Polly's Southern Cruise

“I should say not!” exclaimed Eleanor in high contempt.

“If they bungle such little cases so badly, what must they do when a really serious crime is committed?” wondered Nancy.

“I suppose they call in New York lawyers for such cases,” laughed Polly, winking at Mr. Dalken who stood with his back to the girls. But he turned at this and retorted:

“They never have really serious cases in Jamaica. I find from the records that Jamaicans are truly a law-abiding people who seldom commit a crime which necessitates such condemnation as we in New York have to administer.”

CHAPTER X – SPORTS AT JAMAICA

That afternoon after luncheon Mr. Dalken proposed a trip to Spanish Town. He suggested the yacht for the conveyance and an anchorage at the quay over night in order to allow themselves a full day at that beautiful settlement. As nothing more exciting had been heard of, the younger members of the party agreed to the plan.

Late in the afternoon, therefore, the White Crest dropped anchor at that part of the Rio Cobra River where Spanish Town is located. The tourists remained on board the yacht that night, but in the early morning they started to go ashore in the two small launches belonging to the yacht.

As the boats neared the quay, the eager, waiting urchins on the wharf stood ready to dive in the waters for the coin they expected from the white visitors. Nor were they disappointed.

The passengers in both small boats tossed coins out for the gamins to go after, and there, without fear or thought of the ever-present shark, the diving boys would go down in the waters to the bottom, but more often they would catch the coin even before it had time to reach the sandy bottom of the water. It was a most amazing thing to watch the speed and alertness of these children who seemed automatic in their instantaneous dive the moment the hand let go the coin.

In several instances the boys caught the coin in their hands just as it splashed into the surface of the water. When the girls had tired of watching this performance, the sailors were told to move on to land.

The hotel accommodations at Spanish Town were not to be compared to the Spring Hotel at Kingston; but they would have the yacht to use if matters were too, uncomfortable at the hotel in Spanish Town.

Soon after landing at Spanish Town the men heard of the excellent fishing to be had in the Rio Cobra River, hence they hoped to try a catch that day. But the ladies had also heard of the beauty of Bog Walk, and they clamored to go with the men. That necessitated a string of punts and men to pole, but expense was no drawback on this excursion. Moreover, Jamaican blacks work for a mere nothing in comparison with New York laborers.

Down the shores of the Rio Cobra went the flat punts and then drifted along the famous Bog Walk, the passengers listening to the songs of the tropical birds, and watching the verdure clad shores – clad in palms, tall cane, or heavy bamboo clumps. Both banks were carpeted with perfumed and gaudy flowers, and the breeze stirred lazily through the reeds and grasses along the edge of the water where one could see the clumsy tortoise, or swift water-rats moving about.

As she sat in the bow of one of the punts Polly called the attention of Eleanor to a great bulky tortoise. “Isn’t he ugly? Would you believe that such beautiful things as our tortoise-shell toilet articles could ever come from that filthy back?”

“It looks like a scum-covered bit of wreckage from the sea!” declared Eleanor.

“There goes one, – swimming down the stream!” called Nancy.

The girls looked and sure enough! A mud-covered projection floated past while the weeds which grow from the crevices in the back of the shell, trailed behind him like dank strips of string.

The men in the other punts saw the tortoise and this brought forth a suggestion that they enjoy a day’s turtle fishing while they tarried at Jamaica. Nothing loth, Jack urged Mr. Dalken to accept the offer.

Hunting the turtle is a varied sport, according to the energy and sportsmanship of the hunter. The easiest way is that pursued by men who wish to use the least power and run the least risk of danger to themselves. These men catch the female just after she has deposited her eggs on a muddy river bank. They turn her over on her back and render her helpless until they come to drag her to the pens where they keep them until exported.

Other hunters spear the turtles in the open sea, and this is really the most daring of the hunt, as often a turtle will suddenly make a swift run to the open sea and drag a harpoon in its track.

But the method mostly followed is that of snaring the creatures in nets when they rise to the surface for breath. The men of Jamaica are experienced turtle hunters, and they follow the net method.

Early at dawn, the following morning, the Captain called Mr. Dalken and said the turtle fishermen were alongside waiting for them to go out to fish. No need of calling twice! Jack Baxter and Ray jumped into old clothes and in an incredibly short time were on deck, the three elder men in the party soon followed, and then the natives made room for their employees. But the Captain had taken orders from Mr. Dalken to slowly follow in the wake of the boats, in order to give the ladies an opportunity to watch the hunting.

Breakfast was quite neglected that morning because the girls were engaged in watching the sport. From the vantage point of the higher elevation on the yacht they could watch all without any trouble whatever.

There seemed to be quite a fleet of boats, all of which were built by the natives. The turtle nets were woven of the leaves of the thatch-palm. The leaf is denuded and the membrane thus left is twisted into almost unbreakable fibrous cords. When dried, this mesh would have held the most powerful fish caught in its net.

There was intense excitement when one of the men in a boat sighted a deep-sea turtle. Then the others all followed carefully the directions of the leader in his boat. They came up to the quarry in a semi-circle, dragging the great net as they approached in shallow water.

Suddenly the watchers on the yacht saw the heavy net cast and immediately a desperate thrashing and flopping of about three hundred pounds of turtle began. The water was lashed to a foam and one boat was completely capsized by a fin that struck its side.

Finally the men manipulated the net in such a way that the great turtle was turned over upon his back; then the flapping of fins, each stronger than a flail, accompanied by the uncanny sort of moaning from the reptile, caused vague sympathy from the watchers on the yacht.

The great creature was dragged in the net by the last boat in the line, and after strenuous effort was left in the deep-sea pool off the quay. A quantity of turtle grass was left for the reptile to feed upon, and the sport for that time was over – all but the paying off of the natives who had staged the play.

These same natives had induced Mr. Dalken and his friends to consider a day’s hunting in the alligator swamps just off the Rio Cobra River. The ladies could not possibly take part in this dangerous sport – not so dangerous from the jaws of the alligators as from the dreaded miasma which is continually rising from the hotbeds of typhoid-malarial scums.

All the warnings and beseechings, to say nothing of the threats, from the wives of two of the men proved to be of any avail. They were determined to go!

When it was found that all prayers left the male contingent of the yachting party as hard as flint toward any proposition of giving up the alligator shooting, the ladies suddenly reversed their opinions and did all possible to hasten the men from the yacht.

“They have some trick up their sleeves,” remarked Mr. Ashby smilingly, to his companions.

“You don’t think they plan to accompany us in the yacht, do you?” questioned Mr. Dalken, anxiously. “It would be a great hazard for them.”

“No, not that; but there is no use in asking them what is their plan because they would come back with the counter proposition for us to remain here and find out.”

Hence the men in their oldest clothes with rubber boots to their hips left the yacht. The slimy marshes they would have to wade through would necessitate the discard of any clothing after the hunt ended.

The alligator of the West Indies is half-brother to the crocodile of Africa, though he is not as large as the latter; still, he is large enough to mutilate a man and quickly kill him. Hence the sport is fraught with some danger as well as unpleasant experiences from insects and the malarial localities.

The natives called at the yacht in a large open boat something after the pattern of a northern whaler. Having approved of the attire of the yachtsmen, the guide started the craft for the swamps. At the mouth of the Rio Cobra lay a flat stretch of mud-colored sand with every now and then a patch of bushes, scrub-trees and coarse grass.

“I suppose the reptiles sleep in those watery places, which one can see glistening through the swamp growth,” suggested Mr. Dalken.

The guide of the party nodded and pointed at what seemed afar to be a floating log. The Americans looked intently and found the log had half-closed eyes but an open mouth – open to catch any wandering tidbit which might be attracted to venture to that gate of sure death.

“If only we were over there now – we’d bag our first ’gator, eh?” said Jack, anxiously.

“No, no, not him! He gone too queeck,” replied the guide.

The boat was anchored and the men climbed out into water which reached to their waists. Then the guide started out to divide the party into units. He led the two young men as he must have thought they needed more careful supervision than the older and more reserved men in the group.

“Good gracious! Every known pest of an insect must find its home in this swamp!” exclaimed Ray, as he kept busily whipping away gnats, midges, mosquitoes, and a myriad of other stinging bugs.

“Gee! Can’t say I care for this stench of rotting wood and decayed vegetation,” laughed Jack, wrinkling his nostrils to keep out the odor.

Passing through evil-looking stretches of scum, over rotting stumps, disturbing nests of plagues, and causing swarms of stinging insects to cover their hands and faces, the two young men finally reached a spot where the guide suddenly halted.

“Looka-dere!” he whispered, pointing to an up-thrust of green filth and scum.

Jack and Ray stared for a moment in sheer unbelief, then they aimed, shot, and at the same instant the sickening mass sunk, and all the hunters could see was a cleavage of the surrounding slime.

“Too late!” sighed the guide: “Him hear me talk.”

The three resumed their difficult progress farther into the swamp, and then without notice Jack lifted his rifle, aimed, and an explosion echoed throughout the place. A great shower of chips and bark rewarded this exploit, and the guide laughed good-naturedly.

“Him sure dead log!” remarked he to Jack’s discomfiture.