilly, and full of sand and large holes. An attempt has formerly been made to repair them here and there, but the result is not a success. Some of the houses are very solidly built, with stone pillars supporting the porticoes, and with broad stone seats, firmly built in the wall, within these. Apparently there was not a glass window in the place, all these apertures being filled with light lattice-work, painted a dull red colour. In some casements thin bars of iron, placed diagonally, admitted air and light.

The public school window was so furnished, and a thick shutter hung outside, which could be closed at pleasure, according to the strength of the sun and glare. The schoolroom seemed to be very roomy and clean, and its walls were evidently of great thickness. We looked through the iron lattice, and saw the scholars busy at work. The master came forward and bowed, and at a sign from him all the pupils who were seated rose to their feet. This, from all appearance, did not seem to be the first time that the school had been noticed by strangers. A few little fellows poked their heads through the lower bars; and some big ones, who had got into the street, followed us for a short distance as we wended on our way. They soon turned back, and sped away to school again with the speed of deer. Somebody was awaiting them!