The Pearl of the Antilles, or An Artist in Cuba

'I believe so; but even then, it will be nearly five long months before she can be with us again!'

The most important information which I draw from the communicative black is, that my medical friend, Don Francisco, who is a dentist as well as a doctor, is attending my beloved for professional purposes. I resolved to call upon Don Francisco, and when Guadalupe has taken her departure with a packet containing a selection from Cachita's letters, and one of my own, which I have carefully worded, in case it should fall into wrong hands, I repair at once to the house of my medical friend.

Don Francisco sympathises with me, and promises to aid me in a plan which I have conceived for communicating by letter with my absent mistress; but he warns me that there are many difficulties in the way of doing so.

'The nuns,' he says, 'who accompany my patient, stand like a couple of sentinels on each side of her, and no word or gesture escapes their attentive ears and watchful gaze. He must have more than a conjuror's hand who can perform any epistolary feat and escape their keen observation.'

The allusion to conjuring reminds me of my scheme.

Will Don Francisco recommend to his patient a box of his registered tooth-powder?

He will be delighted to have that opportunity.

'One of my assistants who accompanies me in my convent rounds shall include such a box in my dentist's bag.'

Don Francisco sees through my 'little powder plot,' as he calls it, and hands me a box of his patented tooth-powder, beneath which I afterwards carefully deposit a billet-doux.

But Don Francisco can improve upon my scheme, and staggers me with his new idea.

'You shall deliver the box yourself!' says he.

The convent rules, he explains, allow him to introduce an assistant, or 'practicante,' as he is called. The same practicante does not always accompany him in his semi-weekly visits to the convent.

'As I am about to visit La Cachita for dental purposes only,' says the considerate gentleman, 'you shall on this occasion act as my practicante.'

Early next morning we are on the threshold of the sacred ground. Don Francisco boldly enters the stone ante-chamber, which I have so often timidly approached, and taps with a firm knuckle on the torno.

'Ave Maria Purísima!' murmurs the door-keeper from behind.

'Pecador de mí!' (sinner as I am) replies the practised Don.

'Que se ofrece usted?' (what is your pleasure?) inquires the voice. And when the dentist has satisfied the door-keeper's numerous demands, a spring door flies open, and we step into a narrow passage. Here we remain for some moments, while our persons are carefully identified through a perforated disc. Then another door opens, the mysterious door-keeper appears and conducts us into the very core of the convent. As we look over the convent garden, which is tastefully laid out with tropical plants and kitchen stuff, a thickly veiled nun approaches us. The lady seems to be on familiar terms with the dentist, whom she addresses in a mild, soothing tone, as if she were administering words of comfort to a sick person. We follow her through a narrow corridor, where I observe numerous doors, which I am told give access to the apartments or cells occupied by the convent inmates. We pass a chamber where children's voices are heard. There is a school attached to the convent, for the benefit of those who desire their offspring to receive religious instruction from the nuns. Music and fancy needlework are also taught, and some of the distressed damsels, who, like Cachita, are undergoing a term of conventual imprisonment for similar offences, impose upon themselves a mild form of hard labour by assisting to improve the infant mind. Cachita, who is a good musician, takes an active part in this branch of education.

At last we are ushered into a gloomy, white-washed apartment (everything in the convent appears to be of wood and whitewash), where our guide takes leave of us.

While the dentist, assisted by his practicante, is arranging his implements for tooth-stopping on a deal table, which, together with a couple of wooden chairs, constitute the furniture of this cheerless chamber, an inner door is thrown open, and a couple of nuns, attired in sombre black, enter with Don Francisco's fair patient. Cachita is dressed in spotless white, a knotted rope suspended from her girdle, and a yellowish veil affixed in such a manner to her brow as to completely conceal her hair, which, simple practicante though I be, I know is dark, soft, and frizzled at the top. Her pretty face is pale, and already wears (or seems to wear) the approved expression of monastic resignation.

At Don Francisco's suggestion, I carefully conceal my face while Cachita seats herself between the sentinel nuns.

The dentist, with a presence of mind which I emulate but little, commences his business of tooth-stopping, pausing in his work to exchange a few friendly words with his patient and the amicable nuns. Hitherto my services have not been in requisition; but anon the subject of the tooth-powder is introduced.

Will La Cachita allow the dentist to recommend her a tooth-powder of his own preparation?

Cachita is in no immediate need of such an article, but the dentist is persuasive, and the young lady is prevailed upon to give the powder a trial.

'You will derive much benefit from its use,' observes Don Francisco. 'My assistant' (and here the cunning tooth-stopper, being close to his patient's ear, whispers my name) 'will bring it you presently.'

'What ails la Niña?' inquires one of the nuns, bending forward; for Cachita has uttered a cry, and swooned away.

'Nothing, señora,' says Don Francisco with the same sang-froid already noted. 'Only a nerve which I have accidentally excited in my operation. She will be better presently.'

The dentist desires me to bring him a certain bottle, and with the contents of this, his patient is soon restored to consciousness.

'Keep her head firm,' says my artful friend, addressing me with a faint smile on his countenance, 'while I put the finishing touches to my work.'

I obey; and though my hands are far from being as steady as an assistant's should be, I acquit myself creditably.

Cachita's mouth is again open to facilitate the dentist's operations, but also, as it seems to me, in token of surprise at the apparition now bending over her.

'You will find much relief in the use of this tooth-powder,' continues my friend, in a careless tone, as though nothing had happened. 'Very strengthening to the gums. When you have got to the bottom of the box – just open your mouth a little wider – when you have got to the bottom of the box – where' (he whispers) 'you will find a note – I will send you another.'

Cachita, by this time accustomed to my presence, can now look me fearlessly in the face with those expressive eyes of hers, which I can read so well, and before the dentist's operations are over, we have contrived, unobserved, to squeeze hands on three distinct occasions.

Assured by this means of my lover's constancy, I now take my leave of her, and, advised by my friends, patiently await the term of her convent captivity, which expires, as I have already stated, in four months and three weeks.

Upwards of three of these months elapse and I hear nothing more of the fair recluse, and during that long interval many strange and unexpected events transpire as to the 'Ever-faithful Isle.'

CHAPTER XXIII.

A CRUISE IN THE WEST INDIES

Cuban Telegraphy – The New York Trigger– News from Porto Rico – A day in Porto Rico – Don Felipe – A Mail Agent – Coasting – Aguadilla – Mayagüez – Santo Domingo – Sight-seeing – Telegraphic News

There has been a sad dearth of news in the tropics for many long months. The war of Santo Domingo is at an end. The great hurricane at St. Thomas has passed into oblivion. The rising of negroes in Jamaica is forgotten. The civil war in Hayti is suspended for the nineteenth time. Not so much as a shipwreck is afloat; even the yellow fever is on the wane, and not a single case of cholera has been quoted. The people of the tropics are enjoying a delightful and uninterrupted repose, and the elements and climate are perfectly inoffensive. It seems as if our part of the world had sunk into a delicious paradise, and that my services on behalf of the New York Trigger would be for the future dispensed with.

I am, shortly, recalled to my journalistic duties by the arrival of some 'startling' news from Porto Rico. An insurrection has broken out in the interior of that island, where the inhabitants have planted what they call their 'flag of freedom,' intimating their intention to rebel against their Spanish rulers.

This is food for the Trigger, and I hasten to prepare it daintily, for transmission by telegraph.

At the office of the telegraph, I meet the American consul's secretary. Now, as I know that that gentleman is connected with the Central Press of Havana, I conclude that he is upon the same errand as myself. In the interests of the New York Trigger, it is therefore my duty now to forestall the secretary, by forwarding my news before he has had time to dispatch his.

The secretary is at the telegraph table scribbling at a rapid rate, and you may be sure he does not slacken his speed when he becomes conscious of the presence of the formidable agent of the New York Trigger! Only one instrument is used for telegraphic purposes, so he whose telegram is first handed to the clerk is first to be served by that functionary.

The system of telegraphy – like every other system in Cuba – is supervised by the Spanish administration. Every telegram must be submitted to the authorities before it is dispatched, in case anything treasonable or offensive to the government should enter into its composition. The dispatch being approved of, it is returned to the telegraph office and transmitted in the usual manner. The sender is, however, obliged to pay for his message in paper stamps, and these must be affixed to the document; but under no circumstances is he permitted to make his payments in Spanish coin.

This paper money – which in form resembles postage-stamps – cannot be obtained at the telegraph office, but must be purchased at the 'Colecturía,' a certain government establishment in another part of the town. Thus, the unfortunate individual who happens to be unprovided with sufficient stamps, is often at a standstill.

By a miracle, my important news from Porto Rico is ready for transmission as soon as that of my rival, the American secretary; but, unfortunately, that gentleman is before me in presenting his document to the telegraph clerk. The latter examines the message carefully to see that nothing is wanting, when, to my great joy, he returns it with the remark, that the indispensable stamps have not been affixed!

My rival is aghast, and offers to pay in golden doubloons; but the official is not to be bribed – especially before a witness – so the American secretary, who is unprovided with stamps, has no other alternative but to go in quest of them.

Meanwhile I, whose pocket-book is full of the precious paper-money, hand in my message, which the clerk accepts, and in my presence ticks off to Havana. From thence it will proceed by submarine cable to the coast of Florida, where, after being duly translated into English, it will be transmitted to New York, and to-morrow, if all goes well, it will appear in the columns of the New York Trigger.

On my way to a neighbouring café for refreshment after my labours, I gather from a printed placard on a wall of the governor's palace, some further particulars concerning the rebellion: —

'The Spanish troops have had an encounter with the insurgents, and utterly routed them, with a loss, on the Spanish side, of one man killed and three slightly wounded. The enemy's losses are incalculable!'

This piece of intelligence, of course, proceeds from government sources, and is therefore doubtful; but all is fish that comes to my journalistic net, so I return to the telegraph office, and give the Trigger the benefit of the doubt.

In the course of the day, I obtain the rebel version of the fight: —

'A great battle has been fought between the Patriots and the Spaniards, in which the latter were forced to retreat with considerable losses.'

Twenty-three words more for the Trigger.

The revolution spreads; the news circulates, and every mail steamer from Porto Rico brings correspondence for me from the agent in that island. Day by day the New York Trigger is filled with telegrams and editorial paragraphs about the revolution in the Spanish colony; and that widely circulating newspaper is often in advance, and never behind, its contemporaries with 'latest intelligence from the seat of war.'

At length a fatal piece of news reaches us.

Afraid lest the revolutionary mania should infect our town, the Spanish authorities have subjected the mail bags from Porto Rico to an epistolary quarantine; in other words, all our correspondence is overhauled at the post-office, and any document bearing upon the revolution is confiscated.

The central agent in Havana of the New York Trigger is beside himself when he finds that no more telegrams and news-letters are forthcoming, and reminds me, per wire, of my duties. It is in vain to assure him of the true state of affairs, and of my inability to supply him with the dearly coveted 'intelligence.' He will not believe that my resources for information are as limited as I represent them to be. One day I receive a mighty telegram from him, acquainting me with the fact that a contemporary of the Trigger has actually published some 'startling' news from the seat of war!

This fearful announcement is shortly followed by another dispatch to the following effect: —

'If you cannot obtain the news required by remaining in Santiago, leave immediately for Principe (our alias for Porto Rico). If no steamer is ready, charter a sailing vessel. Collect all the information you can in detail, and return without loss of time. N.B. Spare no expense. The "Gatillo" (Spanish for "Trigger") thirsts for particulars.'

As no steamer is announced to sail before another week, I take the other alternative, and charter a small sailing vessel.

I land in due time at Porto Rico. I seek our agent, Don Felipe, and after some trouble, I find him – in jail! He is a native of the village near the scene of the outbreak, and for some mysterious reason has been arrested 'on suspicion.'

Assisted by the English and American consuls, to whom I have letters of introduction, and using the Trigger's dollars for the pockets of the officials, I ultimately succeed in procuring the agent's release. Don Felipe then produces press copies of certain communications which he had dispatched by the last mail steamers, but which had been intercepted at the Cuban post-office, and, after inviting me to lunch at one of the finest cafés I have ever had the pleasure of entering, he accompanies me over the town, where we collect the latest particulars respecting the insurrection.

San Juan de Puerto Rico is a fine city. The houses are three and four stories high, and are constructed after the American fashion. The streets are wide and symmetrically arranged. The roads are all paved and hilly. Every street leads to a fort, a gun and a sentry; and, in some cases, to high cliffs with an extensive view of the open sea. In short, San Juan is a strongly-fortified place. Everything is very clean, very new, and very modern looking. The cathedral is a noble edifice, and the theatre is in every way equal to the best buildings of the kind in Europe.

Crossing an open square, in which appear a number of bronze statues, Don Felipe conducts me back to the café, where we partake of refreshment, and arrange the various items of news which we have collected during our afternoon's ramble over the town.

Don Felipe advises me to dispatch the frail bark which had brought me from Cuba, and return by the mail steamer which has just arrived from St. Thomas, and is announced to sail for Cuba early next morning. As this is by far the speediest way of getting home, I follow my friend's advice, and accept his invitation to repose for the night at his humble dwelling.

The rest of the day and evening is passed very agreeably.

The British consul – a fine military-looking old fellow – invites me to dine with him and his charming family. It is pleasant to speak and hear spoken one's native tongue again, after being comparatively deaf and dumb in that language for nearly five years. It is still more delightful to feel at home with one's countrymen and countrywomen in a strange land, and thus, when I take leave of my hospitable English host and his family, I sincerely regret, with them, the brevity of my visit.

I rise at a very early hour next morning, and, accompanied by Don Felipe, I take my passage on board the 'Pájaro del Oceano,' that being the name of the steamer which is to convey me to Cuba.

The naval agent of the English mail company, who is a young Cuban named Fernandez, salutes me as I embark, for we had been slightly acquainted with one another in Santiago. Before taking leave of Don Felipe, I introduce him to the mail agent, for by the latter's means I hope for the future to ensure the safe delivery of my dispatches from Porto Rico and other islands. Don Fernandez touches at the port of Santiago at least once a month, and if he can be pressed into the Trigger's service, he will be invaluable to that newspaper.

The mail agent has a compartment on board all to himself, and invites me to occupy one of the comfortable berths which it contains. He is in other ways so civil and obliging, that his company is altogether most congenial during the voyage, and before our arrival in Cuba, we have become the closest of friends.

I am alarmed to find that our steamer will touch at other ports before reaching its destination; but Fernandez assures me that the voyage will occupy much less time than it would if it were made in a sailing vessel, especially in the present somewhat stormy weather. In short, if all goes well, we shall sight the Morro Castle in less than five days.

In sorting his correspondence, the mail agent discovers some important missives addressed to me. These, which he kindly hands to me, I find come from the Trigger's agents in St. Thomas, Jamaica, and other islands; and contain some interesting intelligence respecting the projected purchase by the United States of the Bay of Samana, together with the particulars of an earthquake near Callao, a scheme for a floating dock at Kingston, Jamaica, and other topics equally interesting to Americans. These matters, together with my Porto Rico news, I proceed to arrange in concise form, for immediate dispatch by telegraph, on my arrival at Santiago.

Friend Fernandez very much excites my curiosity by exhibiting the mail bags from Southampton. One of these bags is labelled 'Havana,' the other 'Santiago de Cuba,' and as they contain the correspondence from Europe, doubtless letters and newspapers addressed to me and Nicasio Rodriguez y Boldú are among the number. But the mouths of both sacks – which make my mouth 'water' – are securely tied and sealed, and the mail agent dares not venture to open them, until they have been deposited at the Cuban post-office.

On the evening of the following day we land in a boat at Aguadilla – a small watering-place on the coast of Porto Rico. The village is represented by a row of tumble-down houses and a scattering of picturesque negro huts. While my companion confers with the postal agent of Aguadilla, I occupy the time by a saunter through the quiet, primitive streets, picking up here and there from a communicative native scraps of news concerning the insurrection, which I learn is now very much on the wane.

The business of the mail agent being over, we return to our steamer, where, after partaking of a hearty meal – in spite of wind and weather – we turn into our snug berths and chat and smoke our cigarettes till sleep overtakes us.

We awake early next morning to find that we have already anchored off Mayagüez.

Mayagüez is an important sea-side town on the Porto Rico coast, and is surrounded by the loveliest tropical scenery that I have yet beheld in the West Indies. One long, broad and perfectly level street runs in a direct line from the quay to the confines of the town. Branching off from this formidable thoroughfare are a few narrow streets which terminate in small rivers and streams, across which innumerable little bridges are thrown.

As we are destined to halt at this delightful spot for several hours, we make the most of our time. After calling upon our vice-consul – who is also the English postal agent, and has an office in one of the numerous warehouses which face the quay – and after having partaken of some refreshment at a café, my companion and I hail a quaint dilapidated vehicle of the fly species and drive through the street of the town. This street beginning with shops, continues with tall private dwellings, which, in turn, are succeeded by pretty villas, till the open country suddenly appears.

I am amazed to find that for our drive through the town, half a mile beyond it and back again, we are charged the astonishingly modest fare of two-pence half-penny!

We have embarked again and are off to Santo Domingo, where we land on the following day.

Santo Domingo – the capital of the island of that name – is an antiquated city, with brown, sombre-looking stone houses intermingled with quaint towers and gateways, tropical trees, shrubbery and ruins. We reach the city in a small boat, passing up a long river called the Ozana, and after Don Fernandez has deposited his mail bags at the post-office, we wander over the town. My companion knows every part of it well, having, as he tells me, visited it at least twice a month for the past three years. Acting, therefore, as a cicerone, he conducts me through the Calle del Comercio, which is the principal street in the city, but which has a very dismal and deserted aspect. The cathedral is an ancient building, and has resisted wind, weather, earthquake, and revolution for upwards of three hundred years. The interior is full of interest for the artist and the antiquarian, containing, among other objects, the first mausoleum of Christopher Columbus. Don Fernandez tells me that the remains of the great discoverer were originally brought from Spain and deposited here, and that they were afterwards transferred to the cathedral of Havana, where they at present repose.

On our way from the cathedral we meet a number of coloured officials belonging to the republic; and for the first time in my experience, I behold a negro policeman! We pause before an old picturesque archway where a sentry is on guard. The sentry is a black youth of not more than eighteen Dominican summers. His uniform consists of a ragged shirt, brown holland trousers, and a broad Panama hat. He has apparently an easy life of it, for his musket reposes in a corner of the gateway, while he himself is seated, half dozing, on a big stone!

After inspecting the quaint old market-place, together with an ancient Franciscan monastery called La Forsza, the 'Well of Columbus,' and other interesting 'sights,' Don Fernandez warns me that the hour for our departure is near. I accordingly accompany him to the office of the English consul, where he has to receive the mail bags of Santo Domingo. We have to wait some time at the consul's office, for important dispatches from President Baez. I devote the time which elapses before these dispatches appear, to a little business on behalf of the New York Trigger. There is, however, scarcely any news of importance to be obtained. Since the war of Santo Domingo, the inhabitants have enjoyed an uninterrupted peace, and with the exception of a few petty squabbles with their neighbours, the Haytiens, and the projected purchase of the Bay of Samana, nothing eventful has transpired in the island.

The President's dispatches having arrived, we take leave of the consul and the company assembled, and, under the escort of a torn and tattered negro porter bearing the mail bags, reach the quay. Passing through the custom-house, which is represented by a roof and eight posts, we embark in our little canoe, and gliding over the waters of the river Ozana, which skirts the town, reach our steamer.