Tom Cringle's Log

by Michael Scott

  “Were I romantic now, Mr Cringle, I could expatiate on that view. How cold and clear and chaste everything looks! The elements have subsided into a perfect calm; everything is quiet and still, but there is no warmth, no comfort in the scene.”

  “What a soaking rain!” said Aaron Bang; “why, the drops are as small as pinpoints, and so thick!—a Scotch mist is a joke to them. Unusual all this, captain. You know our rain in Jamaica usually descends in bucketfuls unless it be regularly set in for a week, and then, but then only, it becomes what in England we are in the habit of calling a soaking rain. One good thing, however, while it descends so quietly, the earth will absorb it all, and that furious river will not continue swollen.”

  “Probably not,” said I.

  “Mr Cringle,” said the skipper, “do you mark that tree on the ridge of the mountain—that large tree in such conspicuous relief against the eastern sky?”

  “I do, captain. But—Heaven help us!—what necromancy is this? It seems to sink into the mountain-top—why, I only see the uppermost branches now! It has disappeared, and yet the outline of the hill is as distinct and well-defined as ever; I can even see the cattle on the ridge, although they are running about in a very incomprehensible way certainly.”

  “Hush!” said Don Ricardo, “hush! the padre is reading the funeral service in the chapel, preparatory to the body being brought out.”

  And so he was. But a low grumbling noise, gradually increasing, was now distinctly audible. The monk hurried on with the prescribed form—he finished it—and we were about moving the body to carry it forth, Bang and I being in the very act of stooping down to lift the bier, when the captain sang out sharp and quick—”Here, Tom!”—the urgency of the appeal abolishing the Mister— “Here! zounds, the whole hill-side is in motion!” And as he spoke, I beheld the negro village, that hung on the opposite bank, gradually fetch away, houses, trees, and all, with a loud, harsh, grating sound.

  “God defend us!” I involuntarily exclaimed.

  “Stand clear,” shouted the skipper; “the whole hill-side opposite is under weigh, and we shall be bothered here presently.”

  He was right; the entire face of the hill over against us was by this time in motion, sliding over the substratum of rocklike a first-rate gliding along the well-greased ways at launching—an earthly avalanche. Presently the rough, rattling, and crashing sound, from the disrupture of the soil, and the breaking of the branches, and tearing up by the roots of the largest trees, gave warning of some tremendous incident. The lights in the huts still burned, but houses and all continued to slide down the declivity; and anon a loud startled exclamation was heard here and there, and then a pause, but the low mysterious hurtling wand never ceased.

  At length a loud continuous yell echoed along the hill-side. The noise increased—the rushing sound came stronger and stronger—the river rose higher, and roared louder; it overleaped the lintel of the door—the fire on the floor hissed for a moment, and then expired in smouldering wreaths of white smoke—the discoloured torrent gurgled into the chapel, and reached the altar-piece; and while the cries from the hill-side were highest and bitterest and most despairing, it suddenly filled the chapel to the top of the low doorpost; and although the large tapers which had been lit near the altar-piece were as yet unextinguished, like meteors sparkling on a troubled sea, all was misery and consternation.

  “Have patience and be composed now,” shouted Don Ricardo. “If it increases, we can escape through the apertures here, behind the altar-piece, and from thence to the high grounds beyond. The heavy rain has loosened the soil on the opposite bank, and it has slid into the river-course, negro houses and all. But be composed, my dears—nothing supernatural in all this; and rest assured, although the river has unquestionably been forced from its channel, that there is no danger, if you will only maintain your self-possession.”

  And there we were—an inhabitant of a cold climate cannot go along with me in the description. We were all alarmed, but we were not chilled—cold is a great damper of bravery. At New Orleans, the black regiments, in the heat of the forenoon, were really the most efficient corps of the army; but in the morning, when the hoar-frost was on the long wire-grass, they were but as a broken reed. “Him too cool for brave to-day,” said the sergeant of the grenadier company of the West India regiment which was brigaded in the ill-omened advance when we attacked New Orleans; but here, having heat, and seeing none of the women egregiously alarmed, we all took heart of grace, and really there was no quailing amongst us.

  Señora Campana and her two nieces, Señora Cangrejo and her angelic daughter, had all betaken themselves to a sort of seat, enclosing the altar in a semicircle, with the peasoup-coloured water up to their knees. Not a word— not an exclamation of fear escaped from them, although the gushing eddies from the open door showed that the soil from the opposite hill was fast settling down, and usurping the former channel of the river.

  “All very fine this to read of,” at last exclaimed Aaron Bang. “Zounds, we shall be drowned. Look out, Transom; Tom Cringle, look out; for my part, I shall dive through the door, and take my chance.”

  “No use in that,” said Don Ricardo; “the two round openings there at the west end of the chapel open on a dry shelf, from which the ground slopes easily upward to the house; let us put the ladies through them, and then we males can shift for ourselves as we best may.”

  At this moment the water rose so high that the bier on which the corpse of poor Maria Olivera lay stark and stiff was floated off the trestles, and, turning on its edge, after glancing for a moment in the light cast by the wax tapers, it sank into the thick brown water, and was no more seen.

  The old priest murmured a prayer, but the effect on us was electric. “Sauve qui peut,” was now the cry; and Sneezer, quite in his element, began to cruise all about, threatening the tapers with instant extinction.

  “Ladies, get through the holes,” shouted Don Ricardo.

  “Captain, get you out first.”

  “Can’t desert my ship,” said the gallant fellow; “the last to quit where danger is, my dear sir. It is my charter; but, Mr Cringle, go you, and hand the ladies out.”

  “Indeed I will not,” said I. “Beg pardon, sir; I simply mean to say, that I cannot usurp the pas from you.”

  “Then,” quoth Don Ricardo—a more discreet personage than any of us—”I will go myself;” and forthwith he screwed himself through one of the round holes in the wall behind the altarpiece. “Give me out one of the wax tapers—there is no wind now,” said Don Ricardo; “and hand out my wife, Captain Transom.”

  “Ave Maria!” said the matron, “I shall never get through that hole.”

  “Try, my dear madam,” said Bang, for by this time we were all deucedly alarmed at our situation—”try, madam;” and we lifted her towards the hole —fairly entered her into it, head foremost, and all was smooth till a certain part of the excellent woman’s earthly tabernacle stuck fast.

  We could hear her invoking all the saints in the calendar on the outside “to make her thin;” but the flesh and muscle were obdurate; through she would not go, until—delicacy being now blown to the winds—Captain Transom placed his shoulder to the old lady’s extremity, and with a regular “Oh, heave oh!” shot her through the aperture into her husband’s arms. The young ladies we ejected much more easily, although Francesca Cangrejo did stick a little too. The priest was next passed, then Don Picador; and so we went on, until in rotation we had all made our exit, and were perched shivering on the high bank. God defend us! we had not been a minute there when the rushing of the stream increased— the rain once more fell in torrents—several large trees came down with a fearful impetus in the roaring torrent, and struck the corner of the chapel. It shook—we could see the small cross on the eastern gable tremble. Another stump surged against it—it gave way—and in a minute afterwards there was not a vestige remaining of the whole fabric.

  “What a funeral for thee, Maria!” said Don Ricardo.r />
  Not a vestige of the body was ever found.

  There was nothing now for it. We all stopped, and turned, and looked— there was not a stone of the building to be seen—all was red, precipitous bank, or dark flowing river—so we turned our steps towards the house. The sun by this time had risen. We found the northern range of rooms still entire, so we made the most of it; and, by dint of the captain’s and my nautical skill, before dinner-time there was rigged a canvass jury-roof over the southern part of the fabric, and we were once more seated in comparative comfort at our meal. But it was all melancholy work enough. However, at last we retired to our beds; and next morning, when I awoke, there was the small stream once more trickling over the face of the rock, with the slight spray wafting into my bedroom—a little discoloured, certainly, but as quietly as if no storm had taken place.

  We were kept at Don Picador’s for three days, as, from the shooting of the soil from the opposite hill, the river had been dammed up, and its channel altered, so that there was no venturing across. Three negroes were unfortunately drowned, when the bank shot, as Bang called it. But the wonder passed away; and by nine o’clock on the fourth morning, when we mounted our mules to proceed, there was little apparently on the fair face of nature to mark that such fearful scenes had been. However, when we did get under weigh, we found that the hurricane had not passed over us without leaving fearful evidences of its violence.

  We had breakfasted—the women had wept—Don Ricardo had blown his nose—Aaron Bang had blundered and fidgeted about—and the bestias were at the door. We embraced the ladies.

  “My son,” said Señora Cangrejo, “we shall most likely never meet again. You have your country to go to—you have a mother. Oh, may she never suffer the pangs which have wrung my heart! But I know—I know that she never will.” I bowed. “We may never—indeed, in all likelihood we shall never meet again!” continued she, in a rich, deep—toned, mellow voice; “but if your way of life should ever lead you to Cordova, you will be sure of having many visitors, and many a door will open to you, if you will but give out that you have shown kindness to Maria Olivera, or to any one connected with her.” She wept, and bent over me, pressing both her hands on the crown of my head. “May that great God, who careth not for rank or station, for nation or for country, bless you, my son—bless you!”

  All this was sorry work. She kissed me on the forehead, and turned away. Her daughter was standing close to her, “like Niobe, all tears.”

  “Farewell, Mr Cringle—may you be happy.” I kissed her hand—she turned to the captain. He looked inexpressible things, and, taking her hand, held it to his breast; and then, making a slight genuflection, pressed it to his lips. He appeared to be amazingly energetic, and she seemed to struggle to be released. He recovered himself, however—made a solemn bow—the ladies vanished. We shook hands with old Don Picador, mounted our mules, and bid a last adieu to the Valley of the Hurricane.

  We ambled along for some time in silence. At length the skipper dropped astern, until he got alongside of me. “I say, Tom”—I was well aware that he never called me Tom unless he was fou, or his heart was full, honest man— “Tom, what think you of Francesca Cangrejo?”

  Oh ho! sits the wind in that quarter? thought I. “Why, I don’t know, captain—I have seen her to disadvantage—so much misery—fine woman though—rather large to my taste but—”

  “Confound your buts,” quoth the captain. “But never mind—push on, push on.” I may tell the gentle reader in his ear, that the worthy fellow, at the moment when I send this chapter to the press, has his flag, and that Francesca Cangrejo is no less a personage than his wife.

  However, let us go along. “Doctor Pavo Real,” said Don Ricardo, “now, since you have been good enough to spare us a day, let us get the heart of your secret out of you. Why, you must have been pretty well frightened on the island there.”

  “Never so much frightened in my life, Don Ricardo; that English captain is a most tempestuous man—but all has ended well; and after having seen you to the crossing, I will bid you good-bye.”

  “Poo—nonsense. Come along—here is the English medico, your brother Esculapius; so, come along, you can return in the morning.”

  “But the sick folk in Santiago—”

  “Will be none the sicker for your absence, Dr Pavo Real,” responded Don Ricardo.

  The little doctor laughed, and away we all cantered—Don Ricardo leading, followed by his wife and nieces, on three stout mules, sitting, not on side-saddles, but on a kind of chair, with a foot-board on the larboard side to support the feet; then followed the two Galens, and little Reefpoint, while the captain and I brought up the rear. We had not proceeded five hundred yards, when we were brought to a standstill by a mighty tree, which had been thrown down by the wind fairly across the road. On the right hand there was a perpendicular rock rising up to a height of five hundred feet; and on the left an equally precipitous descent, without either ledge or parapet to prevent one from falling over. What was to be done? We could not by any exertion of strength remove the tree; and if we sent back for assistance, it would have been a work of time. So we dismounted, got the ladies to alight, and Aaron Bang, Transom, and myself, like true knights-errant, undertook to ride the mulos over the stump.

  Aaron Bang led gallantly, and made a deuced good jump of it; Transom followed, and made not quite so clever an exhibition; I then rattled at it, and down came mule and rider. However, we were accounted for on the right side.

  “But what shall become of us!” shouted the English doctor.

  “And as for me, I shall return,” said the Spanish medico.

  “Lord love you, no,” said little Reefpoint; “here, lash me to my beast, and no fear.” The doctor made him fast, as desired, round the mule’s neck with a stout thong, and then drove him at the barricade, and over they came, man and beast, although, to tell the truth, little Reefy alighted—well out on the neck, with a hand grasping each ear. However, he was a gallant little fellow, and in nowise discouraged, so he undertook to bring over the other quadrupeds; and in little more than a quarter of an hour we were all under weigh on the opposite side, in full sail towards Don Ricardo’s property. But as we proceeded up the valley, the destruction caused by the storm became more and more apparent. Trees were strewn about in all directions, having been torn up by the roots— road there was literally none; and by the time we reached the coffee estate, after a ride, or scramble, more properly speaking, of three hours, we were all pretty much tired. In some places the road at the best was but a rocky shelf of limestone not exceeding twelve inches in width, where, if you had slipped, down you would have gone a thousand feet. At this time it was white and clean, as if it had been newly chiselled, all the soil and sand having been washed away by the recent heavy rains.

  The situation was beautiful; the house stood on a platform scraped out of the hill-side, with a beautiful view of the whole country down to St Jago. The accommodation was good; more comforts, more English comforts, in the mansion than I had yet seen in Cuba; and as it was built with solid slabs of limestone, and roofed with strong hardwood timbers and rafters, and tiled, it had sustained comparatively little injury, having the advantage of being at the same time sheltered by the overhanging cliff. It stood in the middle of a large platform of hard sun-dried clay, plastered over, and as white as chalk, which extended about forty feet from the caves of the house, in every direction, on which the coffee was cured. This platform was surrounded on all sides by the greenest grass I had ever seen, and overshadowed, not the house alone, but the whole level space, by one vast wild fig-tree.

  “I say, Tom, do you see that Scotchman hugging the Creole, eh?”

  “Scotchman!” said I, looking towards Don Ricardo, who certainly did not appear to be particularly amorous; on the contrary, we had just alighted, and the worthy man was enacting groom.

  “Yes,” continued Bang, “the Scotchman hugging the Creole; look at that tree—do you see the trunk of it?”

/>   I did look at it. It was a magnificent cedar, with a tall straight stem, covered over with a curious sort of fretwork, woven by the branches of some strong parasitical plant, which had warped itself round and round it by numberless snake-like convolutions, as if it had been a vegetable Laocoon. The tree itself shot up branchless to the uncommon height of fifty feet; the average girth of the trunk being four-and-twenty feet, or eight feet in diameter. The leaf of the cedar is small, not unlike the ash; but when I looked up, I noticed that the feelers of this ligneous serpent had twisted round the larger boughs, and blended their broad leaves with those of the tree, so that it looked like two trees grafted into one; but, as Aaron Bang said, in a very few years the cedar would entirely disappear, its growth being impeded, its pith extracted, and its core rotted, by the baleful embraces of the wild fig—of “this Scotchman hugging the Creole.”

  After we had fairly shaken into our places, there was every promise of a very pleasant visit. Our host had a tolerable cellar, and although there was not much of style in his establishment, still there was a fair allowance of comfort, everything considered. The evening after we arrived was most beautiful. The house—situated on its white plateau of barbicues, as the coffee platforms are called, where large piles of the berries in their red cherry-like husks had been blackening in the sun the whole forenoon, and on which a gang of negroes was now employed covering them up with tarpaulings for the night—stood in the centre of an amphitheatre of mountains, the front box, as it were; the stage part opening on a bird’s-eye view of the distant town and harbour, with the everlasting ocean beyond it, the currents and flaws of wind making its surface look like ice, as we were too distant to discern the heaving of the swell or the motion of the billows. The fast-falling shades of evening were deepened by the sombrous shadow of the immense tree overhead, and all down in the deep valley was now becoming dark and undistinguishable, through the blue vapours that were gradually floating up towards us. To the left, on the shoulder of the Horseshoe Hill, the sunbeams still lingered, and the gigantic shadows of the trees on the right-hand prong were strongly cast across the valley on a red precipitous bank near the top of it. The sun was descending beyond the wood, flashing through the branches, as if they had been on fire. He disappeared. It was a most lovely still evening; the air—but hear the skipper—