CHAPTER VII
FROM CURAÇAO TO LA GUAYRA
Leaving the steamer, our friends proceeded to the main thoroughfare of Willemstad, a quaint old street, scrupulously clean—a characteristic of every Dutch town—and with buildings that looked as if they had been moved over from Amsterdam. Not far off was the home of the governor of the island, a mansion with walls of immense thickness. The place fronted the bay and near by was something of a fortress with a few ancient cannon. Here a number of Dutch soldiers were on duty.
“I will see if I cannot get carriages, and then we can drive around,” said Professor Strong, and this was done, and soon they were moving along slowly, for no Dutch hackman ever thinks of driving fast. Besides it was now the noon hour, and the hackmen would rather have taken their midday nap than earn a couple of dollars. The boys soon discovered that in the tropics to do anything, or to have anything done for you, between the hours of eleven to three is extremely difficult. Merchants close their places of business and everybody smokes and dreams or goes to sleep.
“I see a lot of negroes,” observed Mark, as they moved along.
“The population is mostly of colored blood,” answered the professor. “The colored people are all free, yet the few Dutchmen that are here are virtually their masters. The negroes work in the phosphate mines, and their task is harder than that of a Pennsylvania coal miner ten times over. If we had time we might visit one of the phosphate works, but I hate to risk it.”
“For such a small place there are lots of ships here,” put in Sam.
“That is true and I think the reason is because this is a free port of entry. The ships bring in all sorts of things, and some say a good deal of the stuff is afterwards smuggled into Venezuela and Colombia.”
They drove on, past the quaint shops and other buildings, but in an opposite direction to that taken by Dan Markel. During the drive Hockley had little or nothing to say. He was worried over the non-appearance of the man from Baltimore, and looked for him eagerly at every corner and cross road.
“He’s made a mess of it,” he thought. “We’ll be driving back soon and that will be the end of it.” And then he thought of the fifty dollars and began to suspect Markel, and something like a chill passed over him.
“If he cheated me I’ll fix him, see if I don’t!” he told himself. Yet he felt that he was helpless and could do nothing, for the loan had been a fair one.
“There is a curious story connected with the Island of Curaçao,” said the professor, as they passed along through the suburbs of the capital. “It is said that in years gone by some of the old Spanish pirates filled a cave in the interior with gold and then sprinkled a trail of salt from the cave to the sea. Some time after that the pirates were captured and all made to walk the plank. One of them, in an endeavor to save his life, told of the treasure and of the trail that had been left. Those who had captured the pirates immediately sailed for the island, but before they could reach here a fearful hurricane came up, washing the land from end to end and entirely destroying the trail of salt, so that the treasure has not been unearthed to this day.”
For the greater part the road was hard, dusty and unshaded. But in spots were beautiful groves of plantains and oranges, while cocoanut palms were by no means lacking. The houses everywhere were low, broad, and with walls of great thickness, and in between them were scattered the huts of the poorer class, built of palm thatch and often covered with vines.
On the return they passed an old Dutch saw-mill, where a stout Dutchman was directing the labors of a dozen coal-black natives. The natives droned a tune as they moved the heavy logs into the mill. They appeared to be only half awake, and the master threatened them continually in an endeavor to make them move faster.
“They are not killing themselves with work,” observed Sam.
“They never work as fast in the tropics as they do in the temperate zone of our own country,” answered Professor Strong. “The heat is against it. Even the most active of men are apt to become easy-going after they have been here a number of years.”
The drive took longer than anticipated and when they again reached the docks the steamer was ready to sail. They were soon on board, and a little later St. Anna harbor was left behind and the journey to Venezuela was resumed.
“What’s up?” asked Mark, of Hockley, when he saw the lank youth walking through the cabins looking in one direction and another. “Lost anything?”
“No,” was the curt answer, and then with a peculiar look in his eyes, Hockley continued: “Have you seen anything of Mr. Markel since we came on board?”
“I have not. He got off at Willemstad.”
“I know it. But he was going through to La Guayra and Caracas.”
“Well, I haven’t seen him,” answered Mark, and moved on.
Hockley continued his search for over an hour and then went to the purser, and from that individual learned that Markel had taken no stateroom for the coming night nor had he paid passage money to be carried to La Guayra.
“That settles it,” muttered Hockley to himself, as he walked off. “He has given me the slip and I am out my fifty dollars. What a fool I was to trust him! And I thought he was such a fine fellow!” And he gripped his fists in useless rage. He fancied that he had seen the last of the man from Baltimore, but he was mistaken.
That night the boys went to bed full of expectations for the morrow, for the run from Curaçao to La Guayra, the nearest seaport to Caracas, is but a short one.
“My, but it’s getting hot!” observed Frank, while undressing. “It’s more than I bargained for.”
“You must remember we are only twelve degrees north of the equator,” answered Mark. “Wait till we strike the Orinoco, then I guess you’ll do some sweating. That stream is only about seven or eight degrees above the line.”
Nevertheless the boys passed a fairly comfortable night and did not arise until it was time for breakfast. Then they went on deck to watch for the first sight of land.
“Hurrah! There’s land!” was Darry’s cry, some hours later. He held a glass in his hand. “My, what a mountain!”
One after another looked through the glass, and at a great distance made out a gigantic cliff overhanging the sea. As the steamer came closer they made out the wall more plainly, and saw the lazy clouds drifting by its top and between its clefts. At the foot of the gigantic cliff was a narrow patch of sand with here and there a few tropical trees and bushes. Upon the sand the breakers rushed with a low, booming sound, and in spots they covered the rocks with a milklike foam.
“I don’t see anything of a town,” said Frank.
“We have got to round yonder point before you can see it,” answered an under-officer standing near. “It’s not much of a place, and it’s tucked away right under the mountain.”
An hour later they rounded the point that had been mentioned and at a distance made out La Guayra, which is located on a narrow strip of land between the great cliff and the sea. They could see but little outside of several long and narrow streets running parallel with the mountain. At one end of the town was a small hill, with several long, low government buildings and a church or two.
“When I was here before, one had to be taken ashore in a small boat,” said Professor Strong. “The ocean ran with great swiftness along the beach. But now they have a breakwater and some first-class docks and there is little trouble.”
“The town seems to be hemmed in,” said Sam. “How do they get anywhere excepting by boat?”
“There is a road over the mountain and a railroad track, too. But it’s up-hill climbing from beginning to end.”
“What’s that thing on yonder hillside?” asked Mark, pointing to a somewhat dilapidated building, one side of which was set up on long sticks.
“That is the old bull fighting ring. In days gone by they used to have very fierce fights there and much money used to be wagered on the contests. But the folks are beginning to become civilized now and the bull fighting doesn’t amount to much.”
As soon as the passengers had landed from the steamer they found themselves in the hands of the custom-house officials, who proceeded to collect all they thought was due. In the meantime, while the professor was busy paying the duties, Mark and the others strolled through the little park fronting the pier.
“This isn’t so bad,” said Frank, as he gazed at the fountain and the heroic statue of General Guzman Blanco. “Wonder what that big building behind us is.”
It proved to be the custom house, an ancient building looking for all the world like a fort. There was a heavy wall, with an arched gateway and a great staircase leading to the rooms in the upper part of the building. The walls were of huge stones and were five to six feet in thickness.
“Whoever built this, built it to last,” said Sam. “I don’t think anything less than an earthquake could bring it down.”
“I suppose they have used it for a fort for years,” said Darry, and he hit the truth exactly. “When there is a rebellion in a country the custom house is always more or less of a point of interest.”
They were soon joined by Professor Strong, who conducted them to a modest looking hotel not many squares away.
“We will remain here over night and take the train for Caracas in the morning,” said the professor. “I want you to see what a triumph of engineering skill this road is, and you can’t see that in the darkness.”
“Phew! what a smell!” came from Hockley, as he turned up his nose. “La Guayra isn’t very clean.”
“You are right, Hockley, although the town is much better than it used to be. When I was here years ago the streets were literally covered with filth and there was a good deal of sickness. You see, it is really nothing but a seaport. Only those who have to work here will stay.”
Their rooms were not of the best, and during the night Frank got up several times, declaring that his bed was inhabited. All were outside by dawn and saw the sun rise over the rolling sea. Then a breakfast of rolls, coffee and fish was had and they proceeded to the railroad station—to take the most exciting railroad ride that they had ever experienced.