CHAPTER IX.

There was the river Juan. As the true Portuguese speaks of the Tagus as “El Señor Tajo” (the Lord Tagus), so do the Hondureians, in another form of speech, accord the greatest dignity to the river Juan, although it is not, by any means, the most important stream of the country. “El hermoso! el rey de los rios de las Honduras” (the beautiful! the king of the rivers of Honduras). Mr Stephens, in his ‘Central America,’ alludes to this river as the “tortuous river Juan.” Well, there it was,—broad, turbulent, almost defiant. I felt that this love of the Hondureians was likely to be too much for me, as, on looking across, I discerned what might be a low hurdle of rocks, standing almost in its centre, very irregular in form, and literally showing their teeth, for they were jagged almost to a point.

The water leapt and swirled over and about these in all directions. The very sound was a laugh aimed against us, and the solemn dark trees which bordered the side were very far from being an enlivening feature in the prospect. The sun had become overcast, and the only colour in the scene was the strip of yellow path down which we had wound, our noble selves, and the crimson handkerchiefs on the heads of two Indian women, who were squatting on the river’s edge watching their naked children, busy making “mud pastry,” much after the fashion of the small people whose dwellings are on the banks of the Lea, Trent, or Thames.

A cross macaw, whose frequent and discordant screech fell on my ear like a “jeer in the voice,” was evidently secreted somewhere.

“Here you are; the river is very much swollen, you’ll perceive, there is no ford, and you will have to pass over how you can. Ya—ah!” Thus croaked the bird; and the human voice of Marcos was of still more dreary portent, as he exclaimed to his comrade, “No hay vado; y mas, no hay canoa” (no ford; and worse, no canoe). Eduardo remained silent, and walked to and fro, looking at the water as if he had a personal quarrel with everything around, and with it in particular. At length I said, “There ought to be a canoe here; where, I wonder, is the man who owns it?”

A shrug of the shoulder and a flourish was the only reply, and then Marcos solved the difficulty with the usual Hondureian platonism, “No hay remedio” (there is no remedy). The action that accompanied these words further intimated—“There is nothing for it but sink or swim: the river must be crossed, ford or no ford, and the sooner we go the better.” Obviously there was no remedy; and the men turned their drawers up to their knees, folded their jackets on their heads, and prepared to walk into the water. The elder of the two Indian women now came towards me. Placing one small brown hand on the mule’s neck, and almost caressing my knee with the other, as I sat humped up to keep clear of being wet, she said, “Es muy peligroso, señora, muy peligroso; no anda” (it is very dangerous, lady; do not go).

I knew instinctively, and as well as she did, that it was very dangerous; but what could be done? And I turned to Marcos with this inquiry.

The man replied in his usual incisive and somewhat peremptory tones, “We must cross at once, Eduardo, and I will go first; he will lead the baggage-mule, and I will follow on the _macho_. When Luisa sees the _macho_ well into the water, the creature will follow at once. Now stick on hard” (this being expressed as “apargate muy fuerte”). With this admonition he seized the hem of my dress, and began to roll it up in a rough fashion, to prevent it being immersed in the water.

The Indian interposed: “Let me do that for the lady,—you must not touch her in that manner;” and pushing Marcos aside she arranged my garments most comfortably. Then she said, with oh! such pathos in her voice, “The river is so strong—it is very dangerous. You _will_ go; but ‘ay di mi,’ you have much courage.”

Much courage! Had she felt my throbbing pulse; could she but know, kind soul, the struggle that was going on in my proud English heart not to appear to be afraid! True, my words were measured, and I smiled because I felt I must not give way one inch; but if this were courage, it was merely the desperation of “no hay remedio”: nothing more nor less.

The men, meanwhile, had driven their beasts into the water. The mules here went straight enough; and having got them safely to their work, Marcos turned round and hailed to me to follow close on. I patted the woman on the shoulder, saying as I did so, “Adieu, good friend—all will be well,” and gathered up the reins to ride away. Luisa, however, would not move, and as I urged her towards the water, she trembled so violently as to shake me perceptibly where I sat. The touch of the switch and all my adjurations, sole and combined, here fell unregarded on mind and matter. Luisa would not stir, but gathered her four hoofs as close as she could beneath her, and stuck them in the muddy soil. The fact that this high-couraged and gentle creature continued to tremble, and appeared to be paralysed with terror, scattered all my resolution, and I turned myself half round to avoid the sight of the water.

The Indian woman now darted towards me with a cry, followed by her companion, and raising her arms in the air. “La muleta no se va. Señora, por amor de Dios no anda!” (The mule won’t go. Lady, for the love of God remain!)

Whatever I might have done it is impossible even to conjecture, for the mule had taken all power of action out of my governance. She still stood like a rock, looking sideways now and then at the water, and shaking with fear.

Marcos had turned round, and evidently understood the position. Coming back to within speaking distance, he shouted—“Stay where you are; Eduardo and I will get to the other side, and then return for you.” So they went; and as they swayed from right to left, and in their course across described a semicircle, it was plainly to be seen that the current was very strong. It was a regular buffet for a while. At last we saw that the men had landed safely, and soon I espied the _macho_ tied to a tree exactly opposite to where we were standing for the especial benefit of Luisa. A few shakings and a little further undressing, and then the guides came across for me.

As they neared the shore, I took up the tremble which Luisa had at this juncture discarded; but I managed to appear calm, and to thank the Indian women for their companionship, giving them at the same time a _peseta_ (English shilling) to remember me by. The elder kissed my hand; and in that glorious language in which the Emperor Charles V. is accredited to have said we should pray to God, she took her farewell—leaving me to God. “Be not afraid, dear one” (her words may be interpreted); “the good Father will take you over the river—the Father whose love will grant you many years. Go with Him. Adios.”

The love of the Father! Ah! fellow-men and fellow-women, do we not somewhat and sometimes, in our worship of the Son and in our veneration of His Mother, totally pass over the love of the Father? I repeated the Indian’s words, and I am not ashamed to add that I learned a lesson from them.

The strong hand of Marcos was now on the rein, Eduardo was ordered to the off side, and the mule and her burden were dragged forwards into the stream with but scant ceremony. Soon the might of the waters fell on us, together with the swirl and the swim of the rushing current, as we neared the centre of the river. Luisa stumbles on a stone, the men prop her up lustily; but the mad racing of the current makes me blind and dizzy, for more than once we are half turned round; so I clutch the muleteer’s head in answer to his injunction of _apargate bien_, and feel sure that this water is to be my last bed. However, Luisa bears up, and seems to have lost her fears, thanks to the supporters which gave the animal confidence; and this in its turn, in some magnetic force, rouses me to exertion, and I hook my knee against the pommel of the saddle, and sit as firmly as I can in obedience to the reiterated command of _apargate bien_! Luisa staggered here and there, and at one time it seemed as if we must be swept away. We had not described a large enough circle, it appeared, when passing the middle rocks. There was a prolonged struggle on our part, stimulated on the mule’s part by a terrific bray from the _macho_. In a few moments his bosom friend, with her legitimate rider on her back, was hauled safely to land.

A gasp and a sob, and I stood between the men, as they dismounted me. My boots were like soaked sponge; and the smell of wet leather was the pungent odour which recalled me to my clear sense. We looked across the water, to see the Indian women with their children grouped around them, looking eagerly towards us. One of them raised her arm, and pointed upwards. Then every one of them waved their hands, and turned swiftly up the path. Kind, simple people, I shall never see them again! May the love of the Father keep them ever from harm!

“We have passed a great peril, Señora,” said Eduardo, after a few moments’ silence, as he made the “holy sign.” The men both bowed their heads reverently, and I think we all thanked the Lord in sincerity and truth. I, however, could not help shuddering as I looked at the river; and to get rid of the feeling, I took to walking up and down, telling the men that I was very cold. We had nothing with us, save a few _tortillas_, which the men ate as they rubbed the mules and arranged their furniture. Fortunately the baggage-mule had come off better than any of us. This was owing to the perfect manner in which she had been loaded, and also from her being a very tall animal.

“You must mount quickly, for the sun will soon be down,” said Marcos; “we shall scarcely have time to get to Narango.”

A little delay to arrange our own toilets, and we were on the route again, the beasts and their riders being none the worse for their bath.

Marcos had soon returned to his usual equanimity, and, as usual, he “improved the occasion” to his own benefit.

“Señora,” said he, as we rode along, “we both got very wet, both Eduardo and I, in the river, and you have nothing here to give us. There is very good beer in Comayagua; when we arrive there, will you give us a bottle of beer for getting you over the Juan? It is a proud thing to have forded the Juan; that is worth a large bottle of beer, Señora.”

“Oh yes, yes,” I replied hastily, vexed at his cupidity, and not being inclined to talk. “You shall have the beer when we get to Comayagua.” It was a rash promise, for a bottle of beer in Comayagua costs four shillings!

It was some time before we could find accommodation, however humble; and it was only by taking a side path and riding into the interior that we could discover a single dwelling. At length a thatched farm-looking dwelling of the poorest description, but prettily situated on a rising knoll, came in view; and with some trepidation we inquired if we could be sheltered for the night. A pleasant-looking young woman came out, followed by some fine children and two lean dogs.

“My husband is over the mountain,” she replied, in answer to our inquiries: “if the lady can put up with me and the children, we shall be proud to receive you. Here, Vicente!”

The individual so hailed was a wonderfully handsome boy, more Spanish than Indian. Without a word he began to unload the mules, and by this act he secured the goodwill of my attendants at once.

“Come into the kitchen, lady,” said my hostess; “oh, how damp your clothes are! There is a good fire there, for I have been cleaning up since the man went away.”

She led the way to a building a little apart from the principal part of the house. It was only an erection of baked mud and sticks, but there was a bright wood-fire burning on one side, and a kind of oven in the centre. The woman brought out the only chair, and then knelt down to help to draw off my boots, which were really little better than pulp.

“If you will send the younger of my guides with the little _maleta_ (portmanteau), I shall be very much obliged to you,” I said; “and can you give me something to eat soon?”

“Yes; I will kill a fowl for you, Señora: for the men there is dried venison (my husband hunted it last year) and _tortillas_. I can let you have some light wine, if you would think it good enough.”

“Thank you, but I would rather have some coffee.”

“You shall have it, Señora. Now you dress here, and I will go and catch the fowl.”

In a few minutes Vicente poked my portmanteau into the room, and on looking about I found a jar of water; and so, with a little management, I made a decent, and certainly a much more respectable appearance than before.

Whilst the fowl was cooking, I strolled into a kind of orchard, where there was a round table and a seat. This, I found, Eduardo had placed for me, he knowing by this time how much I hated the usual household smells of these parts. A small kerosene lamp was brought also, for it was beginning to get dark; and when the meal appeared (the fowl stewed in rice), I ate with such a relish, that I am afraid the two lean dogs must have looked upon me at the time as a very hopeless addition to the household. I should add, however, that they _did_ get the remains of this feast.

The night was fairly comfortable, and it was with a feeling of gratitude that I wished the hostess good-bye. “I would not accept any pay, Señora,” the simple creature said; “but we are so poor, and we have so many children to feed.”

We inquired about our way to Comayagua, and she told us that we ought to arrive there the day after at farthest. “Go to the Posada Victorine,” said she; “it is a good place, and Madame Victorine will make you comfortable. Ah! she has got money, has Madame Victorine.”

[Illustration: COMAYAGUA.]

I was glad to hear of a comfortable, decent place, as I was anxious to remain a day or two at Comayagua, in order to refresh the whole party. Eduardo, too, was anxious to see his friends who lived there; and as he was to go on with me to San Pedro Sula, it was but natural that a day or two’s halt would be especially pleasing to him. Marcos was totally indifferent on the matter.

Our march being now entirely in the lowlands, the heat had become most oppressive, and to travel in the middle of the day was a risk to health and strength. The mules, too, were showing signs of fatigue, and grass and water were beginning to fail, and had become very inferior in quality. It was therefore imperative to get quickly into Comayagua.

It was a joyous sight, when, between rich ilex trees, we saw the walls and fluted tile roofs of the ancient capital of Spanish Honduras. The city is picturesquely built, but its silent, grass-grown streets, its air of poverty, and the absence of busy stirring life, all announce that its glory has departed. There is consequently much jealousy of Tegucigalpa, the present capital, wherein the President, Dr Soto, now dwells.

It was about noon when we wound in from some pretty country by a circular path, and arrived baked and weary at Madame Victorine’s _posada_. The great heavy gates were closed, and a bell, ponderous enough for a cathedral, clanged the intelligence that strangers were waiting without. A _mozo_ came out, looked at us, speedily shut the gate, and vanished.

In a few moments a plump, nice-looking woman came through the gates, her head covered with a pocket-handkerchief. “Entrez, descendez, Madame; descendez vite, je vous prie. Le dîner nous attend. Ah, ma foi, le soleil vous a mal traité! Mais entrez.” So saying, she nearly pulled me off my mule, and took me through the court-yard into the house.

A younger woman was seated at a table upon which the noonday dinner was spread. She gave me kindly welcome, and told me not to talk, but to sit down and eat. “I have looked at you through the little window in the court-yard,” she added, with the utmost frankness; “you are going to stay, so eat now, and take a _siesta_ afterwards.”

There were stewed pigeons, I remember, and some macaroni before me, but I could not eat; I only felt a longing to lie down on the floor. The elder woman was equal to the occasion. She went to a cupboard and brought out a bottle of cognac. “That is what you want,” said she in the French language; “drink of it—it is quite pure; you have been too long in the sun.” So speaking, she thrust a tall, narrow glass of brandy-and-water into my hand, and stood over me like an amateur policeman till I had swallowed its contents.

“Now, eat of the pigeon; don’t refuse; you will be drunk, and that would be shocking, you know,” continued she, with a humorous twinkle of the eye; “shock-ing, eh, my friend?”

I laughed, for the remedy had already “fetched up” my spirits; and I found shortly that both pigeon and rice-pudding were, after my late experiences, very luxurious fare.

Some hours after we were again seated together, and then Madame Victorine informed me that she and her sister were going away to France in ten days, and that the establishment was in some confusion, because they were packing up, and preparing to make over the concern to a manager, who was to act for her for a year.

“So you are welcome to stay for a day or two; but I cannot treat you well. We are killing the old poultry and pigeons now,” continued Madame, “and there are not many provisions of any kind in the house.”

I hastened to assure her that one day would do; but she insisted upon my remaining two days. “Eduardo is with his friends, and Marcos is at a muleteer’s _posada_. The mules are in my stable; they cannot be turned out here. Now, come into the verandah, and we will take our coffee there,” said she.

“I think,” said the sister, whose name was Mathilde, “you are the lady who is going to San Pedro Sula; indeed our _mozo_ learned this from your guides. Do you know the doctor?”

“Not personally, only in the way of business,” I replied. I thought I saw a look of intelligence pass between the sisters, but it was so slight that I was perhaps mistaken. Then the elder said: “You promised the men some beer, did you not, after crossing the Juan? The muleteer has been twice here asking for it, but I would not have you disturbed, and he will come this evening.”

“Trust Marcos for forgetting to claim anything that will save his own pocket,” I thought; and then added aloud, “Can you supply me with some, and allow me to settle with you?”

“My stores are quite exhausted, but when the man returns I will give him some of my best wine. I am the only importer of good beer in Comayagua, but your guides will be only too glad to get wine. I will see the man, and you can pay me for the wine. Do not let the muleteer purchase it; he will make you pay a fine price.”

A bath and a clean bed quite restored me, and I was able to go out and look about. The fine old church is in bad preservation, and the bells, which are said to be made of silver, give forth anything but a musical sound. The edifice was, however, clean, and it contained some curious relics. On my return I found Eduardo waiting to see me.

“I thought,” said Madame, “that you would like to pay your respects to the Bishop. The palace is close by; send the _mozo_ with your compliments, and inquire at what time his lordship will receive you.”

Eduardo was despatched, and returned with a message to the effect that the Bishop would gladly receive me at four in the afternoon. At that hour Eduardo attended me to the palace, which was enclosed within a high wall, and entered by a plain handsome gate. This opened on a court which was surrounded by a garden. The centre part of the garden was laid out in parterres, intersected by low cane fences. These were interwoven and nearly hidden by large masses of convolvuli in luxuriant flower,—blue, striped, white, pink, and the loveliest of all, the pure white bell, with a touch of mauve colour in the depths of its corolla. These spread themselves in all directions, and a little clipping here and training there would have been an improvement. A splendid specimen of the date-palm—a tree which seems to be honoured above its fellows in all parts—grew at each corner of the plot, and afforded plentiful shade. The court was open to the sky, and a widely paved portico ran round it: on this opened the doors of the several rooms occupied by the establishment. The roofing of these was composed of the usual red tiles, fluted in wavy form,—the common covering of Hondureian houses. The building was of one storey, the better to be able to withstand a shock of earthquake.

A youth, in resemblance something between an acolyte and a gentleman usher, admitted us. This official wore black knee-breeches, and black silk stockings, which were partially hidden by a black silk gown—his robe of office probably. He was bareheaded, and his hair, which was raven black, seemed to grow from the top of the scalp only, and hung straight downwards like a large tassel. He reminded me of a Christ’s Hospital boy who had been dyed. This young gentleman’s face lacked refinement somewhat, but his manner was very courteous without being in the least servile.

“You are more than welcome,” he said; “El Señor Obispo [the Lord Bishop] is always so glad to receive strangers, and a lady from England is a rare visitor indeed. You are the first of that nation that I have seen, for I have never been out of Comayagua.”

He passed before us, and ushered me into a room which seemed to serve as a place of waiting for visitors to the palace, and others who could not be left standing in the outer court. The furniture of this apartment was very simple; but some beautifully woven matting covered the floor. The book-shelves contained works of devotion principally, and on a side table stood a stereoscope, a French newspaper, and some photographs. I think the only picture here was a very fine engraving of the Cathedral of Leon in Old Spain. A rocking-chair stood out comfortably near the door; and a bunch of lovely oleander-blossoms was lying upon it, just giving a touch of colour to the cool tones of the surroundings.

A few minutes elapsed, and the attendant reappeared to take me into the Bishop’s presence. Eduardo came forward and made as if he would like to accompany me; but he was waived back, and told to wait till the Señora should summon him.

We crossed to the opposite side of the court, and I was shown into a large cool apartment, which was very sparsely and poorly furnished. A few pictures covered with glass were its only decorations. Shortly afterwards a tall spare man entered the room, vested in the dress of a dignitary of the Roman Catholic Church. This was the Bishop of Comayagua—a man of gentle manner and peace-loving disposition, but now bowed down with years, and a sufferer, like many other unoffending persons, from the ruin which successive revolutions had wrought upon the country.

The first salutations ended, the Bishop congratulated me on being an inmate of Madame Victorine’s establishment, and then inquired if I was going far?

I replied, “I am on my way, my lord, to San Pedro Sula,”—then seeing that this information only caused a look of surprise, I continued: “I wrote to your lordship announcing my intention of going to San Pedro Sula, on the Doctor’s invitation, to superintend his school there.”

“I never received that letter. He has never either personally or otherwise mentioned the subject to me.”

“Perhaps your lordship will kindly inform me whether the doctor had obtained your sanction to open a school for the colonists; and also, whether he was authorised by either yourself or the Government to select the teacher.”

“Señora, I never heard of the proposition.”

“But surely you are aware, my lord, that in the pamphlet published, and, as I believe, sanctioned by the Government, your signature appears to a document which tells the world that you heartily approve of all that this person is doing for the education of the colonists, and you further pledge yourself to support him as much as you can.”

“That is true in a general sense; and eighteen months ago, every one of the undertakings with regard to the immigrants seemed in a prosperous state. But things have changed, lamentably changed.”

“Why, my lord, what is the reason of this change? I have the letter, written to me at Sydney, a very short time ago, which gives a very prosperous account of the settlement.”

The Bishop moved uneasily, and said something about some persons being possessed of a sanguine temperament.

“It is true, is it not, that the Government of Honduras gave a grant of land some time ago for the express purpose of building a schoolroom? Moreover, the Doctor is written of as being a personal friend of Dr Soto, the present President,” I affirmed decisively.

“You are right. Dr Soto was very ready, when the colony was first settled, to afford the promoter every encouragement. He looked upon his efforts in introducing labour as a very great step for the improvement of the whole country; but I believe there is a diminution in their personal friendship. This,” continued his lordship, “is what I hear; I do not state this last on my own authority.”

“Has the Doctor influence to secure me a plantation; or does the assignment rest entirely with the Government?” I asked.

“The assignment of land is entirely in the hands of the Government, and the concessions made are generally very liberal. There is plenty of land to be had, but care should be taken in selecting it,” replied the Bishop.

“I should so like to have a place of my own,” I replied. “I am fond of teaching; but it is not pleasant to live in other people’s houses, generally speaking. To make a home of my own was the chief reason that induced me to come to Honduras.”

“You can, I assure you, be very useful,” said the Bishop, with more warmth of manner; “the mothers in the country are very anxious to have their children educated. You might easily find private pupils, should you prefer this.”

“At present, my lord, I consider myself under engagement to the person who wrote to me; I am only sorry that I set out without hearing from you.”

“Will you have any objection to tell me what position he offered you, and also what salary?”

“In answer to my letter saying that I must secure pupils, or even boarders, if I took up land in Honduras, in order to pay the first expenses, he wrote that he would immediately make me teacher of the colonists’ school at a moderate salary—the amount was not given; and further, that I could increase my means by playing the organ in his church.”

At this the Bishop stared, but said nothing. He might well be dumbfounded; for I found, on arriving at San Pedro Sula, that neither organ nor any other instrument of music had been seen in the church since it was built long years ago.

The Bishop might have given the Doctor the credit of having lately introduced that “modern innovation,” the harmonium, into the church. This, of course, I have no means of knowing, as the old gentleman persevered in the utmost reticence, and he did not give utterance to any speculative opinions. He looked down, and then suddenly raised his head with the inquiry, “Have you sent any money on to the Doctor?”

“No, my lord; I am expending money enough in travelling so far.”

“True.” And as if anxious to change the subject, the Bishop spoke of her Majesty the Queen of England. “We, as Catholics,” said the gentle old man, “were so touched to hear of the sympathy shown by Queen Victoria to the ex-Empress of the French on the death of her son. Ah, ah!” continued he, “the old stay, and the young are taken away. Your royal family loved the poor young lad, and they did the kindest thing of all—they attended him to his grave! _Ay di mi!_ But your Queen makes no difference between Catholic and Protestant in her friends; she treated the Imperial Prince with noble kindness. I have prayed for her: she has a large heart.”

After some observations about the Ritualist party in England, in which he seemed to take an intelligent interest, the Bishop rose. He passed with me to the threshold, pointing out one or two pictures as he did so. These were very old, and represented portraits of remarkable ugliness. Then the old man gave me his blessing, and I was again standing in the outer court.