Two Stillwater Lake Area Maps

 

Two Stillwater Lake Area Maps

Clearing out some old papers I came across a couple of older maps.

Destination St. Margaret’s Bay shows the communities around the bay from 1999.

11D/12 is a Halifax map at 1:50,000 scale and this is a detail of Stillwater Lake and west. From 1980.

Bluefield and Corn Islands, Nicaragua

 Bluefield and Corn Islands, Nicaragua.

https://www.scribd.com/document/468321748/Maureen-Tweedy

 Dated about 1955?

While doing a little research on pirates and privateers, I came across an old PDF on the Corn Islands which we had visited in 2008. We did not visit Bluefields but A. Hyatt Verrill's descriptions came to mind. I was fascinated by the descriptions so I spent some time converting into text. Hope you enjoy, as I did. /drf

 

England first gained her foothold in Jamaica in 1659 and, twenty years later, came to an arrangement with Spain, the Treaty of Madrid, in which it was agreed: “That the Most Serene King of Great Britain, his heirs and successors shall hold, keep and enjoy forever, with plenary right of sovereignty, dominion, possession and propriety, all these lands, regions, islands, colonies and places, whatsoever, being or situated in the West Indies or any part of America, which the said King of Great Britain, or his subjects, do at present hold and possess.”

It is this treaty that explains the presence on the Atlantic Coast of the descendents of British subjects the use of their language, names and customs; and, still faintly, their influence. In no circumstances can we English flatter ourselves that our occupation was anything but the most egregious impudence. Nor did we add a glorious page to our history whilst there. But at the same time the whole story is an amusing one and worth recording.

The middle of the seventeenth century was, in every way, the Golden Age of piracy for there were two rich areas of plunder. One was the Indian Ocean and the Persian Gulf where untold wealth awaited the successful buccaneer who boarded the ships, chiefly Portuguese, carrying the pungent spices of the East Indies, the costly silks of China and the jewelled treasure of India back to Venice, Constantinople, Lisbon and London. The other El Dorado of the roving privateer was the Caribbean Sea. Through this area they had to pass all the Spanish galleons which, laden to the gunwales with gold and precious metals gained from their new empire, were bound for their home port of Cadez. Pirates of all nations swarmed to the scene, but the most obstinate were the Dutch, the English and the French. The pirates did not have matters all their own way and it must have been on some sortie when the English pirates were being chased and worsted that they sought a haven on the Atlantic coastline of Nicaragua. Here they found Indians in occupation and, after the most numerous tribe, the Miskitos, called it the Miskito Coast. Blueflelds itself was named after a Dutch pirate, Blewfeldt, and the name was later corrupted by the English to the prettier sound, Bluefields. The Indians were a lawless society at that time and seem to have taken to the pirates as brothers in crime. For some while they seen to have lived happily together until the visitors, restless by their very calling, became bored either with inactivity or with the Indian novelties or both. In any case, they decided to weigh anchor and hoist sail under the evil flag of the notorious Morgan. But, before doing so, they were assailed by a tardy patriotism and sent word to the Governor of Jamaica that the Miskito-land they had discovered might, with advantage, be attached to the British Crown. Strangely enough the Indians were quit agreeable to this audacious suggestion. Considering that the English pirates evaded authority wherever possible, and more especially that of their own countrymen, it does reflect the glimmerings of light in their black souls even if they were offering another’s property.

The result of this gratuitous offer, which the Governor of Jamaica accepted in 1687, was the creation, by him, of the first King of the Miskitos. At the same time the English government laid the cloak of respectability upon the backs of the pirates and persuaded them to become law-abiding citizens of the British Crown. Oddly enough they mostly did, becoming log-cutters in the mahogany forests and dyewoods of the coast. About this time the first missionaries landed but, after one look at the unpromising material, hastily withdrew.

The Miskito King was invited to send his son, Oldham, to be educated in England. On the return of the young prince he was asked to recognize Charles 2nd, that charming saturnine Stuart, as his King. Only too pleased to oblige his “royal cousin” Oldham did so and, in return, was himself crowned king when his father died. The symbol at the ceremony was an old hat.

In 1720 England secured by treaty a protectorate over the Miskito Coast and used it chiefly to harass and annoy Spain. She invaded the interior and also Belize and the islands of Roatan, off Honduras. It was Robert Hodgson (a name in common use there still) who raised the English flag at Bluefields. In 1748 England and Spain ratified a treaty, but England kept control of the Miskito Coast on the pretext that her presence there would prevent a massacre of the Spaniards. Not to be outdone in guile, Spain tried to take Belize. But the English were a match for her and, on the outbreak of the Seven Year’s War, seized their opportunity while Spain was heavily engaged in Europe. England extended her influence rapidly until she was mistress of all the eastern littoral of Central America.

Two at least of the Miskito kings were educated in England, but the rest were an uncouth lot. For the coronation of Robert Charles Frederick we have an eye witness’s account. “After this solemn mockery (no doubt the old hat was still in service) was concluded, the whole assembly adjourned to a large schoolroom to eat the coronation dinner, where these poor creatures got all intoxicated with rum. A suitable conclusion to a farce as blasphemous and wicked as ever disgraced a Christian country.”

Homer sometimes nods, and the man who became King Robert was, before his appointment to regal status, the village drunk. The authority guilty of this lapse was indeed misinformed. But the task was not easy for, if the king happened to be of sober habits, his sons, half-brothers and all his relations were invariably wedded to rum. This King Robert, however, was a man of insatiable thirst and large ideas and, having been made a king then he would do things in what he considered was a kingly way. He used the lands over which he ruled as barter for hard liquor and thousands of acres changed hands for the equivalent in barrels of rum. Not content with slicing up Nicaragua he would, if sufficiently and happily intoxicated, trade large tracts of Honduras and Costa Rica as well for the same liquid currency. Banishment, then death mercifully intervened and the English declared null and void the lavish grants of land the dead king had made in his cups.

England made repeated attempts to establish herself at Greytown and in the San Juan valley. By this means she hoped to reach Granada and cut the Spanish possession in two. The expedition sent in 1779 failed when it reached Castillo Viejo, owing to illness. It was an epidemic of some kind and out of an army of nearly two thousand men only three hundred survived. A year later Lord Nelson attacked and captured the same place, “the impregnable fortress.” But nothing much resulted, chiefly because Guatemala saw her chance to attack Belize.

The protectorate lasted almost another hundred years and there were various agreements and treaties. Strangely enough it was the United States, far more than the Nicaraguans who objected to our being there, and the Miskitos themselves did not wish us to leave when we did in 1894.

The larger number of negroes and mulattos in Bluefields came from Jamaica, whence they were imported for use on the banana plantations. But there was already a negro element which had come directly from Africa. The story of the latter is that a Portuguese slave ship in 1641 was proceeding from Guinea to Brazil but on the way across, the slaves revolted and gained control of the ship but were unable to navigate her having no knowledge of the sea. Fortune favoured them and, being caught in the Trade Winds, they were carried to the Nicaraguan coast and cast up on the shore. The Indians made slaves of them, but allowed them to intermarry and even decreed that the children of the union should be free. Thus the population is a mixture indeed, descendants of Indians, Spaniards, English, pirates, negroes and mulattose. There is a small strong community who call themselves Creoles, living in Bluefields, Pearl Lagoon, San Juan del Norte, Corn Island and the islands of Providence and St. Andrews. They trace their line from negroes and Mulattoes brought as slaves from Jamaica by the English in the eighteenth century. They have intermarried with Miskito and Rama Indians. They speak good and pure English and mostly belong to the Moravian church. One writer has referred to them: “They are thrifty and law abiding, very polite, and respectful to strangers, and less noisy and boisterous than the West Indian negroes who have emigrated to the Miskito Coast in recent years.” This was written more than fifty years ago, but is just as accurate today. The same writer goes on to say how inferior the negro is to the Creole, being not only vain but idle, weak-willed and sensual. His virtues seem to lie in his strength, his contentment with little and his disinclination to sulk.

The old English custom of dancing round the maypole on the first of May has persisted in the most extraordinary fashion. Instead of a maypole they use a tree, and this is decorated with lights and coloured streamers. The dance is held at night and, wherever practicable, His Excellency the President of Nicaragua attends it. It was opened by him this year, with myself having the honour to be his partner. Probably it was the first time in history, that the British Ambassador and his wife have taken part. One of the dancers told me that the steps used and the movements, which are African in origin, were the nearest the slaves could accomplish to what their English masters wanted, and, in those days, the maypole dance was performed on the day of tradition, the first of May, when the corn was planted, and again when the harvest had been gathered. The music, played on a native band, is very catchy and attractive, but I have been unable to trace its origin. It is certainly not English. The spectacle is fascinating. The dancers are supple, agile and fleet of foot, dancing is in their blood. Their eyes roll and white teeth flash and there is a tenseness as if so much life is seething and bubbling inside them that they could never tire. This is not the maypole of the days of Merrie England. “Hey nonny nonny no” and simpering maidens dressed as shepherdesses in painted calico and sunbonnets. Here is no tripping along with coloured ribbons to the tinkling melodies of vial, loots and tabaret. Rather it is the full blooded stamp and expression of a fierce love that quivers with the ecstasy of the throbbing drums, a brief recapturing of a long forgotten carefree existence, untrammeled by the conventions. Thus the custom survived the first shock it must have given the plantation owners of Jamaica when they saw the new interpretation of a simple English dance, does credit to those Englishman. Their tradition was maintained, even if it became mangled and distorted in the process.

As the night wears on the experts give place to others, the circle is enlarged and soon all are dancing with an astounding energy and no one thinks of giving up and returning home until three o’clock at the earliest. The older women, strenuous performers all, have a tendency to appear in very garish colours, slightly on the small size, and invariably wear men’s straw hats. Also, unlike the Pacific slopes, where the Nicaraguans have not yet accepted the fact that it rains six months of the year, umbrellas are as common in Bluefields as in Oxford Street or on Broadway. Tropical downpours descend without warning, and the older generation are never seen without a large black umbrella, always open, as it serves the role of sunshade as well. Even at a dance the straw hat must be protected in case of indecent weather.

The town of Bluefields is colourful, neat and clean. The weather-boarded houses are built in the English cottage style with two story and dormer windows. They are painted white with red roofs, and each stands in a small garden enclosed by wooden palings similar to those in any suburb of England. The insularity of the English, their determination to ‘keep themselves to themselves’ and the inviolable maxim that an Englishman’s home is his castle, seem to be perpetuated by the many Bluefieldians today who learned it from their masters nearly three hundred years ago. The streets are wide and straight, the churches, predominantly Protestant, are white and red like those seen in Bavaria (…unreadable…).

At the far end of the town is a small section known as Cotton Tree, although the only tree of this name no longer exists. Here on a shaded green sward are numerous simple wooden houses chiefly occupied by the Creoles. The ground slopes down to the water and, through an avenue of trees, the view of the creek is cool and beautiful. Coconut trees are everywhere and it is a case of ‘ware heads’ when a high wind is blowing. Falling from the height at which they grow, they cause a pretty severe head-ache if they catch a person immediately below them.

Bluefields is completely West Indian in appearance and seems to have no connection with Nicaragua. English is more freely spoken than Spanish and, except for a certain lilt in the voice and a few idioms introduced from Jamaica, the English is purer and more pleasing than that heard today in many working class districts in the British Isles. It is not unusual when talking to some of the older people, to hear them refer to the Pacific side of the country as Nicaragua as if it were a foreign country.

To the traveller, or onlooker, there is a quaintness in this complete cleavage of a country, a unique situation unparalleled in any other nation. At the same time it is an unwholesome feature reminding one of the old adage of a house divided against itself. The daily air service, that has now been in operation two or three years, has helped to bridge the gap between the oceans and bring at least a few of the people closer together. The aeroplane makes a round trip from Managua to Bluefields, up the coast to Puerto Cabazas, inland to the gold mines at La Luz and so back to the capital. There are two flights a day as well as freight planes, and the service is well maintained and patronised. Aeroplanes, however, are powerless to unify the country which can only be done by a fusion of both populations. This will provide mutual understanding and toleration of the problems peculiar to each, and a desire to promote benefits common to all. At present the Atlantic Coast inhabitants consider themselves neglected and are in consequence, resentful. There is not enough employment for the people and the resulting hardship is a discouraging basis for co-operation. Nor can they be expected to live on repeated assurances that their paramount needs will be met. Even now, when the Rama road is a fact and the tremendous possibilities attaching to it visible, the people are skeptical. But if they could only realise it, undreamed of prosperity is within their grasp, and Bluefieids could easily rival Managua.

To begin with the setting is one of enchantment, framed as she is on two sides by dense foliage, and on the other two by blue sea and a silver river. Whether approached by air or water makes no difference, for all is in harmony, a rich enduring colour. With money, enterprise and plenty of imagination the town could rapidly be developed into one of the thriving holiday resorts of the Caribbean sea. Although dormant, everything is there for the most exacting tourist. The great bar would be admirable for sailing, particularly for the fourteen-foot sailing dinghy, suitable to racing, and is comparatively safe. For the larger yachts and the bolder spirits, there is the rough-and-tumble of the Bay to be faced, the Indian coast villages and the Pearl Lagoon to be explored, and, well out to sea, the Corn Islands and those of St. Andrew and Providence. For the timid and lazy there could be leisurely launches in which to invade the many rivers and creeks in cushioned ease.

To the fishermen, both the devotee of the fresh water sport and the deep sea angler, it is surely one of the paradises of the earth. The variety is unequalled, and even the most discerning could find something to his taste from spinning for mackerel, battling with sailfish and barracuda while eluding sharks, or enjoying the humble pastime of shrimping. As things are now, the cost of all these activities is trifling.

The pleasures of the table would not be forgotten for here can be eaten the most luscious langouste, as big as a lobster, and small but delicious oysters and shrimps, all of which are extremely cheap to buy.

Owing to the north-east Trade Winds which become saturated with moisture as they cross the Caribbean, the rainfall is heavy and this accounts for the saying of the people that ‘it rains thirteen months of the year.’ The wettest month is October, the driest April, high winds come in January and February and, in July and August, sudden severe squalls blow up from the south and south-east. Hurricanes are extremely rare and, if they do occur, are not of the magnitude of those experienced in the Gulf of Mexico and the West Indies. On the whole, the temperature is below that of the Pacific slopes.

As a cottage industry the cultivation of flowers might well be encouraged. The fertile soil, warmth and rain are all there waiting, and zinnias and larkspun grow wild in the bush. Both the exotic tropic and those of the temperate zones would flourish quickly and it could be flown to Managua and marketed there as fresh as when they were gathered, the flight taking only one hour. This method would compete on very favourable terms with the high price of those flowers now imported from Costa Rica.

Surrounded as it is by beautiful forest, Bluefields naturally employs wood as the building medium and, of course, exports it. With such an adaptable and living material to hand it is surprising that there is not more carving to be seen, or even paneling. This is an art that could easily be taught, especially to the Indian Miskito who is, by nature clever. The making and carving of models and the creation of bowls, boxes, salad servers and trays could provide another cottage industry that would be well patronised by the tourist. On a recent visit we bought some charming things made from the lovely rosewood, among them models of canoes and pit-pans. As far as I know these can only be obtained from the bookshop of the Moravian Mission in Bluefields, and all are made by one man, an Indian living in Pearl Lagoon. As more often than not the shop is sold out of articles, there is no doubt that the demand for this type of craftsmanship exists. The color and feel of the smooth rosewood are a delight in themselves.

Seven miles across the water from Bluefields is the Bluff, a long promontory encircling the Bay and sheltering inside the Bar. Banana boats belonging to the United Fruit Company and others can tie up here and load their cargoes at leisure against a fair sized wharf. At one time the banana plantations were a thriving concern which gave work to all. Then they were attacked by disease which caused devastation so wide spread as to be beyond recovery. The blight was not confined to Nicaragua but spread all along the Atlantic seaboard. The native, who has his own interpretation of the inscrutable ways of the Almighty, is firmly convinced that the invention and use of radio are entirely to blame for the banana disease.

There are many Indian villages both inside the Bluff and up the coast. The Rama Indians live on a tiny island called Rama Cay, about seven miles from Bluefields. They can often be seen paddling to and fro in their canoes, for many of the Indian tribes bring their produce to sell in the market. Cukra Hill is towards the river and then there is Pearl Lagoon, as lovely as its name, Marshall Point, Brown Bank, Taswapounia and Haulover. Far up the coast and inland there are still many Indians of all sects and many tribal ramifications.

During the four months from April to July the green turtles, some of them of enormous size, come in droves from all the Cays around, from the far Caymans and from the waters off Costa Rica, to lay their eggs on the shallow Miskito shore of Nicaragua. Many of them are killed for the use of their fat which the Indian melts down, fixes with oil, and uses as butter. The eggs are also taken and preserved by drying in the sun. These practices, however, are rarely followed nowadays in view of the competing demand for corned turtle, a great delicacy in Europe and the United States. The reason the turtles migrate at this time of the year is because there are on the surface of the sea millions of tiny blubber fish. The fishermen call these ‘thimbles’. There is also a peculiar grass growing on the sea bed. The turtles live on this strange diet, and as they have large lungs and have to surface every so often for ‘blowing’ and also cannot go deeper than five or six fathoms, one presumes that they live on alternate mouthfuls of grass and blubber. And if their appearance is odd and their mode of feeding odder, their mating and hatching are oddest of all. A male and female live together for nine days. During this time the female gains in strength and well-being until at the end of the period she is in the pink of condition. Not so her mate who becomes more and more exhausted until, finally, he cannot even eat. After this unusual courtship, the female digs a hole in the ground about two feet deep where she deposits about sixty eggs or eighty. These she covers carefully and then, about dawn, departs and does not return for fifteen nights. As soon as she comes back, digs another hole, inlays about the same number of eggs. The young turtles emerge after thirty-two days, all ready for the battle of life, and go straight down into the sea and, if they are wise stay there, for they have many enemies beside man. Among them the raccoon, fox, squash, cougar and puma; all of whom in company with the Lord Mayor of London, have a pronounced liking for the succulent turtle. There are three species of turtle, the hawksbill, the loggerhead and the trunk turtle. The latter is of immense size and fatness and likes to live in peace. If one of them is found dead on the beach, none of the other breeds will lay within a mile of it; an efficacious way to ensure privacy.

There is much coming and going between Bluefields and Corn Island which lies thirty-nine sea miles east-north-east of the Bluff. The little country boats that make the passage in six to eight hours are stoutly built of wood but unpainted, rough and the very epitome of discomfort. They carry everything from sails to stallions and it is a tribute to the seaworthiness of the craft and haphazard, yet skilful, crew that a weekly service is maintained, for the crossing is more often stormy than smooth, and the Bar, a confusion of waters at all times. The boats usually leave in the evening and navigation is mostly by guess and by God. The very thought of embarking in one of those small leaky boats, the largest with an overall length of only forty feet and crossing nearly forty miles of open sea, is frightening. The people seem quite unaffected by the prospect merely giving a shrug when asked and saying “we are accustomed to it.”

Now and again opportunity offers a passage in the sturdy coastguard’s launch, or the tug boat “Siquia” but we had the good fortune to make the journey in the fifteen-hundred ton vessel of the Mamemic Line as guests of His Excellency the President. Yet whatever the craft available, no one must miss seeing Corn Island. Sea-sickness, fear and discomfort will all vanish the moment one steps ashore on the green island with its thatch of waving coconut palms, dazzling white sand and wonderful sea.

The English pirates were familiar not only with the Miskito coast but with the neighbouring islands and, of them all, Corn Island was the nearest to Heaven any of then ever reached. There seem to have been degrees of piracy, and at the bottom of the scale were the cut-throats Morgan, Jackson and Morris, who not only landed on Nicaragua soil but plodded overland to the great lake and sacked Granada, a city they compared in size to that of Portsmouth. At the top of the scale comes the French aristocrat Raveneau de Lussan who combined the art of literature with that of privateering, and William Dampier his English contemporary.

Dampier was born in England in 1652, the son of a Somerset farmer. He left home as a youth and sailed for the West Indies and, from 1675 - 1678, worked as a log cutter at Campeche, in the Yucatan province of Mexico. Two years later he joined the buccaneers at Bluefields and, in their company visited Corn Island. In those days adventures to the Caribbean considered the following as necessities and an indispensable part of their baggage: “beer, hardtack, gunpowder, knives, razors, needles, twenty-nine barrels of pipes for tobacco, four boxes of hats and fourteen ream of paper.”

Dampier became a famous navigator and travel writer. He carried the manuscript of his book about with him in a bamboo tube to ensure its protection against moisture and, commendable foresight, its keeping afloat in case of shipwreck. The work was published in London in 1697, as “A New Voyage Round the World,” and was soon to be translated into French, German and Dutch. Being now a man of some importance the author came in contact with the great ones of his day and, among then Daniel Defoe. Recounting his exploits to this man of letters, he mentioned an island in the Pacific Ocean where they had picked up a castaway. The man, guilty of some grave fault, had been landed there by an irate captain, unknown to the prisoner, made arrangements for another ship to take him off after a specified period of punishment. The man was thus rescued in due course and that was the end of the story. However it appealed so strongly to the listener that, from this true account, Daniel Defoe wrote his immortal work “Robinson Crusoe.”

While moving in the Caribbean, Dampier met a certain William Paterson, who, via Amsterdam where he had taken refuge for some misdemeanour committed in his native land, had come out to seek his fortune. A cautious Scot, he was no swashbuckling corsair, but a visionary who had hopes of establishing a great trading company. His idea was probably inspired by the success of the East India Company in Bombay. Having gathered much information he returned to London to enlist the aid of the King and the city princes, and then, by way of beginning, founded the Bank of England in 1654.

If all these wanderers were now to return to Corn Island they would find little change in this Caribbean jewel. The iridescent sea that surrounds it is so deep, and so translucent, that the ocean bed unrolls clearly beneath, with its fronds of swaying sea-weed, brilliant fish and glistening shells. The water is constantly changing colour from the glowing emerald to aquamarine, to jade and to the nearly peridot and as the sea deepens, first to the sparkling sapphire and then the opaqueness of lapis lazuli. Surf, crisply curled and chalk white, creams over the rocks, the coconut trees make little pools of shade and all is peace.

Hers, untouched by science and unspoiled by man, is a Garden of Eden, seven and a half miles long and one and a half miles wide, of such utter tranquillity and soothing beauty that commercialization of it seems a crime. A sandy track girdles the island and similar ones tunnel their way through the coconut groves, the dense flower-stream undergrowth and the standing timber. Mechanical transport is unknown and only the favoured few can afford to keep ponies. For a population of just over thirteen hundred souls, there are four churches which include the Seventh Day Adventist, the Roman Catholic, the Anglican and the Baptist. The latter mission having been founded over one hundred years ago, and the Anglican Mission, have the largest membership. Both houses and churches are replicas of those in Bluefields.

The inhabitants of the Island are nearly all Creoles and English is their mother tongue, here again the purity of their speech has been maintained, free of any metallic harshness or distortion of words. As in Bluefields Anglo-Saxon names predominates and many of these are common to both places. There are families called Quinn, Downs, Hodgson, Lampson, Jackson, Nicholson, Taylor, Archibald, White, Tucker, Campbell, McCoy, Green and Wilson. It is customary among these families to have their own burying ground, a fenced-in plot of land in which the graves are dug. Should a friend die while visiting any of them, then the body will be interred in the land belonging to the host.

The islanders gain their livelihood from the prolific coconut which, disdaining the sea bears the whole year round. The nuts are of especially good flavour as the visitor soon discovers. Every guest is at once presented with a freshly gathered and prepared nut. The drink is most refreshing, cool and not too sweet, and the flesh is delicious. All over the Island are many little mills which extract the coconut oil. This is then sealed in drums, shipped to Bluefields, and flown over and sold in Managua. Drying of the copra is another lucrative side-line and the nuts themselves are exported to the United States. For local consumption the housewives make a very rich coconut cake, well sweetened with syrup from the sugar cane, another local product. Despite the name, no corn is grown on the Island.

A small traffic in turtle shells takes place with Jamaica. This lovely shell is also used by the men for making peaks on their caps.  (A fashion which does nothing to enhance the natural delicacy of the shell.)

Huge conch shells may be picked up on the beaches. This shell is blown to signal the arrival of a ship. For this purpose a hole has to be drilled in one end, and if this is skilfully performed and the blower proficient, the sound will carry for twelve miles. At Santa Maria de Ostuma, conch shells from Corn Island are always blown to summon or dismiss the labourers.

Plans have already been discussed for building an air strip and erecting a large hotel on the island thus enabling holiday makers from Managua and other large towns to enjoy this beauty spot. The flight would only take one hour and ten minutes and the project would certainly bring prosperity with it and much needed employment. At the same time it will receive mixed reception from the more conservative element but there is no doubt it will, in time, be achieved.

But, for those who rank solitude, untroubled calm and the simple pleasures of life higher than hard cash and Scotch whiskey there is the sanctuary of Little Corn Island. This rises, a hazy mound on the horizon, a few miles north of its bigger sister and is the proud possessor of an important light-house, the guardian of both islands and the sailor’s friend.

Little Corn Island is the same again, only in miniature, as its namesake. Several families reside here and they live the same pastoral existence as on the other islands. They grow their own fruit, vegetables and corn and utilise the coconuts in the same way and send over the extracted oil, copra and the nuts to their sister island for export to the mainland. They also have the added advantage of a large savannah where cattle can graze. In Nicaragua itself there are great tracts of open land used as cattle ranges and the rearing and export of the beasts could easily become a very lucrative and important issue in the economy of the country. Two breeds that thrive particularly well are the Holstein and the Brown Swiss and experiment is being made successfully with Jerseys and Guernseys.

At one time there was a jail on Little Corn Island which, one would have thought, would have been an encouragement to crime rather than a deterrent, incarceration on such a lovely isle can hardly be classed as punishment although I believe the majority of the prisoners were political ones and not the ordinary felon. In any case the authorities must, eventually, have reasoned much the same way, and the jail is no longer in use.

Further out to sea are the islands of St. Andrew and Providence, and further still, the group known as the Caymans. All these islanders are on visiting terms with one another and there is continued contact among all five of then with Bluefields. Intermarrying takes place as well as emigration from one to another. Yet everything is done at a slow and measured tempo for, in these lovely languorous waters time is of no account, and man’s efforts dwindle to insignificance in this superb setting where the hand of God predominates.

 

BY MAUREEN TWEEDY (Mrs. Hubert Evans)

Trade-Wind Cay

TRADE-WIND CAY

By A. Hyatt Verrill

First published in The Wide World magazine, 1 March 1924

To be marooned on a desert island sounds delightfully romantic, but the experience can be decidedly perilous and uncomfortable unless the place is selected with great care. This story describes the adventures of three men who found themselves stranded on an uninhabited islet, once the lair of pirates, in the Spanish Main.

THERE are few men, I believe, who have not, at some period of their lives, wished that they could spend a few months on a desert island. No doubt, could one choose the island, such an experience might be most interesting and enjoyable; but unfortunately, when Fate takes a hand and sees fit to give one a taste of Robinson Crusoe life, it does not leave the choice of locality to the castaway. And— take my word for it!—a Crusoe life on some desert islands is not one to envy.

During my many years of knocking about out-of-the-way spots in the American tropics, while exploring or carrying on scientific investigations, I have met with quite a few novel experiences, narrow escapes, and adventures, but I do not think that I encountered anything more nerve-racking and thoroughly objectionable than my taste of being marooned.

I had been for some months on the island of Santo Domingo, conducting a search for the supposedly extinct Solenodon Paradoxus —specimens of which, by the way, I secured after the creature had been lost to science for nearly seventy years—and had adopted a novel plan for tracing the whereabouts of the beasts. This consisted in having cards printed bearing a picture of the Solenodon and stating, in English, Spanish, French, and German, that I would purchase specimens alive or dead. These cards were posted to all outlying villages and officials, distributed in the markets, and given to all wayfarers met on the roads. Many a false trail had been followed when country people brought word that they knew where the “Jutias,” as they called the animals, could be found, and I had begun to despair when a man arrived with a tale of the “Jutias” haunting a small island in Samana Bay.

This bit of land, near the mouth of the huge bay, is about a mile in length by a quarter of a mile wide, and is semicircular or crescent-shaped in form. In olden days it was the haunt of buccaneers, who fortified it and transformed it into a veritable Gibraltar, where they defied the powers of the world. According to the natives, vast treasures were buried upon it, but they vowed that the pirate loot was guarded by evil spirits and demons and showed the utmost dread of the spot. With perfect sincerity they told how, at one portion of the island, there could be seen a great chest submerged in the clear water with a rusty chain leading from it to the rocky shore. Many a man, they declared, had attempted to haul up this treasure, only to find, as the chest reached the surface, that upon it there sat a most fearsome and awful monster, who instantly seized the unfortunate treasure seeker and dragged him to his death beneath the sea.

As far as I was concerned, the Solenodons which were supposed to inhabit the islet were of far more interest than either treasure or evil spirits, and being anxious to run down every possible clue, I at once made arrangements to visit Cayo Levantado, as the place is called, although to the Dominicans it is more often known by its old piratical name —Trade-Wind Cay. My black boy, Joseph, demurred a little at first, for he had listened wide-eyed to the native yarns, but being a Turks Island boy, and considering all the natives as “stupid niggers.” he finally agreed to accompany me and brave the devils of the island. Possibly thoughts of treasure-trove also influenced him. Then another individual expressed a desire to join the expedition. This was a young Dane, a man named Broberg whom I had met. He was crazy for adventure, a decent enough fellow, but absolutely lacking in common sense, and it was to him that most of our subsequent troubles were due. In fact, had it not been for Broberg I should never have been marooned and this story would never have been written.

As inquiries elicited the information that there was no fresh water on the island, although there were thousands of sea birds and a few wild goats and cattle, a plentiful supply of water was included in the outfit —enough to serve us for the three weeks I expected to be away—while to ensure against any trouble on this score, I arranged with the dusky skipper of the sloop which I chartered to transport us, to bring more water and supplies at the end of the first week. Then, to make assurance doubly sure, I borrowed an American flag from the United States Consul and asked a friend in the little town of Samana, from which the cay could be seen clearly with glasses, to send a relief vessel if the flag was seen “union down.”

With all possible contingencies, as I thought, thus provided for, we set sail well laden with supplies, water, collecting materials, and a sixteen-foot canvas canoe, which I thought might be useful in exploring the coves and lagoons.

A pleasant run of a dozen miles down the beautiful bay brought us abreast of the island, which lies off a wild, almost uninhabited stretch of coast where the jungle is broken only by one or two tiny native villages whose inhabitants bear a most unenviable reputation as smugglers, revolutionists, bandits, and cut-throats.

After some difficulty, for a heavy surf was breaking on the beach, everything was landed in safety. Promising faithfully to return in a week, the black skipper hoisted sail and went on his way.

The island was charmingly beautiful. Where we had landed, a crescent of snow-white sand stretched from a point to frowning limestone cliffs. At the foot of these a great rock stood a few feet from shore, its sides undercut by the waves until it had taken on the exact form of a gigantic turtle. Close by a flight of steps led up from the beach to the cliffs, which were literally honeycombed with passages, chambers, and vaults, while everywhere embrasures pierced the rock. Steps, walls, passages, rooms—all were hewn out of the solid rock, and I thought of the story the place could tell. Of toiling slaves—white, black, and red— driven by the pirates’ brutal blows, hewing away at the rock, as they laboured to form this fortress for their buccaneer captors. And yonder, on the strip of snowy sand, many a cargo of loot had been landed from pirate ships—laces and silks, velvets and satins, jewels and gold, bullion from mines, chalices and altar-pieces from desecrated churches, the treasures from countless sunken galleons and sacked towns.

Even far back in the tangled jungle we came upon evidences of the corsairs’ occupancy—crumbled walls of rock where once had been houses, great cisterns hewn from the limestone, rust-covered ancient cannon. Trees had rent the walls and their roots had riven the cisterns, the cannon were mere shells, ready to fall to red flakes at a touch, and apparently no human foot had trod the spot, no human hand disturbed the ruins or felled a tree since the day when the last of the freebooters had abandoned the cay.

Broberg, having no interest in science, was keen to dig and delve amid the ruins, searching for treasure or relics, and while Joseph and I selected a camp site near the beach, he took pick and shovel and began his excavations. To my delight I soon found that our informant had been right about the “Jutias” infesting the islet. On the beach were their footprints, and in the jungle we found places where they had torn fallen trees to pieces in their search for ants and grubs. But though we searched diligently we could not find one of the beasts, for they are nocturnal in their habit and hide away in caves and hollow trees during the day. However, I was not to find my trip profitless, for many species of rare birds also dwelt on the cay; there were several species of undescribed rats; insects and reptiles new to me were there, and my collections grew very rapidly as the days passed.

Above the tent near the beach flew the American flag, and Broberg, not to be outdone, added a Danish flag, while Joseph, being a most loyal and patriotic subject of Great Britain, produced from somewhere a tiny Union Jack to flaunt its folds in the wind.

And here I must mention—for it has a great bearing on subsequent events—that the island’s real ownership was somewhat doubtful. In olden days it had been owned by Spain; then it had fallen to the English buccaneers. Later it had become French, and with the uprising of the blacks had passed into the possession of Haiti. When the republic of Santo Domingo had come into being the island, through some oversight, had been omitted from the treaty, and as a bit of No Man’s Land had been claimed by England. Then, in still more recent years, the Dominicans had sold it —with adjacent shore lands —to an American company. Only the fact that it was practically worthless had prevented it from becoming a bone of diplomatic contention among the Powers, but as it was, nobody bothered as to who was the legitimate owner of the old buccaneers’ lair.

Troubles of a mild sort began to brew the first day of our stay. When we opened our supposedly fresh eggs, obtained from a countryman at Samana, we found that well grown chicks occupied the interiors. Disgustedly I threw mine aside and Josep followed suit.

But not so Broberg. Gulping down the contents of his, he carefully salvaged and devoured the others, remarking that in Denmark such eggs were considered a great delicacy and brought a high price. But even embryo-filled eggs palled upon the Dane. He longed for fresh meat or fish, and abandoned his excavations for the canoe and fishing tackle. Evidently, however, the throng of sea-birds had either exterminated or driven off all fish from the surrounding waters, and not even a nibble rewarded Broberg’s efforts.

Then he experimented with pelicans, gulls, frigate birds, and other winged denizens of the isle, but even his stomach rebelled at these.

As I have already mentioned, there were wild goats and cattle upon the cay, but in all our wanderings Joseph and I saw few of these, and not one allowed us to come within shot-gun range. Broberg, however, all else failing and having tired of digging, declared his intention of going on a goat hunt, and taking my Winchester set forth. As he was an execrable shot and became terribly excited whenever he saw game, I had little hopes of his securing meat, and remarking to Joseph that we’d have a try the next day, I started on my daily search for the elusive “Jutias.” As luck would have it, we actually saw one, the only one we ever did see on the cay—but despite the fact that it was in plain view, I was unable to shoot it.

When I returned to camp, very annoyed with myself, I found Broberg there as proud as the proverbial peacock over the carcass of a half-grown kid.

“Where’s the skin?” I asked, wondering how he had managed to dress the animal.

“Oh, I gave that to the men,” he replied, to my amazement. “They skinned and dressed it and I gave them the skin for their trouble.”

“Men!” I demanded. “What men?”

Then he explained. He had shot the kid, it appeared, on the edge of the cliff at the opposite extremity of the island, and the creature had dropped over the precipice. Looking down, he had seen it lying on a narrow shelf near the water, and without stopping to think had lowered himself down the rocky wall to where his game was stretched. Then, to his amazement and terror, he had discovered that he could not climb up the cliff and that the shelf ended a sheer wall on either side of where he stood. He could not swim —and there he was, alone with the dead kid on a narrow shelf of rock nearly sixty feet from the summit of the cliff and with the surf beating against the precipice a yard beneath his feet. To make his voice heard —he had left his rifle at the cliff top —was impossible, but thinking that by chance we might have heard his shot and strolled to the spot, he shouted lustily. Then, when he had almost given up hope, he caught sight of a fishing boat at a distance, and to his delight managed to attract the attention of the occupants. The men—two coal-black, rascally-looking Dominicans —could not speak a word of English, and Broberg’s knowledge of Spanish was most rudimentary. However, by dint of gestures and the few words he knew, he managed to make the fellows understand that he wished to be landed, and this having been accomplished, he got the two to skin and dress the kid. Not only had he given them the hide, but he had paid them far too liberally for their services, and in so doing had exhibited a good-sized roll of bills. Why they had not made away with him and taken possession of the money then and there was something of a puzzle to me, but somehow I had forebodings of trouble to follow, and I was not mistaken.

The very next morning Joseph, who had gone to the beach for a swim, came racing back, stating that a boat filled with men was landing. They carried guns, he added, and “look laik he boun’ for mek trouble.”

Even while he spoke I heard voices from the shore, and a moment later four men appeared before the camp.

They were the most brigandish, villainous-looking rascals I have ever seen, and the thought flashed through my mind that they might well be some of the old buccaneers come suddenly to life.

The leader was a chocolate-coloured fellow with an enormous black moustache, bushy brows, red eyes, and a cruel mouth. His face was disfigured by innumerable pock-marks, and he was garbed in odds and ends of uniform. His hat was a battered sombrero, his coat a ragged green affair heavy with tarnished gold braid and battered epaulettes; his trousers were —or rather had once been— scarlet and were patched with every colour; the stripes down the legs had been replaced with silver fringe. His feet were bare; a torn and filthy blue denim shirt half covered his body, and about his waist was a twisted strip of canary-yellow cloth through which were thrust a wicked-looking machete and an ancient revolver. His three companions were ragged, dirty, and dressed in much-patched, baggy blue denim. All three wore battered military caps and held ready cocked antique fifty-calibre Remingtons, which they kept pointed most disconcertingly in our direction.

Bowing and saluting, though a ferocious frown drew his beetling eyebrows together, the leader spoke, using the bastard Dominican-Spanish which the natives refer to grandiloquently as “Castiliano.”

“Señor,” he said, addressing me. “Permit me to introduce myself. I” —here he drew himself up to his full five feet four and thumped his chest— “I am the Commandante of La Cacao” (the tiny village in the jungle opposite). “I have come to demand satisfaction. You have killed a goat, the property of one of my citizens. You have destroyed that to which you have no right., and I am here to exact reparation.”

I could not restrain a grin at his pompous attitude and ridiculous speech. The goats, I knew, were wild and belonged to no one, but I at once realized how it had come about. The men with the kid’s skin had reported our presence and Broberg’s act. They had told of his money and his readiness to part with it, and the Commandante—who was no doubt a thief and bandit by profession — had gathered unto himself his bodyguard, if not his entire “army,” and had come to the cay to rob us. If we refused to pay whatever he demanded there was nothing to prevent him from shooting us, with no one the wiser, while if we did stand and deliver he would probably order us all to be shot to prevent our reporting him to the authorities. Mentally I cursed Broberg and wished he had never joined me. Cursing the Dane, however, would not get us out of our dilemma. Those yawning black muzzles in the hands of the dirty “soldiers” were most disconcerting, and the fellows’ fingers were terribly unsteady. Joseph had sought safety in the tent, where he crouched behind my boxes, and Broberg, shaking with terror, stood at one side, gazing with horrified eyes at the menacing guns. Our arms were all in the tent, my revolver resting on a camp table near Joseph, my Winchester leaning against a box and the shot-gun beside it. And, even if we had had them, they were useless —for not one was loaded!

All this flashed through my mind so quickly that I doubt if the glowering Commandante noticed my hesitancy.

“You say that a goat was killed and that the animal was the property of someone at La Cacao, Senor Commandante,” I said at last. “Why, then, have you not brought proofs? Where is the owner? How can anyone swear that the goat —if goat there were —was his? And what is a kid, anyway —a matter of a few centavos?”

The Commandante threw out his chest and his eyes fairly blazed. “Do you question my word?” he demanded, while his men straightened as if expecting the order to shoot. “I am the Commandante, and I say the goat was killed, and that it was the property of a caballero in my village. That caballero, Señor, is myself! And as for the value of the chibo, that, Señor, is not as you say a matter of centavos. No, Señor; his value is ten pesos, not one centavo less.”

Ten pesos for a kid! My blood boiled at the idea, but before I could speak Broberg interrupted. “Oh, go ahead and pay him,” he cried, having got the drift of my conversation. “What does he want? Tell him I’ll pay.”

As he spoke he drew that accursed roll of banknotes from his pocket, and the eyes of the Commandante and the soldiers were riveted upon it. “I made a mistake, Señor,” said the Commandante, without turning his eyes from the bills. “The value of the goat, I find, is fifty pesos.”

I could have murdered Broberg! But I had had much experience with Latin-Americans and Dominicans and I had a faint hope that there might yet be a way out of the difficulty.

“I cast no doubt on the Senor Commandante’s word as a gentleman,” I said. “But, as the Commandante knows, others may also come to claim money for the goat. If you are the owner and receive payment, then, no doubt, you will be willing to give a receipt.”

A cunning look crossed his face and his cruel lips smiled. “Of a truth, why not?” he replied. “It is but a matter of business.”

“Then, Senor, I will get pen and paper,” I said, inwardly a little doubtful as to whether my ruse would work. Stepping into the tent and turning my back to the rascals, which I felt might spell my doom, I moved to where the guns leaned against the box and pretended to rummage among the things therein. “Quick, Joseph!” I whispered in English. “Take my revolver and act as if it were loaded. Don’t show fear —they’re cowards; stupid niggers, you know — and we’ll bluff them. Quick! while my body hides you.”

Joseph, who was really no coward at heart and realized the necessity of instant action, seized the revolver. Broberg was close beside me, and I ordered him to stand by the shot-gun and be ready to grasp it and cock it as I faced the Commandante. Then, suddenly grabbing up the rifle, I wheeled round and strode towards the amazed four.

“Señor,” I exclaimed, ostentatiously cocking the rifle. “Permit me to state that you are a thief and a liar!”

A look of fury swept over the Commandante’s features and he opened his lips to speak, but I interrupted him. “Moreover,” I went on. “You and your men are trespassers on American property. See that flag?” —I nodded towards the bunting overhead— “The United States Government has taken possession of this island. If your goats are upon it you are liable to pay damages. I give you just three minutes to get off this cay. Go!”

The Commandante might well have asked what the flags of England and Denmark were doing there, but possibly he thought that the three Powers had joined hands in acquiring the bit of land. He gritted his teeth, his moustache bristled; there was murder in his eyes. For a moment he hesitated.

“One half of the first minute has passed,” I reminded him, fingering the rifle.

The Commandante stared at Joseph, who was holding the revolver a bit waveringly. Then his eyes swept Broberg and the double-barrelled shot-gun, and finally rested upon the high-powered Winchester in my own hands. He glanced ruefully at his three ragged men, with their ancient Remingtons, at the rusty old pistol in his sash, and his mind was made up. His force outnumbered ours, but the advantage as to weapons was all on our side.

Discretion, he knew, was the better part of valour.

With his face still a thundercloud, he bowed.

“I regret, Señor,” he said, “that a slight error has been made. Possibly those who gave information were mistaken, or perhaps they lied, quien sabe? I am sure, Señor, that the Americanos have destroyed nothing belonging to others. A thousand pardons for inconveniencing the Señores. Adios!”

With a sharp order to his men, the Commandante strode off at the head of his “army,” and a few moments later the punitive expedition from La Cacao was bobbing on the waves, headed for the village.

Broberg, limp and nerveless, sank down, Joseph grinned, and I cursed the Dane for an idiot, but we all felt vastly relieved.

We soon found, however, that our unwelcome visitors had not surrendered and retreated without reprisals. When Joseph went to our store of water and supplies beside the canoe on the beach a yell brought us rushing to him. Not a drop of water remained! The angry Commandante and his men had knocked the bungs from every keg, smashed every demijohn, and gone off with fully half the provisions!

Nevertheless, it was not as bad as it might have been. In two days the sloop would arrive, and with care we could manage for that length of time with what we had in camp. When the two days passed, however, and no sail appeared, I began to grow troubled. If that black skipper failed us we should be marooned without water, and with mighty short rations of food. To be sure, we could hoist the flag union-down and summon aid, but several days might elapse before help came.

Twenty-four hours more went by, and still there was no sign of rescue, and matters began to look desperate. Directly the prearranged time had elapsed, we hoisted the flag union-down, but not a flicker of a sail showed on the bay. There seemed nothing to be done but to attempt to reach shore in my frail canoe. It was a desperate undertaking, for the trade wind was blowing very strongly, a heavy sea was running, and the nearest point of the mainland was fully six miles distant. Even then there would be a long and hazardous trip to any settlement, and for more than one of us to attempt the passage was impossible. However, I decided to try, but before 1 had gone fifty feet from the shelter of the island the little craft was swamped, and it was only with the utmost difficulty that I managed to reach the beach and save the canoe.

We were now down to less than a quart of water for the three of us. In our extremity we investigated the old pirate cisterns, but not one contained a drop of water. Then we bethought ourselves of those most handy of properties for writers of castaway stories —the coconut palms. But there was not a coconut palm on the island. Two bitter wild lemons were the only fruit we could find, and these were worse than nothing. We dug into the sandy, rocky soil and were at last rewarded by a trickle of water, but when we tasted it we found it was as salt as the sea itself.

The next day our last drop of water was exhausted and we resorted to drinking the juice of tinned fruits, but this seemed to increase rather than to relieve our thirst.

We were literally marooned—cast away on a desert island without water. That night a short shower fell, and the next morning we managed to secure a little more than a pint of dirty water from hollows in the rocks, but the mere taste of the lukewarm liquid made us thirstier than ever. The only way we could get any relief was by lying immersed in the sea. Not one of us got any sleep that night, and when day dawned we felt that we were facing death in its most terrible form.

Almost hopelessly we gazed across that waste of blue water, searching for a sail, for any craft we might signal. And then, so suddenly and unexpectedly that for a moment I thought myself delirious, a boat appeared within fifty yards of where we stood.

Wildly we hailed it, and in a few moments it had grated on the beach. The craft was the craziest thing 1 had ever seen afloat.. It was a huge dug-out or cayuca, formed from a ceiba log, but so ancient, so rotten, and so leaky that I marvelled it could float. It was patched with bits of tin, a crack extended from end to end, and the only thing that prevented it from falling apart was telegraph wire wound around and around the hull. Its occupants were almost as villainous-looking as the Commandante and his men. They were filthy, wild-faced, half-naked negroes, and their sole supply of water consisted of a gin-bottle full of evil-tasting liquid. But a yacht could not have been more welcome to us; the piratical-looking fishermen were Samaritans in our eyes, and the mingled flavours of poor gin, fish, and brackish water passed unnoticed as we eagerly drained the bottle.

Rapidly I made known our desire to reach shore, and, to their credit be it said, the negroes neither stopped to haggle nor demanded an exorbitant price. Once we were afloat, however, I began to think we had merely traded death by thirst for death by drowning. With the added burden of the three of us and our luggage the ancient dug-out was brought below its accustomed level, and water poured in through countless unstopped holes and cracks. The strain of our weight opened the cracks, and a perfect fountain gushed into the boat at every roll. With Broberg and Joseph bailing for their lives, I tore my handkerchief, my shirt, and even my coat into shreds and strove to caulk the leaks, but all in vain. Despite every effort, the water gained, and it was evidently but a question of minutes before the boat would fill and go down. The harder the now thoroughly frightened boatmen pulled on their oars, the more the crazy craft strained and the faster it leaked, and with nearly six inches of water in the bottom, we gazed shoreward to see that we had covered less than half the distance.

There was only one thing to be done, one chance of reaching land, and that was to jettison cargo and so relieve the boat of weight. Then I decided to take to the canoe. Placing all the cases and boxes I thought it would stand in the tiny craft, I embarked, and trusting to the lee of the dug-out breaking the worst of the waves, seated myself in the stern and started. But I soon found that to keep alongside the other craft was impossible. I could not hope to keep afloat unless I paddled head-on into the seas or ran before them. The former was impossible, as such a course would lead me to the open sea. Shouting to Broberg and Joseph and receiving assurances that the boat, relieved of my weight and the boxes, was in no danger of sinking, I swung my canoe about and headed up the bay towards Samana. Each sea drenched me and every few moments I was forced to stop paddling and bail. A score of times the craft came within a hair’s breadth of capsizing, but still I kept on, exerting all my skill and striving to work inshore. It was horribly slow work. The afternoon was passing, the sun was setting, and in an hour or two it would be pitch dark. I could not tell how the others had fared, for I dared not turn my head. Almost imperceptibly the shores grew nearer, and when night fell I was in calmer water in the lee of a cape and half-way to Samana. The worst was over. Almost exhausted I managed to beach the canoe at a point where a tiny stream trickled into the bay, and fairly revelled in the fresh cool water. Then, having eaten and drunk my fill, I resumed my journey. As I proceeded I was filled with fears for the others. If all had gone well they should have overtaken me by now, for they could have secured a sailing boat at the fishing village, and yet I had seen nothing of them.

At midnight I reached Samana, moored my craft and, with aching muscles and unsteady legs, walked to our house. Imagine my amazement when, opening the door, I found Broberg and Joseph just finishing a hearty repast.

The rascals had been there for two hours. There had been no sail-boat at the village, but there were horses, and here the two were, thoroughly enjoying themselves, although they seemed as dumbfounded at my appearance as I had been at theirs. Indeed, as both declared, they felt sure that I had been drowned.

The next thing I did, of course, was to hunt up the skipper of the sloop and my friend who had promised to aid us. Sloop and skipper, however, were missing, and not until months later did I discover that he was reposing in jail at Savanna la Mar and had been there since two day’s after leaving us on the cay, while my friend, who was consular agent, had been called away unexpectedly on business and had quite forgotten to notify anyone of the pre-arranged signal.

A week after we had reached Samana, as I was seated in my room one morning 1 heard a voice outside that sounded oddly familiar. Evidently the speaker was having an argument with Joseph, and stepping to the window, I peered out. There, dressed in spotless white, his face shining with coconut oil and perspiration, but as villainous in appearance as ever, stood the “Commandante” of La Cacao!

As he caught sight of me he swept off his hat with a flourish. “Ah,” he exclaimed, beaming, “it is the Americano Señor. It is the most glorious day of my life that I find you well! I have been desolated for fear that the evil ones on the cay had brought you misfortune, Señor. Can the great Americano Señor, in the kindness of his heart, pay me for the kid? Just the few centavos you mentioned, Señor. Nothing—”

“You unspeakable scoundrel!” I cried “Thought you’d kill us by thirst, did you? Caramba! I’ve a mind to ask the Alcalde to have you marooned there without water!’’

The man’s face was a strange mingling of fear, rage, and surprise. “Señor”—he began.

But I had had enough of him. As I looked at that evil pock-marked face all my worries and sufferings and that nightmare trip in the canoe came vividly to my mind. Leaping through the open window, I sprang at him. But the Commandante of La Cacao was no fool; moreover, he was fleet of foot. As I landed where he had stood but an instant before, he was out of reach—of all but the toe of my boot, and that thumped delightfully upon the seat of his immaculate trousers.

“Stoopid niggers,” remarked Joseph with a grin. “He mos’ surely is pure corruption!”

Afterword

A very good internet friend, Alan Schenker, with an interest in Verrill, sent me this at my request. I now recognise that I have read the story before; but some more details seem apparent in this version.

Trade-Wind Cay or Cayo Levantado is presented in its 2020 version. It is now an exclusive resort! The isle is about 300 metres by 1 kilometre. It is located 1.6 km offshore, 7 km from Samana.

Years ago we vacationed at Puerto Plata, a resort community 100 kilometers NW from Samana Bay; that is why I retained the interest in ‘Trade-Winds Cay’. /drf