Vagabond life in Mexico/The Pilot Ventura
The Pilot Ventura
CHAPTER I.
Vera Cruz.—Bocca del Rio.
Few remains of its former grandeur are now to be seen. Built on too large a scale for its decreasing population, this city, once so flourishing, never tried to struggle against that decline which is soon made known to the traveler by its empty houses and deserted streets. The wind from the sea exercises in full force its destructive agency; and the terrible periodical gales are sometimes so violent as to tear down the crumbling walls of the palaces, and lift from their beds the rusty cannon which serve for posts upon the quays. In Vera Cruz you are reminded of the cities of the East, as well from the rich and picturesque costumes of the people of the neighboring coast and of the interior, who flock to the town, as by the dull appearance of the houses and public buildings. Every where you observe domes of various colors, steeples shooting high into the air, balconies ornamented with massive gratings; and, as if to increase the resemblance still more, the women of the upper classes are never seen in the streets. If you wish to get a glimpse of them, you must penetrate into the interior of the houses, or, rather, go out after sunset. Then, the murmur of mysterious voices, the rustling of a fan, and some pale figures, blanched by the rays of the moon, sitting behind a Venetian blind half opened, reveal the presence of the fair Vera Cruzans to the stranger, whom the freshness of the night, and the delicious coolness of the sea-breeze, have brought out upon the streets.
Washed on one side by the ocean, which is gradually wearing away its admirable mole, surrounded by heaps of sand, which the wind is continually shifting, Vera Cruz, at the present moment, submits with indifference to the progressive encroachment of the sand hills and the daily ravages of the waves. The northeast wind carries before it, in dense whirling masses, large bodies of sand. For many centuries a line of movable hills has been thus gradually formed behind the city. These hillocks, improperly called medanos, are continually augmented by fresh additions, and are ever changing, according to the caprice of the wind, their place and figure. Some rise in the air like pyramids, from the top of which small portions of sand are constantly flying off like a never-failing bank of fog. The great number of these medanos, many of which attain a height of from fourteen to more than thirty feet, threatens to bury the town; but, as the danger is still distant, and in hot countries one's existence hangs merely by a thread, the inhabitants leave to their posterity the task of providing against that emergency. Another disadvantage still more serious is, that the medanos hinder the rain-water from flowing away. Small lakes are thus formed at the bottom of these sand-hills; and the parched-up ground is gradually converted into a fenny marsh, from which arise the most pernicious exhalations. A thick layer of mud fertilizes the sand, and all the noxious plants which abound in low, moist grounds are here produced in countless profusion. During the rainy season this rank vegetation spreads and grows round all the margin of the ponds. The mangroves shoot their branches down to the ground. They take root there, produce new trunks, and soon form impenetrable thickets—haunts of numberless reptiles of every kind. A thick crust of greenish scum carpets the surface of the water. The fermentation which sets in on the return of hot weather in these frightful marshes disperses deleterious miasmas abroad, and removes to a distance the swarms of musquitoes. For three months of the year, however, the impetuous squalls which usually prevail sweep away all pestilential vapors, and momentarily purify these sinks of putrefaction.
The reader may perhaps remember that, the day after the fandango at Manantial, I had set out with Calros to seek the murderer whom he had sworn to punish. On leaving the village, there were signs abroad which showed the near approach of one of those tempests caused by the north wind, termed by seamen northers. A strange, dreamy sort of languor seemed to brood over all nature; the suffocating heat caused our horses to foam and pant, although our pace was designedly slow, and our lungs sought in vain for the freshness of the morning air.
We had traveled only a few hours on a road overshadowed by trees, when a dull, hollow, rumbling noise was heard. It was the sound of waves; we were approaching the sea without being able to discover its whereabouts. A few minutes afterward we debouched upon the beach, and I could not help contemplating with delight that ocean which bathed the shores of Europe. In the distance we descried Vera Cruz, with its spires and domes, and the fort San Juan de Ulloa, that stood like a rock among the billows, above which shot the tall, slender masts of the shipping in the roads.
The state of the sea gave every indication of a tempest, of which we had recognized the first symptoms in the wood. The waves gently licked the sand; a more than usually keen smell was distinguishable; the fish were evidently uneasy, leaping high out of the water; and the sea-birds wheeled round and round in the air, uttering mournful cries. Thick clouds were already sweeping up over the town. All at once a large cleft was observable in them. The Sierra of San Martin, which extends from Tuxtla to the mouth of the Goazacoalco, was suddenly stripped of the veil which had, till now, hid the range from our eyes, and its sharp peaks were brought out in bold relief against the deep blue sky.
"Woe betide the-ships that are in the gulf just now!" said Calros, "for the north wind will advance upon them sword in hand;[1] this will be a tempestuous night. We shall know something more about it this evening at Bocca del Rio."
I made no reply at first. I was gazing on the ocean. To-morrow I intended to bid adieu to Mexico, and to embark for France. Contending emotions were striving for mastery within me. The joy at my return, long desired as it had been, was tinged with a momentary feeling of dejection. The country that I was about to leave had satisfied my thirst for adventure, and I wished ever afterward to lead a more calm and equable life. Calros's remark reminded me that I had not yet left this life of peril, from which I fancied I had been freed too easily. When, after saying nothing for a few moments, I told him a little confused, I own that I intended to embark in the first American ship that was leaving the roads, Calros objected with an air of chagrin, reminding me of my promise to accompany him to Bocca del Rio; and he then pointed out the threatening appearance of the sea. Not a single ship will lift her anchor here for four days, he added; and this last argument was decisive. I then agreed to his terms. I arranged to spend one of the four days of detention with him at Bocca del Rio, to assist in the search for the murderer. That port is only twelve miles from Vera Cruz. Calros intended to go through the city on the way to his village. For my part, I resolved to stay in town to make arrangements for my departure, after which I meant to rejoin Calros in the evening.
A short time after this we entered Vera Cruz. Upon the arid, sandy plain which surrounds the town, some muleteers had pitched their tents, waiting impatiently for the time when they could fly this pestiferous coast, which carries off some of their number at almost every trip. Farther off, a few negro porters, accustomed to this burning climate, were wrestling and struggling on the sand, paying no regard to the fine clothes they wore. I could not help smiling involuntarily when I compared in my own mind their condition with those of our porters at home. After renewing my promise, to Calros of meeting him soon, I repaired to the counting house of my correspondent. I shall pass over in silence the worthless incidents which occurred during this day, till the time when I had to quit the town and set out for Bocca del Rio.
The wind now began to blow strongly from the north. When I reached the shore, after passing the outskirts of the town, great black clouds, preceded by drifting scud, veiled the face of the sky, and an icy blast, charged with cold from Hudson's Bay, struck me at intervals upon the face. The waves broke on the beach with a mighty roar, and the water came up as far as my horse's feet in large sheets of white foam. The farther I advanced, the wind seemed to increase in fury, and the night was growing darker and darker. Forced sometimes to turn my back to avoid the clouds of drifting sand, I now and then had a glimpse of the town that I repented of having left. At regular intervals, the light-house of San Juan de Ulloa blazed up in all the beauty of its revolving light, sometimes gleaming on Vera Cruz shrouded in darkness, and then on the roadstead white with foam. For a moment I discerned the ships at their anchors pitching up and down on the broken swell, and almost driving on each other. The light soon turned, and all was dark. It was scarcely the season for a nocturnal excursion. I advanced, however, with a resolution that deserved some credit, and had already approached the wood at the extremity of which lies the village of Bocca del Rio, when I fancied I distinguished a cavalier somewhat in advance of me. I hastened toward him. Enveloped in a large blue cloak, he seemed at a distance like a Franciscan. The noise of the tempest was so loud and overpowering that I was by his side before he perceived me. I then saw he was not a monk, but a peasant of the coast, whose bayeta[2] I had taken for a frock. With his hand upon his eyes to guard them from the dazzling glare of the lightning, the horseman rode on, casting keen glances toward one side, as if seeking to pierce the dark veil which hung over the ocean; but nothing could be seen but the white crest of the waves lashed into fury by the violence of the storm. I shouted to the stranger with all the force of my lungs, but the violence of the wind hindered my words from reaching him. All at once a loud report was heard in the distance. At the sound, as if it had been a signal he had been ardently expecting, the cavalier put spurs to his horse, and galloped off in the direction of the woods of Bocca del Rio. He was soon lost to view among the trees, and my only care was, in the midst of the lianas and underwood, to keep the straight path which led to the houses. I had reason to hope that, once among the trees and sheltered from the fury of the wind, I could follow the road with ease. As soon as I entered the wood, the noise of the waves gradually died away. I rode almost an hour beneath this leafy vault in complete darkness, and it was not without regret that I again perceived, by a flash of lightning, a long line of foaming breakers. I soon arrived at Bocca del Rio, so called from its situation at the mouth of the river; but, on issuing from the wood, an interesting spectacle met my view, which decided me to make a short halt.