The Woodlands Orchids, Described and Illustrated

‘What sort of a thing is it, after all? For an unlearned description, I should say that the flowers – two, three, or even five in number – are from four to five inches across – sepals, petals, and curl of lip bright amethyst, yellow throat, white centre; the crisped and frilled margin all round suffused with purple. It was discovered in 1855 by Libon, who died soon after, carrying his secret with him. He was sent out by M. de Jonghe, of Brussels – hence the name.’

Up to the present time only one of the plants here has flowered – and it opened pure white, saving a yellow stain on the lip. This was not altogether a surprise, for a close examination of the faded blooms convinced M. Forget that some of them must have been white, whatever the species might be. And he marked them accordingly. That a collector of such experience should prove to be right was not astonishing, as I say, but remarkably pleasant.

At the end of the house is a pretty verdant nook where Cypripedium insigne is planted out upon banks of tufa among Adiantums and overshadowing palms.

STORY OF BULBOPHYLLUM BARBIGERUM

This species is so rare in Europe that I must give a word of description. The genus contains the largest and perhaps the smallest of orchids – B. Beccarii, whose stem is six inches in diameter, carrying leaves two feet long, and B. pygmaeum of New Zealand. They are all fly-catchers, I think, equipped with apparatus to trap their prey, as droll commonly in the working as ingenious in the design. Barbigerum has pseudo-bulbs less than an inch high, and its flowers are proportionate. But charm and size are no way akin. Fascination dwells in the lip, which, hanging upon the slenderest possible connection, lengthens out to the semblance of a brush. Thus exquisitely poised it rocks without ceasing, and its long, silky, purple-brown hairs wave softly but steadily all day long, as if on the back of a moving insect. Pretty though it be, all declare it uncanny.

The species was introduced from Sierra Leone by Messrs. Loddiges, so long ago as 1835. I have not come upon any reference to a public sensation. Assuredly, however, the orchidists of the day were struck, and it is probable that Messrs. Loddiges sold the wonder at a high price if in bloom. Some people in Sierra Leone forwarded consignments. But an orchid so small and delicate needs careful handling. None of them reached Europe alive, I dare say.

It appears, however, that Bulbophyllum barbigerum is common throughout those regions. The example at Kew, which diverts so many good folks year by year, came from Lagos, near a thousand miles east and south of Sierra Leone. And the story I have to tell places it at Whydah, between the two.

A young man named Boville went thither as clerk in the English factory, soon after 1835. We have not to ask what was his line of commerce. I have no information, but it must be feared, though perhaps we do him wrong, that one branch of it at least was the slave trade. Boville had heard of Messrs. Loddiges’ success. Residents at Whydah do not commonly explore the bush, but he was young and enterprising. On his first stroll he discovered the Bulbophyllum, and to his innocence it seemed the promise of a fortune. Real good things must be kept quiet. The treasure was plentiful enough to cause ‘a glut’ forthwith if many speculators engaged. Luckily he had a Kroo boy in attendance, not a native. To him Boville assumed an air of mystery, said he was going to make fetich, and ‘something happen’ to any one who spoke of his proceedings – ‘make fetich’ and ‘something happen’ are among the first local expressions which a man learns in West Africa. The Kroo boy grinned, because that is his way of acknowledging any communication whatsoever, and snapped his fingers in sign of willing obedience. So Boville gathered a dozen plants, and hoped to have a stock before ‘the ship’ arrived. There were no steamers then, and at Whydah, a very unimportant station for lawful trade, English vessels only called once in three months. Slavers did not ship orchids.

It was Boville’s employment henceforth to collect the Bulbophyllum whenever he had a few hours to spare. He hung his spoils on the lattice work which surrounds a bedroom in those parts, between roof and wall, designed for ventilation – hiding them with clothes and things. It is proper to add that the ‘English Fort’ was already deserted, and the ‘Factory’ a mere name. The agent, his superior officer, was not at all likely to visit a clerk’s quarters. This good man belonged to a class very frequent then upon ‘the coast.’ He had not returned to England, nor wished to do so, since coming out. At a glance he recognised that this was his real native land, and without difficulty he made himself a fellow-countryman of the negroes, living like a caboceer, amidst an undeterminate number of wives, slaves, and children. Very shocking; but it may be pointed out that such men as this established our colonies or seats of trade in Africa. They had virtues, perhaps, but their vices were more useful. The moral system of the present day would not have answered then. An agent secured his position by marrying a daughter of every chief who might be troublesome. He had no Maxim guns.

Mr. Blank knew every feeling and superstition of the negroes, – that is the point of my reference to his character. And one evening he entered the room just as Boville was hanging up his latest acquisitions, some of which were in flower. Whatever Mr. Blank’s business, it fled from his mind on beholding the orchids.

‘Good God!’ he cried. ‘What – what – you are no better than a dead man! I won’t protect you – I can’t! Good God! What possessed you?’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Boville.

‘No, you don’t understand! They send me out the most infernal idiots’ – and then Mr. Blank fell to swearing.

Boville saw the case was grave somehow. ‘Are they poisonous?’ he asked.

‘Poisonous be – etc. etc. That’s the Endua – the holiest of plants! You’ll wish they were poisonous before long! What a lot! You didn’t get ’em all to-day?’

‘I can destroy them. Only Georgius Rex the Krooman has been into the bush with me.’

‘You fool! D’you think you can hide this from the fetich? Put – put ’em in a sack, and tumble ’em into the river after dark! Oh Lord, here’s an awful business!’

Moving about the room restlessly as he talked, whilst Boville thrust the orchids into a bag, the agent opened a door which gave upon a platform called the verandah – in fact, the roof of the store. It overlooked the street. In an instant he ran back.

‘It’s all up’ he cried. ‘Oh Lord! Here’s the Vokhimen!’

Boville had heard this name, which belongs to an official of the Vo-dun, the fetich priesthood, whose duty it is to summon offenders. He went to see. The street was in an uproar. Two men clothed in black and white, with faces chalked, were beating Vo-drums furiously – but such din is too usual for notice. They stood at the door of a house – habitations in Whydah are not properly described as huts. All the neighbours surged round vociferous. Presently emerged a grotesque figure, rather clothed than adorned with strings of human teeth and bones, and little wooden idols painted red. His black and white cap had lappets with red snakes sewn thereon; the breast of his tunic bore a large red cross, the sacred symbol of Dahomey. He came forth with a leap, and danced along with ridiculous gestures to the next house, flourishing the iron bar which marks his office. The bones and images rattled like castanets. The drummers followed. Through the next doorway the Vokhimen sprang, and disappeared.

‘He isn’t after me, thank God!’ cried Boville.

‘He is, you fool! It’s their way to hunt about like that when they well know where to find the victim. No, it’s too late to hide the cursed things now. God help you, Boville! I can do nothing.’ And Mr. Blank hurried out.

‘Go to the Hun-to at least, sir – and to Mr. Martinez! Don’t leave me helpless to these devils!’

‘I’ll do all I can for you, but it’s worse than useless my stopping here.’

Perhaps it is necessary to observe that the Europeans in Whydah had long been subject to the King of Dahomey, ruled by a Viceroy. Each nationality had its official chief, called Hun-to by the English, and the Portuguese representative enjoyed particular consideration. Nevertheless, the Viceroy was their absolute master, and he obeyed the fetich men.

It is so easy to conceive poor Boville’s bewilderment and despair that I shall not dwell upon the situation. With feverish haste he concealed his orchids. Mr. Blank reappeared, with a rope fringed with strips of palm leaf, dry and crackling. This he threw round Boville’s neck.

‘They daren’t hurt you with that on!’ he cried. ‘Only the head priest can remove it! Go down! I’ve set drink on the table! Good-bye!’

The poor fellow obeyed, taking a pistol. All the servants were clustered at the door, wide-eyed, humming with terror and excitement. Presently the drums sounded nearer and nearer – the throng opened – the Vokhimen danced through, jibbering, curveting, posturing. He started at sight of the palm-leaf cord, but passed by, unheeding a glass of rum which Boville offered, and pranced upstairs. The agent was right. This devil knew where to look! He thumped about a while overhead, then capered down, with a bundle of orchids dangling on the iron stick. The glass was not refused this time. After drinking, the summoner touched Boville with his wand of office, saying, ‘Come! The snake calls you!’

Boville did not understand the formula, but he guessed its meaning. There was no help. He set forth. The Vokhimen pocketed the rum bottle and followed, moving gravely enough now.

The mob shouted with astonishment at the appearance of a white criminal, but when the cause of his arrest was seen – that bundle of the holy Endua – astonishment changed to rage. Boville owed his life to the Azan, the fetich cord, at that instant. But the drummers beat furiously, and, as if in response, a dozen fetich men suddenly appeared, pushing through the crowd. One side of their heads was shaven bare. They wore garments of hideous fantasy, charms and horrid objects innumerable, and each a pair of silver horns upon the forehead. Under this escort Boville marched to the fetich place.

This was a bare piece of ground, encircled by the low dark dwellings of the priests, with the sacred wood behind it, and in the midst the Snake Temple. Often had Boville glanced into the small building, which has no door, and seen the reptiles swarming inside. He did not feel the loathing for snakes which is so common – happily, as it proved. But no man could watch that multitude of restless, twining creatures without horror.

Led to the dreadful doorway, Boville turned, thinking to resist; but they fell upon him, doubled him up – for the entrance was very low – and thrust him in bodily. The poor fellow screamed in tumbling full length upon a platform which occupied the middle. He had seen it alive with snakes, writhing one over the other.

But none were there. He scrambled to his feet and looked round. The temple had no windows, but the solid walls of adobe did not meet the roof, and the level sun-rays of evening poured through the gap. There was nothing to interrupt the view, save a besom and a basket. But no snake could he see. A movement above caught his eye. He looked up.

There are men who would have lost their wits in terror at that sight. The snakes were there, hundreds of them, perched upon the thickness of the wall – the ridge of their bodies gleaming in the red light of sunset, their long necks hanging down, waving and twining. Every head was turned towards him, the glass-bright eyes fixed on his, and the tongues slithering with eagerness. Nightmare was never so horrible.

For an instant Boville stood frozen, with dropped jaw and starting eyes, the icy sweat streaming from every pore; then, howling in no human voice, he burst through the doorway, through the guard, and fell in the midst of a party advancing.

All the Europeans in Whydah were there, with the Viceroy himself, and the head fetich man. The horrid absurdity of their equipment I have no room to describe. The white men had been pleading, even threatening, and the Viceroy supported them. When Boville dropped at their feet the last word had been spoken. His punishment should be that decreed against the man who kills a snake by evil chance – no worse.

‘What is that?’ Boville panted, when the agent who held him in his arms had explained.

‘Never mind – we’ll do our best! And it is to be at once, thank God! Night will soon be here!’

‘Don’t go – not all of you! Don’t leave me with these devils!’

‘We must, poor boy – to arrange. But we shall return.’

Boville remained among a group of fetich men, who sang and capered round, making gruesome pantomime of tortures. Meanwhile, others were busy at a shed with spades and bundles of reed. Dusk was settling down when they had finished. The head priests returning took their stations, surrounded by men with torches still unlit. All the population was gathered round the holy area.

Mr. Blank came back with others. ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘They are going to put you – unbound – in a hole, cover you with reeds, and set them alight. You must spring up and run to the nearest water, all these brutes after you. But I have arranged with many of them, and they will intercept the others. Now mark, for your life may depend on it! The law is that one who kills a snake shall be cut and hacked till he reaches water! They expect you to make for the river, but there is a pond on the very edge of the fetich wood yonder! See? You make for that! You can’t miss it if you go straight between the torches and the temple. You understand? Now summon your courage, man, and run for your life.’

He wrung Boville’s hand. The executioners seized their victim and hurried him to the shed, amidst a furious tumult – roaring, singing, beating of drums, and blaring of cow-horns – thrust him into the hole, and heaped combustibles over him. The instant he was free Boville sprang up, but the reeds flared as quick as gunpowder. All ablaze he ran – the savage crew pursuing. But they mostly expected him on the river side. With but little hurt, save burns, he reached the pool and leapt in.

It is satisfactory to add that Boville did not suffer in health or fortune by this dread experience. He became the richest trader in Whydah, a special favourite with the natives. But he collected no more orchids.

1

It seems not unlikely that scholars may read this and misunderstand. I am not ignorant that ‘the Ancients’ had frames, probably warmed green-houses – since they flowered roses at mid-winter – and certainly conservatories. But these facts do not bear upon the argument.

2

Two or three years ago, however, the Government of New Granada made a law forbidding such destruction of trees – a measure which has happily reduced the output of orchids, since the natives are unwilling to climb for them.