CHAPTER XVI.
COPAN IN 1885 (CONTINUED), (by A. P. M.)
In such an out-of-the-way place as Copan the natives seem to think that every foreigner must know something about medicine, and soon after my arrival the maimed and the sick began to pay me visits and pour their tales of suffering into my ears. With the many sick children I often found that good beef-tea and condensed milk and arrowroot from my stores worked wonders, without any call on the medicine chest; but my strongest efforts went towards persuading the mothers to keep their babies clean, for they seemed to think that water was dangerous for them. Unfortunately, I soon gained a distinguished reputation as a surgeon. I say unfortunately, as it raised the hopes of all sufferers, including every incurable cripple, for leagues around, and gave me the unpleasant task of telling them that I was powerless to help them. The case that brought me fame was that of a poor fellow, a blacksmith by trade, living some twelve or fourteen leagues away, who came into camp one morning with his eyes in the most dreadful state of inflammation. He told me that about ten days before, when working at his forge, a hot spark from the metal had flown into his eyes, and that during the following week every one in his village had tried in turn to get the speck out of his eye and that each one had failed. Then he heard of my arrival at the ruins, and had walked over to ask me to help him. It was no use my telling him that I was not a doctor, and that I might very easily destroy the sight of his eye altogether if I were to try any experiments: he only replied that he did not care whether I was or was not a doctor, and that I could not make him much blinder than he was, for he could not see at all with one eye, and very little with the other. I was at my wits' end to know what to do for him, it seemed cruel to send him away; and my hands were so hot and shaky after working with a crowbar and machete all the morning, that I could not even examine his eye satisfactorily. So I put cold bandages over his eyes, gave him some food, and a seat in the darkest corner of the rancho, and told him to rest after his long walk, whilst I thought the matter over. When the sun had fallen low, Gorgonio led the man to my house in the village, and there we put him on his back, and I examined the eye with a magnifying-glass. I could clearly see a minute, almost transparent particle just on the outer rim of the iris, but the camel's-hair brush which I passed over it failed to move it. Then I screwed up my courage and got Gorgonio to hold the eye down whilst, looking through the magnifying-glass, I tried to remove the particle with the fine point of a knife. The first attempt failed but did no damage, and on the second trial I got the point of the knife under the particle and it came away. By the next morning the inflammation had very considerably subsided, the sight of the uninjured eye appeared to be almost normal, and that of the injured eye had to some extent recovered. The man was very grateful, and said he was unhappy at having no money to pay me, but that he had strong arms and would stay with me until he had worked off his debt. As I learnt that he had a wife and family dependent on him, I told him to rest during the glare of the day, and then make the best of his way home during the evening and in the early morning, and I have no doubt that he spread my fame abroad on the journey.
A few days later another interesting case came under treatment. I had noticed an anaemic-looking man accompanied by a woman loitering about the village in the morning, and later in the day saw the same man in earnest conversation with Gorgonio at the ruins; but as he did not come to speak to me, and as I knew he did not belong to Copan, I took him to be a traveller whose curiosity had prompted him to leave the road to see what we were doing at the ruins. However, when I returned to the village in the evening the same couple were still hanging about, and Gorgonio came with a mystified air to my hut and said: "Don Alfredo, it isn't true is it, that a man can have an animal inside him eating him up?" I expressed my doubts as to its probability, when he said: "That is what I have been telling the man who has been about here all day, but he says that he is quite certain that he has an animal inside him eating him up, and that a brujo (witch) put it there, and he knows who the brujo is, and he wants to ask you whether he should kill the brujo, and if he does so whether the animal will go away?" This was my first case of "brujeria," and the medical notes in 'Hints to Travellers' did not give any directions as to treatment, so I sent for the victim of witchcraft and got him to state the case himself. He was rather shy about it, but finally told me what I had already heard from Gorgonio, and I learnt further that the "brujo" was one of his neighbours living in the same village. Then I tried my best, with Gorgonio's assistance, to persuade the man that he was mistaken, that no brujo could possibly put an animal inside him to eat him up, that no doubt he was out of health, but that "brujeria" had nothing to do with it. We might just as well have talked to one of the stone monuments in the plaza with the hope of making an impression on it; both the man and his wife were fully convinced that their probably harmless neighbour was the cause and origin of the mischief, and their only doubt seemed to be whether his death would ensure the death of the animal. After fruitlessly arguing for an hour, I took Gorgonio aside, and we held a private consultation; then, with as much mystery and solemnity as we could assume, I presented my patient with my far-famed "anti-brujeria pills and powders," which looked very much like small doses of calomel and compound rhubarb pills, and were to be taken at stated intervals, at certain phases of the moon, in order to keep the animal quiet, while the patient tried by every means in his power to propitiate and live on good terms with the "brujo," as it was the well-known opinion of the faculty that if the patient killed the "brujo," the animal always killed the patient. I added that no fees were taken in cases of "brujeria," not even bundles of cigars or fresh eggs, and that the patient had better return to his village at once and carry out the treatment prescribed. The couple went off apparently fairly satisfied, and I heard no more of them, but I have some hope that the "brujo" escaped death.
Every evening, when I had my supper, some of the villagers would drop in for a chat, and of course I had to be shown off to every stranger who happened to pass through the village, by whom I was plied with questions such as—"Is it true that you will have to cross the sea to get back to your own country?" "The villagers tell me that you bathe every day: is it not bad for the health?" The Niña Chica was generally show-woman and she took great pride in my performances, and her remarks and comments on these occasions were always delightful.
There had been some difference of opinion amongst the villagers when I first came amongst them as to whether I was a "Christiano" or not; but the matter, I believe, was finally settled in my favour without reference to any ecclesiastical authorities. There was no church in the village, and no school, and the visits of a priest were very few and far between; certainly none came to the village during my stay, and the villagers did not appear to feel the need for one except in the matter of baptism. When a child was born it was hurried off, whatever might be the state of its strength or health or the length of the journey, to be made into a Christian by the nearest priest; after that had been done, no other rites of the Church seemed to be of much account. Each house in the village had its saint, and every now and then the villagers would form a small procession to escort a saint on a round of visits to his neighbours. Niña Chica's saint was San Antonio, and all the gaudy labels on my tins of food, and all the shreds of coloured paper in which the things had been packed, were carefully preserved by the old lady for the decoration of the corner of her hut, where stood a very dilapidated image enshrined in a cracked glass cupboard. I asked her to tell me something of the saint's history, but she replied that she knew nothing about it. Then I told her what I knew about his story, but she would not have it that it was that San Antonio at all. "When and where did he live?" I asked. "How should I know?" she answered. "Was he ever alive at all?" "What is the use of asking an old woman like me? I don't know if he ever lived, but I know that he is a 'santo'."
"But, Niña Chica, he is your own particular saint, and you don't know anything about him at all?"
"Yes, I do," she replied indignantly; "I know that the cockroaches have eaten the end of his nose!"
Soon after this conversation took place a greater demand than ever was made for the coloured wrappers and labels, and an old photographic tent with a yellow lining was borrowed from me, for the "Novena" of San Antonio was approaching. I had an invitation to attend the prayer meetings, but managed to excuse myself, for the Niña Cbica's house was very small and it was crowded each night as tightly as it could be packed, and for half an hour the congregation shouted chants and hymns in unmelodious voices. On the last night I had watched the company arrive and had then turned into my own hut to eat my supper, and was wondering why the singing did not begin, when I heard the sound of much loud talking, and on going out to see what was the matter, found the whole congregation outside the house discussing the situation. At that moment a messenger came running in and cried, "It is no use, Don Pedro says his toothache is so bad, he can't possibly come!" The Niña Chica was in despair, and came over to tell me all about it, and then I learnt that Don Pedro was the only man in the village who could read, so that there was no one now to conduct the service. "You bring me the book," I said, "and I will see what can be done." She flew off, and soon returned with a very dirty little paper-covered book containing the services for the Novena, but on turning over the leaves I found that half the service for the last night had been torn out. I broke this gently to the Niña Chica, and expected another wail of despair, but she chirped up and said, "Never mind, Don Alfredo, you read as much as there is, and then nudge my arm, for I know lots of things to sing." I begged for a few minutes' delay that I might first read through the service to myself, and I cannot say that I found it edifying, nor do I think that it could have conveyed much meaning to the native mind. However, I went over to the crowded hut, and there in the corner was the noseless St. Anthony in his glass-faced case, surrounded by candles and flowers and a choice selection of labels of somebody's soup and somebody else's salmon, and shreds of coloured paper, all arranged under the yellow-lined canopy made of my photographic tent, and I must own that the general effect was brilliant and successful.
I stood up to read the service to a most attentive congregation, and when at last I had to stop short in the middle of a sentence I jogged the Niña Chica's arm according to arrangement, and the old lady put up her head and positively howled out a chant, which gave me a chance of escape from the stifling atmosphere of the overcrowded hut and of finishing my supper.
A few days later I had another conversation on religious subjects, this time with a girl about fifteen years old, a niece of the Niña Chica, whom I had been doctoring for troubles which seemed to me to come solely from want of good food and consequent poorness of blood. She was a bright-eyed and sharp girl, and I knew that she had been away for some time to a neighbouring town, and might probably have received some education. However, she knew no more than her aunt about the household saint, so I asked her if she knew who Christ was. "Yes," she replied, "He is Nuestro Señor."
"And who was His Mother?"
She answered promptly, "La Santissima Virgen."
At least, I said to myself, the rising generation have been taught something, so I went on with my catechism. "Who was his Father?"
"His Father? Oh! Nuestro Señor de Esquipulas."
"But," I said, "Our Lord of Esquipulas is the Christ too."
"Yes," she replied," there are numbers of them, Nuestro Señor de Esquipulas, and Nuestro Señor of this and that,—";and she rattled through all the names of the shrines for leagues around.
"Was He ever alive on earth?" I asked her.
"Quien sabe?" was the answer. "How should I know!"
The want of religious education did not prevent the villagers from celebrating Easter by idling for a week and getting very drunk. On the "tres dias grandes," from Good Friday until Monday, of course no one worked, but I had the greatest difficulty in getting anyone to work in Holy Week at all. Mr. Giuntini could not go on with his plaster moulding without some assistance, and I spent a weary hour in persuading the most intelligent of my workmen to limit his holiday to the three days. The only reason he adduced for not wishing to work was the fear of ill-luck—as he put it, "se puede machetearse," "one might cut oneself with a machete." However, he gave way on the promise of extra pay, and no ill effects followed.
Soon after Holy Week, I was hurriedly implored one morning to go and see an old man who was suffering from "goma." In my ignorance I asked what "goma" might be, and was given the satisfactory answer that it was "goma" of course, and my dullness at not understanding was met with open-mouthed astonishment. Then I looked the word out in the dictionary, but
failed to find it. At last, after much questioning, I learnt that it was the term used for the after-effects of drunkenness, and I refused to have anything to do with the case; but I was entreated and implored to come, as it was feared that the man was dying, so I went off to his hut and found him in a miserable condition. He seemed to have been poisoned by the vile new spirit, and had been able to take no nourishment for several days. As it was too serious a case for the Worcestershire Sauce cure, I had to take a shot at a remedy, but with the help of small doses of solution of opium and beef jelly we gradually managed to get him round.
Ignorant, lazy, dirty, and drunken as these people undoubtedly are, I found them to be cheerful, kindly, and honest. My hut was full of things which were of value to them, and although at first I was always careful to padlock the door when I went off to the ruins and to give the key to the Niña Chica, later on it was often left open nearly all day long, yet nothing was ever touched. There was indeed one case of theft, but the villagers were not to blame. I had occasion to send Manuel, one of my workmen, to Zacapa with a few dollars to make some necessary purchases, and he returned empty-handed, saying that he had been robbed and ill-treated on the road. This was quite possible, as the country was in a disturbed state; but I had my suspicions, and talked the matter over with the Alcalde and Niña Chica. They said that they could not answer for the man as he came from another village, but that he had been living some months amongst them and they had always found him to be honest, and believed his story to be true. Next Saturday a machete was missing, and my suspicions again fell on Manuel; but there was no direct evidence against him, and he came to my hut that night with the others to receive his weekly wage. As it was Saturday, the village green was decorated with the week's wash hung out to dry. Next morning I was awakened by cries of indignation and despair—all the clean clothes had disappeared, and as few could boast of possessing more than two shirts, or, indeed, more than two of any other garment, the distress was universal. An indignation meeting was held outside my hut, and the wildest stories of raids by a licentious soldiery passed from mouth to mouth. When things had quieted down a little, I asked "Where is Manuel?" but Manuel was nowhere to be found. There was no doubt that it came as a real shock to the villagers to find that the theft had been committed by one who had been living amongst them. Two or three men were sent at once in pursuit of the thief, but he had a good start, and they were many days tracking him from place to place before they overtook him on the frontier of Salvador, where he was brought to justice and some of the clothes recovered.
I believe that Gorgonio and his brother did real missionary work in Copan, by bathing every day in the river and affording proof to the other half-castes that cleanliness was not necessarily followed by fever. And on the day when my numerous friends and patients came to bid me good-bye and bring me little parting presents, I felt quite proud of the success of my preaching when a woman, whose child I had been doctoring, whispered, rather shyly, as she gave me a little bundle of native cigars, "Don Alfredo, I wash my baby every day!"
As soon as the war was over we had begun to send mules and carriers to Yzabal with cargoes of paper and plaster moulds. The paper moulds, after being well dried in the sun, were given a good dressing with boiled linseed oil, and then made up into packages covered first with "scrims," a sort of loosely woven canvas, and then with an outer coat of shiny waterproof cloth. Each package was then fixed in a crate made of the long light stems of a species of Hibiscus, which we had previously cut and dried. They were unwieldy burdens, but as none of them weighed more than sixty pounds, we had no great difficulty in engaging mozos who carried them on their tacks in safety to the port. The conveyance of the plaster moulds was a more difficult matter, as there were in all about fourteen hundred pieces of various shapes and sizes, which needed the greatest care in handling and packing. Each piece was first of all wrapped in tow, which I had brought from England for the purpose, and then tied up with string in a sheet of strong brown paper. Thirty-two of these packets could, on an average, be packed into the two boxes which each mule carried. We usually managed to send off about ten cargoes at a time, with instructions that the boxes (which were those in which our stores had been brought from home) should be unpacked at the port, and returned to us empty. On his last journey but one the muleteer was told to bring back only half the empty boxes but, alas we had made a miscalculation, and when the mules returned for their last loads, we found that we had still on hand five muleloads of plaster moulds, and no boxes to pack them in.
It would have taken at least ten days to get the empty boxes back from the port, and to us they would have been days of idleness, as our camp was broken up and most of our luggage packed. So we looked about to see where we could procure ten rough boxes nearer at hand. We had already exhausted the resources of Zacapa, and now I learned to my dismay that there was no hope of buying any boards from which boxes could be made nearer than the port itself! Finally we had to search the native "milpas" for the stumps of the scented cedar trees which had been left in the ground when the forest was cleared and the plantations made: these we split up with our axes as nearly as possible into boards, and carried them into the village to be dressed down with an adze. No such thing as a saw could be heard of for miles around, and we had to make use of a small blunt saw about an inch in breadth which Mr. Giuntini had brought with him for cutting plaster. Even then our difficulties were not over, for we had come to the end of our small store of nails and screws, and one messenger despatched to Zacapa, and another in the opposite direction to Santa Rosa, were between them only able to buy just enough for our purpose. At last, after all hands had been hard at work on the job for a week, ten boxes, or rather crates, sufficiently rigid to protect the moulds on their rough journey were finished, and we set out on our way to Yzabal. A week was spent at the port in making strong wooden cases out of a supply of timber which I had fortunately had the foresight to order to be sent from New Orleans, and in re-packing the moulds for shipment to England. I have gone into rather uninteresting details about packing only to show how absolutely necessary it is, when starting on an expedition of this kind, to think out every detail beforehand.
It was lucky, indeed, that the moulds were well packed and the cases strong and well made, for the vessel in which they were shipped ran on a reef off the coast of Florida, and the cargo had to be transhipped under difficulties; and when the freight came to be paid I was initiated into the mysteries of a "general average" which added largely to the cost. Throughout this expedition it seemed as though the sea had a spite against us. The vessel in which Mr. Giuntini sailed from England broke her shaft when a few days out, and had to return to Queenstown, so that he did not reach Guatemala until a month later than arranged; then the vessel which held the precious results of our work ran on shore; and, lastly, the small steamer in which Mr. Giuntini and I took passage on our way home from Livingston to New Orleans, broke her shaft when sixty miles off the north coast of Yucatan, and we lay for some days helplessly drifting into the Gulf of Mexico, until we were able to anchor on the great Bank of Yucatan, about fifty miles from land and in about forty-five fathoms of water. The weather fortunately held fine, but it proved too hot for the preservation of the cargo of fruit, which was thrown overboard as it ripened, until a broad yellow band of floating bananas stretched out astern as far as the eye could reach. At the end of a week our signals of distress were most fortunately sighted by a small fruit steamer which had strayed somewhat out of its course and the passengers were carried in her to New Orleans, whence tugs were sent out to rescue the disabled vessel and tow her into port.
Since the date of this expedition the ruins of Copan have undergone a considerable change. In 1896 the Directors of the Peabody Institute of Massachusetts made an arrangement with the Government of Honduras by which they acquired complete control of the ruins for a period of ten years, on certain conditions, of which one is that a certain amount of work shall be done on the spot during each year. Before I returned to Copan in 1894, two years' work had already been done and very valuable results obtained. Unfortunately, during the second year, Mr. John G. Owens, the leader of the expedition, and a young man of great promise, was attacked by a malignant fever, from which he died, and now lies buried at the foot of one of the monuments in the Great Plaza. This sad event somewhat disorganized the work of the Institute, and the Directors were not prepared to send out another expedition in 1894. It was in these circumstances that, thanks to the kindness of Mr. Charles Bowditch of Boston, and of Professor Putnam, an arrangement was made by which I held a commission from the Institute, and did the amount of work at the ruins necessary to prevent the lapse of the concession, whilst I was able to carry on my own investigations.
One great and important piece of work done by the Americans has been the building of a substantial stone wall which encircles and protects the principal ruined structures, so that there is no longer any danger of the sculptured monuments being damaged by fire, as has so often happened before from careless burning of fallen timber when the natives have been clearing ground for plantation. The site of the ruins has been carefully resurveyed, many important excavations have been made, and many specimens of pottery and other articles have been unearthed from tombs, amongst which the skull of a peccary covered with incised ornament and hieroglyphics is not the least interesting.
