CHAPTER XI.

When the hour came round for starting on the following morning, I, for the first time during this journey, evinced the greatest reluctance to depart; for never had I been so comfortably lodged, or enjoyed so much privacy.

I could not help saying this much to the _padrona_, when she brought me a capital breakfast, nicely laid out on a tray covered with fair linen.

“Put off the start for an hour,” said she; “your men are languid this morning, for they made the most of their holiday yesterday, and are disposed to rest. I will take you round the farm; the morning is cool as yet.”

We went to the dairy farm, where there were a large number of beautiful cows with their calves, which gave plenty of occupation to four or five lads and girls, who, though poorly clad, looked healthy and bright. Two young women were busy in the laundry, from whence the clean smell of wood-ashes boiling in a caldron to make the lye announced that linen washed in that establishment would get fair play, and not be bedevilled with chemical soaps and other abominations, the only use of which is to save the necessary hand and arm work of the washerwoman (so called), and destroy the material.

Skirting a small bakehouse, we passed through a gate into the garden. This was only in course of formation, and was evidently the pride of the _padrona_. It was delightful to find sweetpeas and mignonette growing in a nicely laid out border; indeed, in this delicious air and at this elevation, many English flowers would flourish luxuriantly. My hostess possessed a large collection of garden seeds, and she was trying experiments with all in their turn.

Among the deciduous plants, I was shown a pretty flowering shrub called the “Spinarosa.” I perceive, by the way, that a perfumery-house in London is advertising a new scent which bears this name. May all success attend it! for nothing can be more delicate than the fragrance of the Spinarosa flower; and, like pure water, its specific virtue is imperceptible, though perfection is the virtue which characterises it as a whole. The _padrona_ had imported two of these shrubs from Guatemala, but I believe the plant is to be found in the Honduras also.

Time will not halt even in Vera Cruz, and soon Marcos hunted me to the garden, with the intimation that I must mount speedily. On returning to the house to complete preparations, I found amongst my effects some cotton print, which I presented to my kind hostess, as it was enough to make a dress for her little girl. I had bought the material, together with some good embroidery, to make a short dressing-gown for myself—so this, fortunately, made the gift a respectable one. As to accepting any remuneration in the shape of money for my entertainment, the kind creature quite repudiated the idea. “She was so happy to receive one with whom she could converse,” she said; “and was I not a ‘Soltera’? And why was this? And oh! the world was so hard.”

Thus speaking, the _padrona_ walked at the mule’s head, and led me down through the broken fences which bounded the untidy land outside her domain into a lovely dell, down which sparkled a running stream, babbling musically, and seeming to cast up diamonds of yellow light upon Luisa’s hoofs, as she splashed into the centre of its bed. There we parted, with the sisterly kiss of peace, and I carried away with me a very tender memory of Vera Cruz. _Ay di mi!_ Vera Cruz; True Cross. May not its signification in part be realised in all the realms of earth, where parting, even with a stranger, gives the heart a pang?

The path became very stony in a couple of hours after leaving the dell, and we pronounced it to be only inferior in disagreeables to a valley of flint, some miles in length, which we traversed after we had long left Comayagua behind us.

Here Luisa was startled by a heifer which plunged out of a hedge on hearing our approach, and so took me into the depths of a thicket, wherein I lost my veil and the brim of one side of my hat. This loss may appear too insignificant to record; but the effect of this slight accident was, that at night, the skin of the one side of my throat and face was peeled away in strips, and it was some days before the pain quite left me. Such is the strength of the fierce heat of the noonday sun in Honduras.

The penalty of our late start was paid not only by having to suffer great heat, but also by the necessity of rapid travelling. We had literally wandered up hill and down stream. As the evening waned we found ourselves entering upon a large tract of plain, upon which nothing seemed to grow but tall grass of a pale-green colour, and a few distorted shrubs.

What was that in the distance? It appeared like the monument of a woman placed on a high pedestal, and nearer was another which bore the form of a lion couchant. Now we passed a group of enormous boulder-like stones, some of which presented an uncouth and grotesque resemblance to lions and to dogs. Far away on the plain, detached and scattered, rose up those enormous figures; some without any definable shape, others, again, gigantic and weird-like in the deepening shadow of the evening. I remembered that we had to cross over a bend of the river Palenque, and the thought darted through my mind that these stones might in some way belong to the curious ruins found by Messrs Stephens and Catherwood in their researches through Central America, and at Palenque especially. But so far as I have seen, these stones bear no sculpture, nor do they convey the idea that they have ever belonged to temple or palace, or that they have been connected in one building of any kind.

Presently I halted with the intention to examine a small stone, close to which I passed; but Marcos prevented this, with the strongest determination expressed in the grip of his lean brown hand. “Es un mal lugar” (it is a bad place), said he; “un lugar de los muertos” (a place of the dead). I attempted no more, for the increasing darkness and the silence of my attendants communicated a chill to my own spirits. The only clear idea in my mind was, that we were not far from Omoa, and Omoa is not many miles away from Copan—the place whereat Mr Stephens, if I mistake not, met with the most elaborate of the sculptured idols.

My attendants, though they made no sign, were evidently scared. They kept the animals closer together, and we proceeded at a very brisk trot. One of the shapes reminded me so much of the story in the ‘Arabian Nights’ of the man who was transformed partially into marble, that, in association with the surroundings, I began to wonder if this also were not an Arabian Night’s dream.

The rest were a little in front of me, for the path had narrowed, and we were passing on the side of a clump of trees. Suddenly a dark mass, preceded by a rush, fell on Luisa’s neck. She nearly jumped her own height from the ground; and I mechanically drew the revolver from the leather pocket which hung at my girdle and fired, throwing the weapon down in a fright at what I had done. The _machetes_ of the two men were in the body of the mass simultaneously, and I learned that I had fired into the tail of what on inspection turned out to be a coyote. A coyote here is said to be the offspring of the dog and the fox. They are dangerous if met with in packs. This turned out to be a half-starved creature, which might have been attracted by some dried venison-meat which was dangling at the saddle of the _macho_ mule which Eduardo was leading just in front. To my surprise, Luisa was not in the least restive; the _macho_, on the contrary, made violent attempts to wrench the rein from Eduardo and bolt.

“Now, Señora,” said Marcos, as he picked up the revolver, “you must ride quick, very quick; this beast may have a mate. They are seldom alone, and that might be perilous. _Vamos, despacheo_” (Let us go with speed).

We mounted accordingly, Marcos flying ahead with rapid step, and we following at a good pace, till we had left the plain behind us. It was nearly dark when we drew up at the gate of a maize-field, through which Marcos passed; for he had with his hawk’s eye descried the roof of a dwelling jutting out just beyond it.

Riding through the field, we came in front of the building, which was low and covered by an overhanging thatch—this serving evidently as a verandah. The whole place looked so miserable that I urged the guides to ride on, or even to try and reach Potrerillos (our station for San Pedro Sula), as the moon was full, and the road perfectly plain. By this time an old man, followed by his family, came to the edge of a wide trench, which separated the garden and hut from where we waited, and inquired what we wanted.

Marcos told him to put back his three lean dogs, which barked furiously the whole time, and then he would tell him.

A discussion ensued, and the upshot was that we must decide to remain where we were, at least till daybreak.

“It is not safe to go on,” the old man said; “the _malagente_ (bad people, or robbers) are about in these parts.” It was for that reason that he had dug this wide trench before his garden, and put his dogs to sleep in it at dusk.

Discretion at this juncture was certainly the better part of valour; and the plank which belonged to this excavation being laid across it, we entered the dominions of Señor Juan Masaveo. This individual prided himself upon being a Spaniard of pure race, and told us that he belonged to Catalonia. A cursory glance at the premises convinced me that I had better lie down, as I was, in my hammock; and so this article was swung in the cart-shed, which had been newly thatched. The youngest dog turned out to be a most friendly little beast, and a few scraps which I gave him made him a firm ally; whereupon, an intimacy being established, he laid himself down under the hammock; and I think he was quite equal to making a dash, on my account, upon any intruder who might venture into the shed, or molest me in any way.

At the earliest glint of dawn Eduardo thrust in his face, and announced that there was nothing to eat, and that the mules (which had certainly been better off) could be ready in an hour.

“We cannot get any milk here, Señora,” the lad continued, “until the _vaca_ (cow) comes down from her pasture on the hillside.”

“When is this _vaca_ likely to appear?” I asked. “Does not the woman know?”

The reply was conveyed in that inimitable shrug of the shoulders and flourish of the hand with which the Hondureians answer inquiries and solve difficulties.

“What do these people live on themselves?” I persisted; for I was weak from want of food, and I thought the cow might be as necessary for some of them as for me.

“Oh, raw plantains, dried venison, and a kind of soup made of maize. The men had this before going to work.”

“Then there is nothing for us to depend upon but this _vaca_” I said. “Can she not be searched for? I would pay for it.”

“She will come when she chooses,” replied Eduardo, never making the least attempt or suggestion that he might go and seek the animal himself. “I have brought you some water, Señora,” he continued; “they have a nice well here.”

The water was a blessing, and after using it freely, I felt better, and able to start for Potrerillos. The idea of getting away was a tonic in itself.

The men had fallen back upon a few strips of dried venison, but the mules had been fully fed and watered; and I was pleased to find that, by dint of good travelling, we might reach Potrerillos by ten o’clock in the morning.

My host, old and poor as he was, accompanied me over the chasm, mounted me, and walked a short distance at the mule’s head. I asked him if he could tell me anything about the stones and the plain we had passed through on the preceding night. He shook his head, and only replied that it was a place of the dead—dead many centuries ago. That was all he knew, he said.

At the parting, on a turn between two slopes, Eduardo handed up the little dog, and the old man literally glowed with pleasure when I put a _peseta_ (10d.) between his paws, and gave him a tender pat. His owner promised to be kind to him for my sake, and then, with the benison, “El buen Dios le guarde mûchos años!” (May God spare you many years!), the old man doffed his cap and went his way.

Ten o’clock found us at Potrerillos, and after making inquiry, we rode up to the house of Monsieur St Laurent, who, it appears, held the position of head-man of the town. This position throughout Honduras is a post very difficult to define or explain; and how the individual occupying it arrives at this dignity, I found it equally impossible to fathom. It depends neither on age, nor talent, nor length of residence in the place. I drew the conclusion, at last, that some one individual possessing a little more energy than usual, combined with some commercial stake in the country, assumed the leadership of the community, and the community fell in with the arrangement as a matter of course, it being a convenience generally, and a saving of trouble to all.

Monsieur St Laurent received us very courteously, but he imparted a piece of information which, for the time being, was highly unsatisfactory to me, and this was that the railway between Potrerillos and San Pedro Sula was quite unserviceable; in fact it had become so broken down that for some months the railway plant had been taken away, and nothing was left but the rails and a broken-down bridge or two. “We have now to ride to San Pedro Sula,” said M. St Laurent; “the road is very good, and it is under fifty miles’ distance. Rest here, if you like, to-night, and set off at four to-morrow morning; you will then reach San Pedro easily in the afternoon.”

But Marcos here intervened. He had been engaged, he said, by contract to take the lady to the railway station at Potrerillos. Well, there was no railway station; further, he was to be paid in the head-house of Potrerillos in the presence of the head-man. Well, there was the head-man; let the lady fulfil her part of the contract and pay him, and let him depart.

In vain did Monsieur St Laurent urge the muleteer to finish the journey, and take me on to San Pedro. He was obdurate, and even an appeal to his self-interest was, for a wonder, quite superfluous. He had gained as much as he wanted, the man said, and the lady could hire fresh mules here. It was not worth his while to cross the Palenque either; he wished to return quickly, for he hoped to sell the _macho_ and the baggage-mule at Vera Cruz. So pronouncing, Marcos drew his copy of our contract from his pocket, and flourished it before Monsieur St Laurent.

For the benefit of those who have not made mule-journeys, I subjoin a copy of this contract, which may prove useful to intending mountain travellers. No one should travel far without being provided with a form of this kind; as it, being stamped with the Government seal, serves as a protection in out-of-the-way places, besides acting as a restriction, if necessary, on the muleteer.

_Copy of Contract (Translation)._

“I, Marcos Carcamo, undertake to conduct Señora ‘Soltera’ to the railway station at Potrerillos for San Pedro Sula, charging twelve _pesos_ (crowns) for each one of three mules, and eleven _pesos_ for myself as muleteer and confidential man of the said lady,—the whole amounting to forty-seven _pesos_.

“And we both and each agree that this money shall be paid to me by Señora ‘Soltera,’ in the head-house (for the security of each of us) at Potrerillos at the end of the journey.

“Given at Goascaron, this fourteenth day of July, one thousand eight hundred and eighty-one.

(Signed) “MARCOS CARCAMO. “MARIA ‘SOLTERA,’ “or MARY LONE.

(Stamped) “Twelve _reales_.”

_Here follows the receipt._

“I have received the amount of forty-seven _pesos_, as promised above, and I am thoroughly satisfied.

MARCOS CARCAMO.

“_Witnesses._ “EDUARDO ALBAREZ. “ALFREDO ST LAURENT.”

Marcos signed his name in such good handwriting that M. St Laurent inquired where he had been taught.

“The good priest who was kind to the Indians taught me,” he answered. “I knew more some years ago; but now he is dead and gone, I don’t care to learn from any one else; besides, I am too old.”

He then turned to me, and asked me to furnish him with a certificate testifying to his efficiency as a guide, and also to his having served me with fidelity.

This I did cheerfully, and then he went out with Eduardo, and dismounted the luggage, and took off my saddle from Luisa’s back. I came out to wish this tried friend a kind good-bye, and Marcos was so pleased that he said he should tell of the incident in Goascaron. The English lady had kissed his mule!

Doubtless it might be considered a gushing thing to do, but I am not ashamed of the action, and I shall ever feel grateful to this patient intelligent creature for the way in which she carried me—never flagging, never sulky, and wanting no reward but a handful of bread and salt. Had Marcos been as tender-hearted as she, I might have ridden her to San Pedro Sula. The knowledge of this made my adieus to her owner rather frigid.

“As you oblige me to hire other animals and another guide, Marcos,” I said, “I cannot add any present to your pay. Good-bye to you, and take care of Luisa.”

Madame St Laurent now joined us, and invited me to come into the private part of her house and take some refreshment. Eduardo was handed over to the _mozo_ of the house, and we were both so thankful for our quarters that the question of getting to San Pedro did not for the moment trouble us. I found Madame St Laurent very agreeable and friendly, and she was also a woman of advanced education. Our conversation soon verged round to the gentleman in whom I was so much interested. “Do you know that he is expected here to-day?” she inquired.

“No,” I replied; “unless he has come to meet me, in answer to a telegram I sent him from Comayagua.”

“I do not think that is likely; as we hear that he is on the way to Comayagua. He stays at a house in this town when he passes through, and if he arrives to-day, I shall know of it, and will let you know. If he does not appear, it is possible that you may meet him on the road to-morrow.”

“Very strange, is it not, that he should be leaving San Pedro just as I enter it?”

Madame smiled, and looked at her husband, and then said—“There has been a great change in the colony during the last few months: several of the colonists have returned home; others have gone to Guatemala; very few remain there now.’

“Are you sure of this, Madame?” I asked.

“Quite sure, for many families pass through here, and they speak more or less freely; it seems they have been deceived in many ways. They complained solely of one person; and the only fault they find with the Government is, that it has allowed itself to be hoodwinked by this man, and is so slow in redressing their wrongs.”

“What are these particular wrongs?”

“It is said that when he chartered the vessel to bring these colonists here, he made the majority of them confide their money to him, and that they cannot get a settlement. Then there is a notion abroad that he is no priest, but a former Protestant minister, who came here with questionable recommendations. However, there is no doubt about his suspension, as another priest is appointed to his cure. I am glad of this for your sake, for the new priest is a quiet and earnest man.”

“I was told at Comayagua that the person in question does not recognise his sentence of suspension,” I answered.

“That is absurd,” replied Madame, “for the church is locked up, and the _alcalde_ will only give up the key to the newly appointed priest. It is said that his predecessor will never be reinstated. Indeed, how can it be otherwise? It is a great pity, for no one entered upon an undertaking with finer prospects. The Government was liberal; the Presbyterian _alcalde_ and the Protestant Consul at Puerto Cortez both helped, and were anxious to receive the colonists.”

“And these,” interposed Monsieur St Laurent, “were mostly of a respectable class of Irish small farmers. They brought a little money, and I think with a different leader they would have done well. Land has been given whereon to build a school, but the school is not even begun.”

“What could induce him to write and engage me to come and superintend this school?” I inquired.

Madame laughed. “I cannot say,” she said at length; “but I daresay you will get that explained at San Pedro. Now, if you will go and rest, we will see what we can do in getting you mules. I know of one which you can ride, and that is the principal part of the business.”

A room like a small barn was assigned to me, and Madame had sent in a bath, water, and towels; and Eduardo having looked to my comforts, asked leave to go with Monsieur St Laurent’s _mozo_ to look after a mule for himself and a baggage-mule.

“There is a very good muleteer in Potrerillos just now,” the lad said; “he has only been back one day from a long journey; his name is Andreas, and he is well known. I am recommended to apply to him.”

I did not meet my kind hosts till sundown, and then Madame knocked and entered with a glass of white wine and a biscuit in her hand. “Will you come and see my garden,” said she, “and then take supper with us at eight o’clock?”

This invitation was most acceptable, and the garden was in every respect a pleasant garden, and one which testified most thoroughly to the clever and perfect manner in which the French all over the world utilise space, and ornament unsightly places. The vine and some luxuriant creepers shadowed the deep embrasured windows, and the palisades round the house were painted a cool green, through which the lovely fringe-tree, shortened and pruned, was twisted thickly enough to thoroughly shade the plants within. A large barrel kept for watering the garden was so deeply shrouded by clematis that it appeared to be literally embedded in a huge white muff. Rows of magnificent balsams, mostly of red and orange colours, were planted regularly on either side of a broad gravel-walk, and here it was that Madame and I walked and talked until supper-time.

At that meal Eduardo waited, and I found that everything was prepared for the start at five o’clock on the morrow. The muleteer, Andreas, was to come with us, and the Palenque river would be crossed in a canoe: the only trouble on the way would be the loading and unloading the animals, and to this we had become accustomed.

Even here the demon of unpunctuality held its sway, and notwithstanding all the efforts of Monsieur St Laurent, it was fully an hour past the appointed time before we started for San Pedro Sula. In spite of the hot sun, Madame came out with a mosquito-net over her head to say good-bye, attended by the _mozo_, bearing a cup of coffee made in the perfect manner which seems to be a heaven-born gift of the French.

A kind adieu did these good friends give me, and as Andreas was swift of foot, we were soon well on our way.

Save that the country was better cultivated, it presented no very remarkable beauties, but we passed some fine macaws in the trees; indeed, some of the smaller bushes were literally covered with these living jewels. Passing through the woods, the cooing of the doves, and the whistle of the _Cardinalis rubra_ assimilated well with the distant murmur of the river, which they bounded to the extent of some miles. At length the crossing-place was reached; Andreas hailed the canoe, and the boatman, taking me over first, seated me in a shady wood-house, in company with a calf and two kids. Looking between the cracks of the planks, almost sheer down into the river, I felt disappointed at its muddy and unpicturesque appearance at this point; so inferior to the lovely Blanco. The banks plastered with mud and sedge, with here and there a few unhappy-looking reeds penetrating the ooze, in company with shreds of leather and rope (remnants of former crossings), gave me the idea of a river in ruins: Palenque in all its variations seemed to breathe nothing but mystery and desolation.

Our halt for the day was on the outskirts of a pretty little assemblage of houses, all built with very high conical thatched houses. We bivouacked under some magnificent trees, and Andreas fetched from a garden in the neighbourhood a supply of the most excellent watermelons I have ever seen. A few pence bought six of these, and the owner of the garden kindly sent a rock-melon in addition, for the especial delectation of the Señora.

We thoroughly enjoyed our lunch; and as the grass and water were good, our animals also fed in comfort, although the halt here was necessarily a short one.

Our way was now through the real palm-forest of Honduras, lovely, tangled, uncultivated, damp, and picturesque.

All trace of path being lost, we mazed in and out where the ground was firmest, and free from the sprawling uncovered roots of trees, and the festoons of parasite plants which trailed from above, bidding fair sometimes to encircle us and lift us off our mules. Absalom here would not have required an oak-tree.

We had just passed through a piece of marshy land, and emerged more into the open, when we saw two mounted figures coming towards us, the one on a handsome mule, the other on a well-bred-looking mare. The rider of the latter was an elegant-looking man; the other short and stout, but bearing what is called a good-natured-looking face.

Andreas exclaimed, “Here is Dr Pope, Señora—the short one; the other is Don Jésus Gonsalez, the Justice of the Peace of San Pedro Sula.”

I immediately urged on my mule, and struck across the path in front of the riders. Bowing to the short man, I said, “I believe I have the honour of addressing the Rev. Dr Pope. I am Maria Soltera. Have you received the telegram I sent you from Comayagua?”